Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2050, London.  The Sybil System had been online for one year, long enough for it to be approved as the best public safety mechanism ever created.  It was designed to tap into all surveillance systems in Britain, and utilize that data to determine the likelihood of any individual becoming a serious threat to society - the term ‘Psychopass’ had already become mainstream.  Those with a Psychopass above 100 were located and arrested without the need for a warrant.  Sybil provided whatever warrant they needed.  Crime went down by nearly 80% within the first week of her installation, law enforcement working overtime to clean the streets of every monster she found.    

It was soon realized, however, that the act of hunting down criminals tended to raise one’s own Psychopass.  To catch a monster, one tended to become one - only predators could hunt other predators without being picked off one by one. This realization had led, in the past six months, to a change in policy: the Public Safety Bureau’s Criminal Investigation Division was not only created, but they were given leave to retain some of the recently arrested high-Pass individuals.  These were dangerous criminals, often those proven beyond a doubt to be lethal - but also smart, capable, and able to be controlled with the help of an explosive collar around the neck.  They did the dirty work that still needed doing in a post-Sybil world, allowing their Handlers to keep their hands clean and their Psychopasses low.  The populace nicknamed them ‘Hounds,’ but the Public Safety Bureau just referred to them by numbers, and kept them secluded on the manmade island of Eigengrau off Britain’s western coast, to ensure no accidental mixing with the nice, low-Pass members of society.   

By 2050, God was the Sybil System, and the Public Safety Bureau's Criminal Investigation Division employed the closest thing that could be found to avenging angels, with dangerously leashed Hellhounds to boot.  That was all well and good, of course, with Sybil watching over everyone through a million electronic eyes, making a utopia for her flock.  But there were as many gods in the machine as there were cracks, and Sybil was young yet…    

~^~

The US apparently had a similar system to Sybil, called quite unimaginatively ‘the Machine,’ but only a handful of people knew how either system worked.  Then again, the closer something came to becoming God, the less people wanted to understand it.  One of those knowledgeable few, however, was right now dying slowly of seasickness as a boat took him to Eigengrau, the sea slashing salty fingers along the prow as he huddled against it and tried to decide whether he wanted to vomit over the side or just throw himself over.  It was tempting to give swimming back to the coast a try, because he wasn’t actually a prisoner here, and this voyage was torture.  

“Not a fan of boats, Mr. Finch?”  One of the other passengers, an employee of Eigengrau named Bill Tanner, maneuvered across the deck over to what would soon be Eigengrau’s newest employee.  It was hard to hear his voice over the waves, but it was still possible to understand him say as he frowned, “You could have taken another type of transportation.  We also run helicopters out to Eigengrau and back.”

Mr. Quinlen Finch dragged a hand down over his face, so seasick that he nearly forgot he had glasses on until his palm mushed the nosepiece down across the bridge of his nose.  Crossing his eyes a little and glowering at what he’d just done, Quinlen cleared his throat and shouted back over the sounds of the boat’s motor and the sea, “I’m worse by air, actually!”

“Really?”  Tanner’s brows beetled, and he gave a harmless blink.  All Quinlen could think was that this unassuming man did not look like the type of person who dealt constantly with Britain’s deadliest men.  Then again, Quinlen wasn’t exactly an intimidating specimen himself, all glasses and limbs and bony angles.  

His stomach gave a lurch and then settled enough for the younger man to grimace and answer resignedly, “It’s either seasickness here or panic-attacks in the air.  Afflictions of the mind are far worse, in my book than-”  He was going to say something poetic about ‘bodily rebellions’ when his stomach mounted just such a rebellion, and the young man had to twist around quickly to vomit over the side.  

Tanner was there, holding him by the collar of his anorak and patting his back helpfully.  “Well, you’ll find a lot of those ‘afflictions of the mind’ where we’re going, I’m afraid,” he said, sounding uncomfortably serious.  

The boat powered onwards, and by the time Quinlen’s stomach had settled, Eigengrau was looming on the overcast horizon like a vast scab upon the sea.  Buildings hunched upwards, four or five stories in places, stretching like a small enclosed city of concrete and steel and reinforced glass.

Quinlen stared, still feeling a bit peaky but less nauseous.  “It’s bigger than I imagined,” he said involuntarily.  

“We’re self-sufficient, so it has to be big,” Tanner shrugged, as if that was self-explanatory.  He did add, however, as they began to slow and veer towards a jutting jetty, “The high-Pass agents also tend to murder one another if housed too close together, so maybe that was factored in, too.”

By the time Tanner finished his last sentence, Quinlen was staring at him instead of the dock, and continued to do so until their boat was drawn in and tied up.  Somehow, Eigengrau and its occupants continued to get more and more unsettling the more he heard about them, and that was on top of all that he’d researched before even coming here.  Quinlen had a job to do here, though - and beneath that, where no one knew it but him, a mission - so as the boat rocked and settled into its birth, the young man gave himself a shake and pushed his glasses firmly up his nose.  He could already see a middle-aged, capable-looking man standing on the dock awaiting them, a look of authority all about him.  Quinlen did his level best not to trip over himself or fall into the water as he disembarked.  

“Mr. Tanner,” the man greeted Quinlen’s companion first, before turning his head in a motion reminiscent of an eagle towards Quinlen, “And you’d be Mr. Finch, I presume?  I’m Gareth Mallory, head of Eigengrau.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.”  He stuck out a hand, his long gloved fingers immediately encased in a firm grip.  Mallory wasn’t wearing gloves, showing skin that was chilled but tough.  He looked military.

“From now on, you’ll be our Q,” Mallory immediately informed him, and his firmness not only inspired confidence but made it quite clear that this was a fact, not a negotiable point.  He did, however, have the good grace to smile just the faintest bit and add as their hands disengaged, “Around here, titles are often safer than names.  There are some individuals who’ll get up to a disturbing amount of mischief with the smallest bit of data, so it’s best not to give away too much – not even names.”

Tanner added in a more openly world-weary tone, “Believe me, you’ll be better off if some of the agents just know you as ‘Quartermaster’.”

‘Spoken like a man who’s used his own name and gotten burned for it,’ Quinlen – Q, for Quartermaster - thought to himself, a bit curious about this whole thing but willing to follow instructions.  He was well aware that he was walking into the proverbial lion’s den, but he intended to survive here - at least until he found what he wanted.  

“Titles encourage them to keep their distance,” Mallory concurred, but now he grimaced a bit, too, and Quinlen wondered just how well that theory actually worked in practice.  “Mr. Tanner will see to your luggage - and if you’ll follow me, I’ll get you settled.” Mallory was already turning and striding on ahead, to where tall, grey buildings sturdily held up the slate-grey sky.  

“Yes, Mr. Mallory.”  The dark-haired boffin scrambled to follow.

“Call me M,” was the immediate reply.  Without a single glance back, M led Q into the belly of the beast.

~^~

Q had been trying to get onto Eigengrau for over a year now.  He had his reasons - some of which he put on his resume, some not.  The night he was accepted (having gone so far as to create something he called ‘smart blood’ that would be priceless to the program), he got a visit from someone who knew all of his reasons, and didn’t agree with them.  

“I always picked our brother for the suicidal one, not you,” the older man said with a droll, understated sort of sneer in his voice.  He sat in the shadows, having let himself in while Q was finishing up his final interview and signing paperwork that would make him the new Quartermaster of Eigengrau.

Now, Quinlen was packing, knowing that he’d leave in the morning.  He didn’t stop as he answered tetchily, “And I always thought you were the one saving Sherlock from himself.  Clearly, I was wrong.”

The older man’s expression hardened in the shadows.  His hand, where it rested on the arm of Quinlen’s sofa next to the umbrella he’d brought, clenched briefly like a claw before he consciously relaxed it.  “There is no saving Sherlock from this,” he said solemnly, “You have to accept that, Siger.”

“God, I hate that name,” Quinlen spat back, for the  first time pausing in folding his shirts, “You know that.”

“And you know that our entire family hates stupidity.  This is stupidity.”

“Saving our brother is stupid?”

“Don’t play naïve,” Mycroft snarled softly in contempt.  He shifted his umbrella in a nervous habit he’d never admit to having, his fingers wrapping familiarly over the smooth curve of the grip.  “Sherlock is not some damsel stolen away by a dragon, and you’re no knight in shining armor.  The Sybil System noticed – correctly, I might add – that our dear brother has a personality that will always attract death and violence.  Or are you so blind as to think his Psychopass was anything below 100?”

Quinlen paused again, leaning against the bed and the pair of half-folded trousers draped there.  He sighed in frustration, then straightened his spine.  “No,” he said, as much to himself as to Mycroft, “I’m not just going to give up on him and leave him in that place – Psychopass be damned.  It’s not like you or I have room to talk.”

The eldest Holmes’s response was a swift hiss, “Not another word on that.”

“Why?”  Quinlen turned finally, challenging now.  He wasn’t as tall as Sherlock, and would probably would always be slighter in build, and was likewise smaller than Mycroft - but power came from many places.  “Because you’re afraid that we’ll all be sent to Eigengrau?  Do you think we deserve it less than Sherlock?”

“Sybil does, and that’s what matters,” Mycroft said, unflappable again, although the glint of his eyes in the dark betrayed him, “Sherlock’s situation is unfortunate, but we can’t do anything about it.”

“You mean you can’t,” Quinlen threw that like a dart, and felt a bit victorious as Mycroft almost imperceptibly flinched.  He went back to packing.  “Sybil happens to have a soft spot for me, and you know it.”

“We thought the Sybil System had a soft spot for Sherlock, too, but apparently she won’t turn a blind eye even to her favorites,” Mycroft warned in a low, grim voice that made Quinlen shiver involuntarily, “Not indefinitely.  Sherlock pushed his luck and got burned – I can’t have you doing the same.”

“How do you intend on stopping me?” Quinlen retorted in the dimness, hating this conversation, but knowing that it had been inevitable.  He’d hid his plans to save Sherlock for as long as possible, but Mycroft had probably known for at least a month now – in fact, Quinlen suspected that his eldest brother had even tried to sabotage him a few times, and had only barely failed.  Mycroft played long games, subtle games, so Quinlen had acted brash and fast, and therefore had just barely gotten the upper hand.  “You can’t very well have me arrested, not without drawing the attention of the Sybil System and risking exactly what you fear,” Q went on logically.  In fact, he turned again, saying straight to Mycroft’s face, “Go ahead – the result would be the same.  I’m going to Eigengrau.  The only difference will be if I go as an employee or as a convict.  Which will it be?”

Quinlen hadn’t raised his voice, but the fervor in it had become as apparent as bared steel by the end.  Also by the end, Mycroft was looking at him as if at a creature he’d never quite seen before.  The youngest Holmes, all grown up, more suddenly perhaps than the eldest had expected.

Finally, after a long and tense moment that stretched like barbed wire between them, Mycroft sighed and tapped his umbrella twice on the floor.  Face carefully blank and tone carefully bland, he observed, “Have it your way, little brother.  But don’t whine like a child when you realize that I’m right – Sherlock is a Hound of Eigengrau, and this is not a fairytale in which you can just waltz in and rescue him from a fate he waltzed into first.”

Q grit his teeth for a few seconds, then whirled on his heel and tossed his second-best pair of shoes into his suitcase.  “Watch me,” he flippantly shot back, even as he felt his stomach twist into very fearful knots.

Because Mycroft wasn’t wrong.  There were holes in the machine, blind spots.  Perhaps the Sybil System caught 99% of all criminals before they could harm those around them, but the remaining 1% she left free for no understandable reason – and Quinlen knew that because he was one of them.  Siger Quinlen Holmes was not a model citizen.  At a young age, he’d discovered hacking, but had kept it so secret that at first he had the hubris to think that Sybil simply didn’t know about it.

But then one day he’d gotten cocky, and had tried to hack the Sybil System.  And he’d succeeded.  Because she’d let him.  And throughout all of that – and every day before or since – his Psychopass had never risen above an uninteresting, harmless 66.  Sherlock was the same, even as it became increasingly clear to his brothers that Sherlock lacked a certain capacity to sympathize like the average person, or care about death.  And so was Mycroft, who didn’t talk about it, but who did increasingly amoral things to gain power, especially as he, too, realized that Sybil wouldn’t stop him.

Sometimes, Quinlen was tempted to hack the Sybil System again, just to try and ask a god why it had spared three (or perhaps more) mortals.  Having seen Sybil turn on one of those favorites, however, he didn’t know if he had the guts.  What he did have, however, was the guts to walk into Eigengrau under a false identity and cover.         

He just hoped he’d be able to walk out again.  He suspected that he was Sybil’s particular favorite, since she’d let him into her systems more than once, like a monster testing a hero, but this was a game of cat-and-mouse that Quinlen was dearly afraid he’d lose.

Because if Sybil didn’t turn on him and mark him as dangerous, then the Hounds of Eigengrau would likely kill him in his sleep.

~^~

Settling into his new quarters at Eigengrau had taken virtually no time at all.  While Siger Q. Holmes perhaps had some decent baggage loading him down, Quinlen Finch packed light, and was in full agreement that he hit the ground running at his new job.  Within an hour of docking, he’d shaken off his seasickness and was walking through the halls of Eigengrau’s main building – called Central, he was told.  Tanner was with him, providing both useful commentary and directions, although Q’s photographic memory meant that he wouldn’t need a guide more than once.  Tanner paused in explaining that Q’s branch had been lead by an interim Quartermaster (an import from the United States who was actually quite a skilled chap) as a broad-shouldered man with pale hair slicked back walked past them.  The fellow’s almond-shaped eyes, canted and narrowed into a look of almost catlike interest, slid over Q and just as quickly away.  Something about it was like a physical touch, however, and Q found himself tensing.  Then the man was past them, but not before Q caught a last-second glimpse of something glinting at his throat, mostly hidden by the collar of his shirt and jacket.  

When Q craned his neck in a rather obvious doubletake, Tanner patted his shoulder and urged him to keep walking.  “And that’s why you had to sign all of that ‘job hazard’ paperwork,” Tanner sighed in a tone that said he’d accepted all of this long ago.  He elaborated as the pale-haired man disappeared around the corner behind them, and Q turned back with a questioning look, “That was a high-Pass agent, a Hound, as they’ve been so quaintly labeled.  He was into cyberterrorism probably before the Sybil System came online, and we’re still tracking down all of his aliases - but needless to say, he’s killed enough people both directly and indirectly that he’ll never be let out into society again.”

“And he just… walks around freely here,” Q noted a bit uneasily.  All of that had been in the paperwork, but he still couldn’t quite believe it.  

“The collar keeps him and the other high-Pass agents in line,” Tanner shrugged.  He grimaced and added, “And apparently, in the early days of Eigengrau, they tried locking them up, and found out that they were tenfold more destructive when contained.”

“So as unsettling as it is,” the younger man hazarded, glancing over the top of his spectacles speculatively, “this is actually the least lethal option?”

“Pretty much.  Just always be sure to keep this on you.”  Tanner reached over and tapped the watch Q had been given - it had already been explained that it contained the gadgetry to incapacitate or even kill any collared agent within a three meter radius.  Q was intensely curious about the mechanics of the collars, and made a mental note to take one apart (and possibly this new watch, too) and find out how it ticked, in detail.  

They entered Q’s new branch a few minutes later, on the lowest floor of the building - underground, if Q recalled the blueprints correctly.  Here, he would be in charge of most things technological in Eigengrau, from computers to equipment.  The place was abuzz with activity now, with cubicles and workstations alive with people.  One of those people approached Q and Tanner almost immediately: an older man a bit shorter than Q, with a rather unremarkable face, but the start of a receding hairline and dark hair that stood up with just enough disarray atop his head to hint at a mad scientist look.  Behind dark-rimmed spectacles, however, his eyes were soft, and the smile he directed at Q was gentle and polite.  “Ah, you must be our new Quartermaster,” he said, with an unobtrusive American accent and a warm handshake that Q accepted reflexively.  While the way the fellow looked at Q was benign, his eyes were keen, now that Q was close enough to really take note of them.  “I hear that you and I go by the same last name, so I suppose it’s for the best that we are so dependant upon aliases around here.”

For a second, Q felt his heart stutter and skip in his chest, the blood in his veins freezing, but then he remembered that he’d chosen the last name of ‘Finch’ precisely because it was a relatively common last name.  He made himself relax and smile, trying to exude a harmless aura not unlike the one he was receiving from the small man in front of him.  “The level of personal secrecy here is truly rather astonishing,” Q admitted, tongue-in-cheek, aware that his own ‘personal secrecy’ went far beyond names and titles, “but I can see the necessity of it.  You can’t be too careful when working with so many dangerous individuals, I suppose.”

“Oh, they’re not all that bad,” the other man surprised Q by saying, a small and unexpectedly warm smile just playing at the corner of his mouth.  Otherwise, the expression was rather reserved, and Q was certain there was more going on beneath the surface than what he was seeing.  “Oh dear - where are my manners?  Call me H,” the older man changed the subject, giving Q’s hand another companionable pump before letting go.  Perhaps H didn’t have the accent of a Brit, but he had the professionalism and manners, Q had to admit.  “I’ll be happy to turn this branch back over to someone else, let me assure you,” he chuckled a bit, looking around him but looking more conservatively proud than honestly overwhelmed.  Q decided that he liked H.  Looking past Q to Tanner, H raised his eyebrows and asked politely, “Do you want me to take over from here, Mr. Tanner?”

Tanner waved them both off, saying something about boffins and  bonding time, at which Q and H both laughed identical, scoffing laughs and feigned offense.  As Tanner walked off, however, Q snuck a wary glance at H, trying to get a better read on him.  

Because Q had to admit, he and H seemed like delightfully matching personalities: unassuming, bland, professional but not unfriendly.  The only problem with that was that Q was faking most of his personality, so he had to wonder if there was more to H than met the eye as well.  

~^~

Hidden secrets or not, H really was good company.  It was no wonder that H had been chosen as the interim Quartermaster, as he was clearly brilliant, even if he seemed to take pains not to show it off.  For example, he seemed to prefer focusing on Q’s accomplishments over his own: “I really must say, your Smartblood prototype was fascinating when I first read about it.  I was glad to see it come to fruition.”

“I’m pretty sure that that invention is over half of the reason I got this position,” Q admitted with a self-effacing smile, while inwardly cataloguing all of the strings he’d pull and documents he’d forged to get a foothold in Eigengrau.  But yes, that invention had been the cherry on top.  He was rather proud of himself, if he were being honest.  

“On the contrary,” H argued, surprisingly firm, but flashing another of his conservative smiles that twitched his mouth but made his eyes glint happily, “I’ve seen your application, Mr. Q.  It’s not often that a person of any age - much less your age - has so many useful skills.  We’re lucky to have you.”  

Flushing a little and admitted that his ego had been well and truly stroked, Q accepted the praise, and they both fell to discussing Q’s invention: Smartblood.  It involved nanites that, if injected into the bloodstream, could be used to monitor individuals' vitals.  The medical uses were vast, but Eigengrau had been swift to see the more military (or perhaps penal) uses.  

“I’m sure that the higher ups jumped at the possibility to better ways to track high-Pass agents,” H noted wryly, as he and Q huddled over a computer, looking over the Smartblood specs with equally discerning eyes.  H had claimed that his specialty was computers, but he’d also admitted to doing a lot of research into biomechanics since hearing about Q’s invention, and the man was clearly a quick study.  The tone with which he discussed agents were a bit unexpected, though.  It seemed almost… familiar, and lacking in the wariness Q had come to expect after hearing M and Tanner talk.  H didn’t seem afraid.  “Eigengrau as a whole and Handlers in particular have always complained that high-Pass agents smart enough to be in the program are also smart enough to slip their leash, and Hounds truly do go off the radar with alarming frequency.”

“Don’t their collars have tracking frequencies?”

“Yes, but many of these agents are also generally smart enough to find ways to disable them,” H answered, and if Q wasn’t mistaken, was hiding an amused smirk.  His voice remained perfectly smooth, though.  

Q found his interest piqued, but before he could ask, the familiar voice of Tanner sounded from behind them, “Good to see you two getting along.  I assume H isn’t having any second thoughts about handing over the reins?”

“None at all,” H assured with seamless diplomacy, once again looking like a harmless uni professor, or perhaps a mild-mannered father of teenagers.  “Mr. Q seems quite capable.  In fact, we were just having a riveting discussion about his premier invention, Smartblood.”

“Good timing,” Tanner intervened, looking faintly relieved about that, “because I just came to inform you both - mostly the Quartermaster - that M wants to give that a go as soon as possible.  Whenever you’re ready, of course, but…”  He shrugged, finishing, “...The sooner we find a better way to keep tabs on the Hounds, the less likely it’ll be that 007 causes an international incident.  Again.”

H got serious at this point, his unflappable nature hardening into almost grimness as he leaned over to inform Q, “One more time, and it’s likely that administration will insist on putting him down.”

While Q followed the conversation with growing concern, Tanner put his two pence in, “There are a few agents who are stretching the tolerance of the higher-ups - even the most useful high-Psychopass agents can become more trouble than they’re worth.”

Q’s mind went involuntarily to Sherlock, who was practically always more trouble than he was worth, even to those who loved him.  He had to focus on keeping his tone even as he replied, “So my invention will save everyone the trouble of executing valuable assets, am I correct?”

“Yes,” Tanner replied, starting out blunt but then managing to add some levity, “And, you know, ensuring that none of them run off and start eating people without us knowing.”

Eyes widening, Q looked with an aghast expression between H and Tanner, sure that they were pulling his leg.  When their faces showed nothing of the sort, he couldn’t help but choke out, “You can’t be serious.”

Tanner just let out a thin bark of a chuckle that sounded just a bit strained.  “God, but I can’t wait until you start meeting them,” he sighed, then turned to leave with no more explanation than that.  “Keep M updated on the Smartblood.  Good luck.”

“He…”  Q turned helplessly back to H, who was looking studiously at the computer again.  “He was kidding about the…  No one eats people, surely?”

“I think we’ll wait awhile to introduce you to Agent 003,” was all H murmured in reply, before switching topics rather obviously, “So, are you ready to put your Smartblood to use?  I personally oversaw the delivery of your equipment a week ago, and the instructions for setting it up were marvelously clear.  If you want to run final checks, I’m sure it won’t take long, which will please M.”

Deciding that he didn’t want to pursue the topic of cannibalism, Q ran a hand back through his hair, took a deep  breath, and then pulled his new ‘Quartermaster mask’ more firmly into place as he exhaled.  When he spoke again, he was once again as posh as could be, “Of course.  Show me where you’ve got it set up, and I’m sure we’ll be ready to put it into practical use within the day.”

Chapter Text

It did indeed take the whole day to get things set up and checked out.  Smartblood had already been tested and approved for use in humans, especially if those humans were convicted criminals, which Q’s morals flinched at a bit.  That was why he was personally interested in making sure his invention was safe, however, and he was pleased to see the same diligence apparent in H as well.  Q noticed that a lot of Eigengrau employees had a certain callousness towards the high-Pass agents they employed, but either H hid it better, or he was sincerely compassionate towards the dangerous Hounds.  Since Q’s older brother was a Hound, he couldn’t help but have some compassion himself.  

“Okay, I think we’re ready,” Q straightened after a moment.  In front of him was a regular chair, the right arm rigged with what looked like a bisected tube, open at both ends - it opened up like a hot dog bun, but when closed, it was designed to encase a human forearm and hold it still for an injection of Smartblood.  Q admitted, folding his arms, where he’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows to work, “It looks terribly villainous, but all of the diagnostics check out, and with Smartblood, we’ll also be able to keep tabs on the physical health of agents in the field.”

H was watching Q unreadably, but when Q glanced over, the older man quickly nodded assent.  “I’ll have Mr. Reese come in.  He should be available.”  When Q looked nonplussed, H paused on his way to a nearby computer, “Reese is one of the most manageable high-Pass agents, and I know that he’s between missions at the moment and readily available.”

Unsure how to comment on that except to agree, Q nodded, then went back to triple and quadruple checking everything, because even if these were dangerous criminals, he didn’t want to be responsible for needlessly hurting them.  It was a surprisingly short time later when he realized that the room was very quiet around him.  Looking up, Q first saw H, who looked quite calm - and in fact was smiling his small, reserved smile.  That settled Q, because if H wasn’t bothered by the eerie quiet, then surely there couldn’t be anything amiss.  Following H’s eyes, however, Q turned and saw a tall, athletic man in the doorway, and Q found his eyes immediately riveted to the metal collar about his neck.  

Seeing the agent in the hallway hadn’t been all that scary because Q hadn’t had time to dwell on it - by the time he’d realized that he was in the same space as someone with a dangerously high Psychopass, the man had been departing already.  Now, Q knew what he was looking at, and the man had only just entered the equation.  Everyone else in the room save Q and H were finding other things to do and subtly easing away, but Q realized that he was going to have to get closer - and not just now, but over and over again, because this was his job now.  Swallowing down a suddenly parched throat, Q tried to wipe the fear off his face, reminding himself that he’d be no use to Sherlock if he couldn’t even survive his first day without running.  

The newcomer was an older man, but clearly still in his prime, looking fit and strong beneath a simple black jacket and white button-down, trousers  matching.  Brown hair was heavily touched by salt-and-pepper, especially on the sides, but he moved in an inexplicably capable way - a man who knew where his body was.  His expression was almost entirely blank and unreadable, however, pale grey eyes holding no emotion except for a certain understated watchfulness.  They flicked first to H, Q noted, before returning and settling on Q.  After that, the fellow affected an almost bored demeanor.  Q wasn’t sure what to make of it.  

“I take it you’re an agent then?” Q got his mouth working, more or less.  He bit the inside of his cheek and cursed himself for stating the obvious, although at least his voice didn’t sound as rattled as he felt.  

“That’s what they tell me,” was the mild response, and Q was surprised by how soft the man’s voice was.  It was rough-sounding but mild, and for a high-Pass agent, was well-calibrated to not sound all that dangerous.  The lack of any particular emotion was really all that gave it away as dangerous, although Q could very well see how this man could function in society like a normal person, if the need arose.  Perhaps that was what made him valuable enough to keep as an agent.  “What do you need me to do?” the man kept talking, and once again his eyes slid to H, making Q wonder if the question was really directed at him.  

“This is Mr. Reese,” H had the decency to properly introduce, and when Q looked over at him, he was struck by the uncanny sense that the professorial little man had just hidden a smile, “He’s known as 008 in the present inventory.  Mr. Reese-”  When H turned his attention fully to the agent, 008 seemed to straighten, something in him becoming more honed and alert, even if there was no definable change to his mask-like expression.  It was odd to watch, but subtle enough that Q probably wouldn’t have noticed anything unusual had he not spent so much of his life around Mycroft and Sherlock, who liked to profile people for fun.  “-This is our new Quartermaster, Q, the one who invented the Smartblood.”

Either 008 was a man supremely lacking in curiosity, or he’d heard of the Smartblood already.  He merely nodded, eyes sweeping lazily back to Q.  “The nanites that will monitor my every move, right?” he asked in that dry but easy rasp.  

A bit flustered to be back in the conversation again, Q almost physically jolted, then scrambled to find an appropriate response.  “Well… er… yes, if you want to simplify it.  When I developed it, I was really more interested in creating something that would be able to monitor bodily functions like heart-rate and body temperature.  With this-”  Q scurried over to a case and lifted out a small vial.  “-We’ll be able to monitor your health remotely, and even diagnose injuries or illnesses when you’re otherwise out of our hands.  But yes… it will also serve to track your movements.”

Q tensed, bracing himself for an untoward response, but was surprised when after a moment 008 merely made a noise of either dismissal or acceptance.  008 - Mr. Reese - flicked his eyes to the conspicuous chair set up in the center of the room.  “You want me to sit there and behave, I suppose?” he asked with just the faintest edge of jaded resignation in his voice.  His lip curled slightly.

In response, H gave the first full smile that Q had seen so far.  “The Quartermaster and I would  very much appreciate that, Mr. Reese, if you can manage it.”

Perhaps - just perhaps - the corners of 008’s eyes crinkled.  They seemed to hold a bit more light and life in them as they looked over at H again, and before Q knew it, the agent was walking with smooth, rolling steps towards the chair.  “Sounds easier than most of the orders I’ve ever been given,” he allowed magnanimously, and with one more glance to Q for confirmation - Q nodded - the tall man lowered himself into the chair.  

Q left H to get the agent situated, sensing that while 008 was indeed very even-tempered for a man with a high Psychopass, he was only this docile because he was working with someone he recognized: H.  Q had learned to eavesdrop very well at an early age, so he managed to appear absorbed in the process of checking his computers while secretly keeping an ear cocked towards H and 008.  He could hear by the low susurrus of sound that they began talking to each other almost immediately, H assuring, “These are the nanites I mentioned to you earlier, John.  Just trust me.”

John Reese, if Q wasn’t mistaken, murmured back with surprisingly little hesitation, “You haven’t steered me wrong so far, Harold.”

“I’ll endeavor not to change that status quo,” Harold murmured back in the warmest, most human voice Q had heard from him so far.  Q heard the muted snap of the arm-lock closing in place, and when he turned around, H was his politely aloof self again, standing next to 008, who was once again as unreadable and emotionless as a bored statue.  

Q pretended not to notice the hand H kept on the agent’s shoulder as the Smartblood was injected.  

~^~

John Reese, 008, really was a very mild-mannered agent.  He was polite, spoke little, and didn’t get overly excited about any part of the Smartblood procedure - not even the unavoidable spark of pain that was the needle going in.  In fact, the man’s face barely twitched, and Q gave a mental nod of respect to the man’s pain tolerance.  The needle’s tip was not small.  After that, 008 sat still for all of the various tests that Q had to run before he was sure that not only was the Smartblood working, but it wasn’t causing any adverse effects to the agent.  The latter interest did seem to surprise 008 a little, but besides occasionally lowering his eyebrows at Q in consternation, 008 mostly just watched everything with a uniformly bored expression.  Even after he was released from the arm-lock, he didn’t move unless instructed, and Q went ahead and let H do most of the instructing - not only was the older, bespectacled man very smart and efficient, but Q sensed that he had a history with 008 that allowed him to order the man around a little.  No doubt Q would have to throw his own weight around later, but for now, it was nice to simply focus on the data and technological side of things, and let H - which perhaps actually stood for Harold, if Q had heard 008 correctly - do the interpersonal work.  

Eventually, it was clear that everything was in order.  “Well, 008, it would appear that you’re free to go.  I apologize for the discomfort,” Q said as primly but also as sincerely as possible, nodding towards the arm-lock which had delivered the sting of the Smartblood injection.  

008 once again glanced first at H then, at no discernible sign that Q could detect, stood and focused on Q.  “It’s all right,” the larger man said easily enough in his bland, rough-edged voice, “So long as it hurts less than taking a bullet, I’m not complaining.”

Before Q could think of a way to respond to that, the door to the room swung open, demanding attention.  Q (standing with his back to the door, between it and 008) turned around to see a generously curved, black woman leaning in the door with a determined look on her face.  She’d seen H first, and was saying to him immediately, “H, have you see John-?”  Then her eyes took in the rest of the room, and the harried look became one of jaundiced understanding as she saw John Reese.  “Nevermind,” she drawled, an American accent that Q couldn’t identify adding extra wryness to her words, “Instead of asking you, H, I should have known that he’d just be here with you.  My bad.”

For the first time, 008 smiled.  It was hard to tell if it was a real smile or not, but it certainly showed a few teeth, and those steady grey eyes crinkled recalcitrantly.  “Agent Carter,” 008 greeted, putting some inflection into his voice and sounding friendly, “I was just about to come looking for you.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” the woman in the doorway said, but she sounded pretty resigned.  Her eyes rolled briefly upwards, but only for a second, before settling on 008 again as if expecting him to cause trouble in the interim.  “I’m supposed to be your Handler, John - not some babysitter that you escape every five minutes.”

“I’m sure that I stayed with you at least ten minutes this time.”

“God, they don’t pay me enough for this,” the woman now dragged a hand down over her face.  When she looked up again, she was a bit wrathful, and focused now on H, who sat up and tried - and rather failed - to look innocent.  “I take it you called him in?”

“I assure you, Agent Carter, I assumed my request for Mr. Reese went through you.  The Smartblood needed to be tested, and he seemed like the perfect candidate,” H said in his benignly professorial tone.  

Agent Carter cooled a bit.  Her eyes flicked from H to 008, with a faintly distrustful, motherly look - a very sorely tested motherly look.  Q decided to interject, stepping forward and watching as the woman’s keen brown eyes immediately swept over to him.  “I can corroborate their story.  I didn’t realize that this was causing you any inconvenience.  Agent Carter, is it?”  Q put on his most professional face and tried to appear friendly and unthreatening, an easy job, considering how aware he was of his gangly, nerdy appearance.  

The woman’s eyes nonetheless scanned over him, clearly calculating, although when her face softened her eyes warmed, too.  “You’re the new Q, aren’t you?”

“The letter and the title seem to go hand-in hand - yes, that’s me,” Q smiled back, and dared to walk forward for another handshake.  Once again, H seemed more than happy to make formal introductions, albeit belatedly like before.  

“Agent Carter, meet our new Quartermaster.  I can vouch for his skills, having worked with him all day.”  Q, despite being sure that there was more to H than met the eye, found himself warming at the sincere, uninhibited praise.  “And this is Agent Carter, who is the Handler assigned to 008.  They work together very closely, and make an incredibly efficient team.”

“When John listens to a word I say,” Agent Carter observed wryly, but the bite had gone out of her.  She was even smirking as she looked over Q’s shoulder at John, and the smile was just as real as it returned to Q.  “Call me Joss.  Did John give you any trouble?”

“Not at all.  In fact, he was a model citizen, for all intents and purposes,” Q assured.  

The next stretch of time was spent with Q explaining to Agent Carter (as well as 008, who wandered over with barely concealed curiosity) all of the things that the Smartblood did.  Poring over the computer and putting various readings up on the screen, Q began to feel at ease and almost at home, able to ignore the essentially psychotic agent at his back while he immersed himself in the technological babble that came easiest to him.  He began to hope that he’d perhaps not die a messy death before this was all over - at least if he kept finding people like H, Carter, and even the incredibly blank-faced Mr. Reese.  

~^~

Bill Tanner turned up to lead Q to supper, perhaps because Q had totally missed lunch.  “M got your report,” Tanner said, as he led the new Quartermaster through Eigengrau to the mess hall, “He was pleased to see that everything was going smoothly - and it did, right?  Go smoothly?  No problems?”

Q was glad to say with complete truthfulness, “No problems at all.  The nanites responded just as they were supposed to.”  He added, still a bit surprised, “And the agent we worked with - 008 - was surprisingly well-behaved.”

“Ah, Reese, yes,” Tanner nodded.  “If I could have chosen which of Eigengrau’s Hounds to introduce you to first, it would’ve been him.  He’s not a terrible sort.”

“He’s clearly not British,” Q observed carefully, as they kept walking, “Neither is his Handler.  Or H.”

“The whole trio of them are actually from the U.S.,” Tanner admitted, and Q gobbled up the information silently, storing it in case any of it was useful to his task, “Since their system is essentially a sister-system to ours, it was decided to try and collaborate a bit.  It’s surprisingly hard to find individuals with a high Psychopass who are also suitable for work as agents, so it’s been beneficial to import them.  009 is American, too.”  Tanner made an uncomfortable face, and added, “She’s not quite the picnic that 008 is, though.  I’d avoid her.”

“It sounds like I won’t be avoiding any of them, if I’m to put the Smartblood to universal use,” Q observed, also seeing an opportunity to fish for more useful information - hopefully information that would lead him to Sherlock.  He hadn't been given full access to Eigengrau’s records yet, and didn’t even know for sure where his brother was - although he knew that he was at least on the island.  “I’d be much obliged if you could give me a sense of what I’m dealing with.  I feel a bit in the dark, really.  I’ve seen only two high-Pass agents so far, and the only way I recognized them was by the collars, and I’m still not sure which ones might murder me and which ones can’t be bothered to try.”

Unhelpfully, Tanner replied, “Oh, any one of them might get it into their heads to murder you.  Even 008 has an impressive kill-list, although he’s at least pretty logic-driven.”

“So if he finds it… logical… he’ll kill me?” Q deadpanned, trying to hide how unsettling that was.  

“Pretty much.”

The unsettling part was, Q believed it.  John Reese had been like a machine for most of the time Q had been in the room with him, and from working alongside so many machines - including the Sybil System - Q knew that machines could turn on friend or foe without hesitation, if they felt that it served their programming best.  008 had seemed marginally human around H, however, which was reassuring.  

“Come on,” Tanner offered, changing directions and beckoning Q after him, “If you don’t mind being a bit later to supper, we’ll take the scenic route.  There’s a catwalk that overlooks one of the lounge areas, and there’s almost always a Hound or two there.  Then at least I can point out their faces before you meet any more in person.”

Q agreed that that sounded like a capital idea, and since he’d already gone hours without food, a few more minutes wouldn’t make much difference, and soon he was following Tanner through the massive warren that was Eigengrau.  The place was a veritable indoor hamlet, and Q made a mental note to review the blueprints again, in more detail, before he got himself lost.  

After all, he’d never be able to hunt down Sherlock if he was stuck to his tour-guide all the time, regardless of how pleasant Bill Tanner was.

The catwalk was more of a hallway open on one side, circling around and looking down on an entire room.  The room below was comfortable looking, with a telly, pool-table, and a collection of sofas - overall, it looked like any other lounge area that one would find in a hotel.  And, as promised, there were people there.  Q tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as he came over to the railing, peering down.  There were four men in the room, all well-built but otherwise not spectacularly scary-looking.  Q recognized the man from the hall, sprawled on a chair in the corner and watching everything with a glass of something held lazily in hand.  

Tanner stood next to him, doing likewise, but with eyes more familiar with everything.  No one looked up at them.  “Huh.  I expected the room to be emptier, but that’s 004, 005, 006, and 007.”  The first one, 004, that Tanner indicated corresponded with the agent that Q had met earlier.  At Q’s questioning look, Tanner elaborated on his statement, however, “They’re loners by nature, and most of them can’t stand each other.  In fact, someone left Bond and Hart-”  Tanner indicated 007 and 005 respectively, drawing Q’s eyes to two older gentleman with blond hair a few shades darker than 004’s.   “-Alone in a locked room together once, and they nearly killed each other in the five minutes it took for everyone to realize what was happening.  I’ve seen the video footage, and it’s fucking eerie. One second they’re sitting and smiling at each other like only insufferably posh men can do, and the next, they’re smiling at one another and trying to rip each other apart.”  Q found himself looking at the men again with new eyes: 007, Bond, was playing a game of pool with the man labeled as 006.  The angle wasn’t exactly perfect for close examination, but he seemed relaxed, even smiling and laughing, all blue eyes, short golden hair, and easy movements.  005, Hart, was an older man with more lines on his face, and he was presently watching the news with apparent interest, and seemed to exude class and intellect in a way that reminded Q just a bit of Mycroft.  Neither looked the part of psychotic killers with hair-triggers.  

Tanner just shivered a bit and went on, “The freakiest part was the smiles… Never faltered.  Some people have taken bets since then on which of the two will end the other first, and I don’t know where I side.  Hart has a few years on Bond and more experience, but Bond is one scary sonofabitch.”  Q looked to Hart again, with his apparent focus on the television, looking like nothing so much as a businessman in between meetings - then at Bond, who could have just been a random bloke out for a game of pool with a friend.  Watching the latter man handle his cue, however, and stride about the table, it was possible to see the same lethal grace with which 008 had moved.  It was Q’s turn to shiver just a bit, realizing that first impressions could be eminently deceiving - and in Eigengrau, deadly wrong.  

Someone walked into the room - a rather unthreatening looking young woman with blonde hair pulled back in a snug ponytail.  Hart’s head immediately swiveled to her, in a way that almost spoke of precognition, he seemed so unsurprised by her entrance.  

“That’s Roxy - Hart’s Handler,” Tanner supplied, smiling, “Believe me, she’s a lot tougher than she looks.  Hart can be a pain in the arse to handle if you don’t respect who he is and what he can do, but Roxy has been working with him for over a year now, no hitches.”  Roxy walked over to Hart, and he acquiesced to let her lean close and speak to him, his posture remaining lax and at ease.  “Bond, on the other hand…”  Tanner was frowning again now, looking at the other agent who was now laughing and sinking another ball with obvious skill.  “He’s violently heterosexual.”

At the apparent non sequitur, Q turned on Tanner with a befuddled look.   “What?”

Perhaps a bit uncomfortable, Tanner shifted from foot to foot, then sighed and tried to explain, “If he has a female minder, he invariably gets her to sleep with him, but if we assign a man as his Handler… Bond kills them.”  As Q’s confusion turned to horrified shock, Tanner went on grimly, “007 has been up for termination more times than I can count because he’s so damn dangerous - only Hannibal has been up on the chopping block more.  They’re both lucky they’re so fucking useful.”  

This was getting more unsettling by the moment, and Q had to grip the railing and remind himself why he was here.  And that he couldn’t just run.  “And the other one?  006?” he asked, voice tightly under rein and hoping that the topic change would yield better topics.  Fortunately, it did.

Pointing to the agent playing against Bond, Tanner said even as 006 clapped 007 on the shoulder, “Most of the Hounds here aren’t social.  With anyone, high Psychopass or not.  But Trevelyan is an exception, and he gets along with Bond in particular.  Don’t let his charm fool you - he’s dangerous - but overall he’s probably one of the friendlier Hounds.”

Tanner went on to discuss a few more of the high-Pass agents, even giving the name to the fourth one in the room, 004, but Q didn’t hear it.  Because at that moment, James Bond, 007, looked suddenly upwards and found Q’s eyes so unerringly that it was impossible to imagine him ever being unaware of Q watching him.  The new Quartermaster froze, hands white-knuckled on the railing, as he was struck by eyes as pale blue as sky after a winter storm.  

Right then, for no good reason whatsoever, but with a soul-deep certainty, Q knew that he was going to end up cursing those keen blue eyes.  

~^~

Staff ate separately from agents, except Handlers, who seemed to keep at least semi-regular tabs on their high-Pass agents.  Without any particularly dangerous entities to mingle with, supper was a dull affair, and Q was grateful.  His brain was abuzz with anxiety, and the warring demands of brother and Quartermaster were going to split his skull in half.  Fortunately, no one asked him to have any more meet-and-greets with high-Pass agents, and Q was able to bury himself in the more mundane aspects of his new job.  There was a lot to do and even more to simply get himself accustomed to, and by the end of the day, Q had to admit… it was rewarding.  He’d had jobs before, but nothing like this, and never a leadership position that demanded so much of him.  

As he lay in his new Eigengrau quarters that night, he wasn’t sure if he felt more tired or exhilarated.  It was enough to push his constant worry about his brother to the back of his brain for a bit, just long enough to allow him to drift into a hard sleep.

The next morning saw more use of the Smartblood - which meant meeting more Hounds.  Q felt his anxiety return, and breakfast felt like a lump of coal in his stomach but as he stood next to the chair and waited for the next participant.  Victim?  The lines here were so grey, and Q didn’t know whether he was giving these men and women chains or whether he was helping them stay safe.  

There were over twenty high-Pass agents in Eigengrau at the moment, and Q began to see them throughout the day as everyone’s schedules allowed.  H was still Q’s right hand, but the man seemed decidedly less relaxed around any agent that wasn’t Reese, and the day got a bit rough by the time lunch rolled around.  H informed Q that the most dangerous agents were those labeled with numbers under ten, but to be honest, Q found those ones the least bothersome.  008, Reese, had been disconcerting but well-behaved, and 002 later on was much the same, although she was perhaps a bit more impatient.  When 001 came in right before lunch, a devilishly handsome brunet named Harkness, ‘friendly’ got redefined, but Q only really got nervous when he realized with total certainty that this man would happily have sex with him in the very chair he was sitting in.  Or in the hall.  Or probably even M’s office.  Q’s life had always been a more cerebral one (Holmes boys were smart, but not body-smart, Q had realized some time ago), and he began to wonder if blushing could be fatal by the time 001 left, Smartblood delivered and innuendos as thick as sex in the air.  Even H exhaled a noisy sigh of relief as soon as Harkness was gone, and collapsed back into his chair.  “I don't know about you, but I’m ready for lunch,” the older techie announced, sounding a bit hollow.  Q agreed with a wordless, almost desperate nod.

Ultimately, though, it was the agents with numbers above ten that caused the most trouble.  They were apparently the newest, and hadn’t quite realized the benefits that Eigengrau gave them - and therefore hadn’t “settled into the leash yet,” as Tanner put it at lunch.  “Those who have been here awhile, 001, 002, even 009, have realized that Eigengrau isn’t much different from any other job, so long as they behave,” Tanner said, biting into a sandwich.  He meticulously chewed the hefty mouthful before finishing, “It’s pretty much sunk in that either they enjoy their jobs here, and do what they’re told, or risk getting summarily executed for their high Psychopass.  Some of the newbies still think that there’s a third option, though.”

“A third option?” Q asked, nibbling at his own sandwich.  He felt eyes on him, but when he turned his head to look at the table across the room - where the Hounds sat - everyone was watching their food.  Harkness and 007 were sitting next to one another, though, and Q thought he saw the former turn his head and mutter something to the latter, causing mirrored smirks to spread across their faces.  Perhaps it was a Pavlovian response, but Q found his cheeks getting instantly red, and he turned swiftly back around again.

Tanner was finishing another bite.  He flicked away a crumb and answered without looking up from his food, “Escape.  They don’t want to accept that it’s either Eigengrau or death, so they think that if they fight hard enough, they’ll be free again.”  Another bite.  More chewing.  Q tried to control his heartbeat and remind himself that no one could read his mind.  Tanner completed his thought, unaware of his tablemate’s internal turmoil, “But no one escapes Eigengrau.  We might take them out into the world, but they’re on a leash they can’t break, and the smarter, older agents know that.”

The younger, stupider agents had tried to kill Q three times that day.  It was a harrowing series of experiences, and Q had to accept that this was his life now, and that he’d probably need anxiety medication before this was all over.  

The whole while, he struggled to find out where Sherlock was.  No one had mentioned him by name, or even a description that sounded like him, and Q didn’t know how to ask without raising suspicion.  If Sherlock was on the island, he wasn’t where Q could just bump into him nonchalantly, but the damn place was just so big…!  Q couldn’t remember ever being this wildly, desperately frustrated - not even when he’d learned that Sherlock had been found at a fresh crime scene for the fifth time, and the Sybil System had finally betrayed him, announcing that his Psychopass had risen above one-hundred.  

At least Sybil hadn’t betrayed Q yet.  

Maybe he needed to stop hunting for Sherlock like a Hound and start hunting like a hacker who had dove into the Sybil System more times than anyone alive.  

~^~

By day four as Quartermaster of Eigengrau, Q’s entire workspace had been named after him (‘Q-branch’), he’d been attacked four times (only once more after day one, by 009, a woman who went by Root and who made H intensely nervous - which should have been Q’s first cue that there'd be trouble), and he still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Sherlock.  It was supremely maddening, especially considering that Sherlock should have been here, leaving his mark, for roughly two months at this point.  Fortunately, Q was also getting to know the terrain of Eigengrau much better, finding excuses to get short tours whenever he could.  He still wasn’t sure how he felt about wandering off on his own, but he was running out of options, and the main computer banks that he had access to were strictly monitored.  He could’ve hacked into them, but that would have either taken too long (attracting notice from coworkers), or else a fast and dirty hack would have raised internal alarms.  

However, Q had managed to access more detailed blueprints of the building without getting caught, and now had a nearly perfect knowledge of the entirety of Eigengrau.  It was a lot of data and a veritable labyrinth, but Q’s memory was up to the task, and he had his sights set on a room of computers two floors up and on the west side of the building, usually used by people higher up in Eigengrau’s paygrade.  

And the perfect opportunity to sneak up and get to them came at the end of day four, when alarms suddenly went off everywhere, and Q was informed that one of the Hounds was causing a ruckus.  Since it apparently wasn’t anyone that Q had thus far injected with Smartblood, no one thought to involve the new Quartermaster, so Q went along with the flow as everyone else scurried off to their quarters for safety reasons.  Q heard a few snippets about how security was trying to track down the agent, who had perhaps gone rogue but perhaps (somehow) hadn’t, but for the most part, Q was too focused on slipping away himself to listen too closely.  He was no spy - he had childhood practice in avoiding two elder brothers, but that was it, and therefore it was a heartstopping experience as Q looked about frantically for an opportunity to duck off on his own.  

Everyone else was still listening to the alarm clarion, and perhaps Q should have been, too - instead, he slipped into the first unlocked room they swept past.  And waited.  Panting and feeling like a rabbit with his heart thrashing in his chest, Q waited for someone to ask why he was hiding in… ah, it appeared to be a maintenance closet… but after about five minutes, there was only the alarm ringing.  The footsteps outside had disappeared.  Forcing himself to count to sixty nonetheless, Q waited, head bent against the closed door, before pushing back out again - and into an empty hallway.  

“Finally, something is going my way,” he breathed, then called up the photo-perfect memory of the map in his head, orienting himself in seconds, and striking out down the nearest westward hallway.  

He ran into security personnel a total of twice: men and women dressed in Kevlar and padding, faces tense and stern.  Both times, Q raised his hands and did a very authentic impersonation of a tech geek lost and afraid in the hallways.  Considering the guards were aiming guns at him, the fear was, at least, quite real.  Everyone had bigger fish to fry than one misplaced boffin, fortunately, so Q was quickly pointed in the direction of the living quarters and sent on his way - and just as soon as Q was out of sight, he returned to his previous path.  Fortunately, the second group that caught him was a different batch of guards, and no one realized that he wasn’t following orders in the slightest.  

It sounded like the action was headed in the opposite direction anyway, as Q hiked it up the stairs, wishing that he was a bit more athletic by the time he made it to the floor he wanted.  Sweating and panting, he leaned over his knees and clutched at the stitch in his side for a moment before forcing his feet to move again.  He spotted the room he wanted instantly.  It was locked, of course, and he didn’t have clearance, but just about everything was computerized, and there was no one around to see Q quietly opening up and hacking the security pad as he muttered to himself in the hallway.  He was inside within three minutes, and made an instant beeline for the nearest computer.  

Giving his fingers a little wiggle, he observed the computer for a quick second, muttered, “Luck, don’t fail me now,” and began to do what he did best.  Hack.  It was one of the things not on his resume, but was quite possibly the one thing he did as easily as breathing.  

Even these computers were not without security entirely, but Q had expected that.  In a building where highly lethal individuals walked freely, how could you afford to be anything less than secure?  But, as Q had suspected, these computers had fewer alarms set in place, so Q was able to dig through firewalls with a bit more speed and a bit more finesse without triggering anything.  Hopefully, too, no one with particularly adept computer skills would nose into these computers and find evidence of his messy work.  Q had no doubt that H would have spotted something wrong in seconds, but H didn’t have clearance to get into this room either.  

Q heard occasional sounds of chaos, but they were very distant, sometimes barely loud enough to be heard at all.  Soon he stopped jumping and twisting around to look over his shoulder at the door at every whisper of sound, and began to focus and make real headway.  It felt like ages, but he gave a tiny hiss of triumph when he managed to find a list of high-Pass operatives.  First on the list, grinning broadly: 001 - Harkness, Handler Cooper.  Q quailed as his eyes reflexively read further, starting in on the man’s criminal record.  It was coldly laid out, with no descriptions of circumstances to explain them, but the man was apparently more than a flirt with an infectious smile.  Q tore his eyes away, moving on.  Until he hit 003 - Lecter… but the ‘Handler’ section was blank, with a ‘Pending’ note tagged onto it.  Q started to read another note connected to the ‘Handler’ section, and his curiosity had him inadvertently reading just far enough to realize...

The boffin gulped and dragged his eyes away again, feeling cold to his very core.  Tanner hadn’t been joking about cannibalization.  003 had killed and reputedly tried to eat his last Handler.  

‘What the hell have I gotten myself into?’  The young man kept reading regardless, but tried to skim more, to turn his eidetic memory off and metaphorically swim through the data with blinders on.

It wasn’t until Q got to 010 that he found something - and he almost passed over it.  The position was apparently open, the agent having been killed in the process of running down a criminal in Manchester.  There was therefore a blank spot where there should have been a photo, and the data had been archived.  Linked to the 010 profile, however, was a listing not unlike the ‘Pending’ note for 003’s next Handler.  This time, Q clicked on it with a sense of hope as much as trepidation, and very nearly cried a little when it paid off.  

A mugshot of Sherlock, looking furious as hell and still somehow superior, stared back at Q from the screen.  He was apparently in limbo at the moment, having been accepted into the Eigengrau program, but not officially put into a position yet, even after two months.  At least he wasn’t dead, which was what Q had secretly been fearing this whole time.    

Just as Q started to read more closely, still needing to find out where in the world Eigengrau held pending Hounds, the door behind him opened.  In his hurry, Q hadn’t thought to re-arm the locking mechanism.  

Chapter Text

Spinning around, Q spouted out the first excuse that came to mind, “I’m sorry, with everyone running around, I got lost, and I just wanted to get out of everyone’s way, so I came in-”  Q immediately stopped talking, eyes widening behind his glasses, as he turned far enough to get a look at who had come in the door.  Probably not much taller than Q, but doubtlessly heavier than him by far from honed muscle, the same agent that Tanner had called ‘violently heterosexual’ was now standing just inside the door with surprised blue eyes locked on Q’s petrified hazel ones.  Dressed in a black pullover that hugged his neck and torso and dark-wash jeans that likewise hugged his muscular legs, 007 was unmistakably intimidating from this close, his whole frame athletic and powerful.  From as close as they were - just over two strides apart - Q could veritably see the shock being swallowed up by impenetrable calm like a body sinking under a very blue lake, and Q found himself quailing.  

There was a rumble and noise in the hallway, and despite how terrified Q was, it was the agent who actually jumped, looking back over his shoulder sharply.  Q put two and two together, blurting, “They’re hunting after you.”

“Got it in one.”  007’s voice was smooth with just a hint of gravel at the lowest octave, and just patronizing enough to make Q frown and hackle a bit.  The agent wasn’t paying attention, though, instead peaking out the door and then firmly closing it.  Then, to Q’s surprise, the agent’s blue eyes - god, they were blue - flicked around the room, narrowed slightly at Q’s position at the computer, then glanced away with apparent disinterest.  In fact, at that point the agent ambled over to another chair across the room.  

All told, it was a surprising development, one that had Q’s panic fading just a smidge.  “You don’t sound particularly excited about any of this,” Q observed next, when nothing serious happened beyond the agent sitting and eyeing him lazily.  The boffin dared to add, regaining some moxy, “If I recall correctly, there are guards swarming this building, and if they happen to check this room, you’ll be in a spot of trouble.  Am I right?”

Q didn’t know what to expect; 007 was, by Tanner’s definition, one of Eigengrau’s more senior agents, and therefore more sensible.  However, Q had just skimmed his file, and the man had a Psychopass of 139, which was terrifyingly high by Q’s reckoning.  He honestly wasn’t sure what the numbers meant after they exceeded 100, only that anyone above that tended to seriously lack remorse and often struggled to recall morals consistently.  Or at all.  008 had been fairly sensible, but Q wondered if that had something to do with the situation and with H’s presence - and the fact that 008 hadn’t been on the run from Eigengrau’s guards.  

With all that in mind, Q didn’t breathe for a few moments after speaking, half expecting Bond to kill him with a rusty fork or something similarly gruesome.  Fortunately, the agent didn’t even move, except to arch one eyebrow and cock his head thoughtfully.  It was such a raptor-like look that Q found his shoulders tensing.  “And if I recall correctly,” Bond drawled, in a tone that made Q instantly uneasy, “this is a restricted room.  The only reason I got in was because the lock had been bypassed.”  Q sank in his chair a little bit, glancing away, but that couldn’t stop the steady flow of words out of 007’s mouth as the man continued to observe, “So, if those guards happen to check this room, you’ll be…  How did you put it?”  

Q let out a little growl, anger overcoming fear briefly.  He was focusing on his hands, not looking at the Hound in the room, but he thought he heard a quiet chuckle at his expense.  “Oh yes - ‘in a spot of trouble.’  Am I right?” 007 finished.

Q had lived with two absolutely insufferable older brothers, so he didn’t anger easily, but dammit if there wasn’t something just infuriating about the agent he was sharing space with right now.  Anger continuing to rise and get the better of reason (and with reason, reasonable fear), Q frowned and turned stubbornly back to the computer.  This was still his only chance to find out information about Sherlock, so if 007 wasn’t going to murder him, then he was going to make the best of it.  “How do you know I didn’t just lose my key?” he challenged moodily.  

“Because I know for a fact that when these alarms go off, everyone stops working, so I find it hard to believe that a boffin like yourself would be here instead of in your quarters,” Bond answered amicably, then added with a shrug that Q could see out of the corner of his eye, “But mostly it’s because you’re a pisspoor liar, and I know that you’re the Quartermaster, and therefore should be two floors down.”

Flinching at being caught out, Q turned an involuntary guilty look Bond’s way, and therefore saw the smugly triumphant smile ghost across the man’s face.  It was a rugged face, not typically handsome, but holding something dangerously alluring in the curve of the mouth, the sharpness of the crows’ feet that lined the eyes.  

Staring at those eyes, at the danger and challenge in them, but also in the way 007 was just lounging in his chair instead of being outwardly threatening, Q made a decision.  He turned back to the computer and kept typing.  “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Wearing glasses meant that Q’s peripheral vision wasn’t exactly extraordinary, but he was still able to see the surprised twitch Bond gave.  Q felt ridiculously proud to have caught the older man off-guard.  “I…”  007 started, pausing, then continuing in a faintly incredulous tone, “Are you seriously going to just ignore that you saw me?”

“Well, I figure that so long as you’re in here,” Q replied, feeling his way through this conversation as he went, typing faster as well to make good use of borrowed time, “you’re not causing trouble, and that’s what everyone is worried about, right?  Keeping you out of trouble?”

“Yes,” was the rumbled response.  Q glanced over to see a measured nod.  The look of laziness was gone, as was the posture, replaced by intense attention and wary interest.  When 007 moved, it was only to reach up and pull aside the high collar of his shirt, revealing a collar of another kind entirely against the skin of his throat: the metal torque all Hounds wore.  “Although some of the fuss might also be because I’m off the radar right now.”

That got Q to look over, brows lowering.  He’d had a bit of a chance to look over the specs for the collars, and they were truly impressive things.  “You deactivated that?” he couldn’t help but ask.  When 007 poorly hid a smirk, and nodded, hand falling away again, Q made a humming noise and noted, “No wonder everyone is in a tizzy.”  Then he went back to his work.  

The sounds outside continued to rise and fade; no one had zeroed in on Bond yet, apparently because they had no effective way to track him to begin with.  Q reflected that this was precisely why everyone was scheduled to get Smartblood.  “That’s it?  No other questions?  No demands that I turn myself in?” 007 asked after a tensely stretched silence.

Q was having a devilishly hard time finding out where exactly pending agents were housed.  It made him growl low in his throat.  He spared some attention to respond, however, because he had enough common sense to want to not offend a Hound of 007’s calibre, “Why should I?  You’re not hurting anyone here.”

“And what if I leave?”

“I don’t think you will.”  Q was growing more and more certain of that.

Bond’s voice dropped a few octaves, until it was a low rumble, like the threat of an avalanche in the distance, “And what if I stay here and hurt you?”

The fear returned sharply enough that Q had to stop typing momentarily, because his hands had started shaking.  By focusing on the screen, however, he was able to at least hold onto his facade of calm for the few beats it took him to regain his voice, and find words that sounded calm if not steady, “You’ve been on the run for approximately twenty minutes now, yet I haven’t heard about or seen any bodies, and you don’t have any blood on you.  If you really wanted to rack up a body-count, you’d also be going towards people, not away, and this is a relatively unpopulated sector of this building, what with the alarms draining everything away to the living quarters.”  Q wasn’t anywhere near the profiler Sherlock was, but he was no slouch when it came to observation, so he kept going, not daring to stop, “And I don’t think you’re going to leave this room, because your purpose isn’t escape.”

“Oh, it isn't, is it?” Bond asked in a tone that was either sarcastic or slightly amused.  

“No,” Q finished in a rush, “because again, if you really wanted to escape, this is the wrong part of the building for it.  There’s no roof access to the helicopter pads from this section of the building, and the boats are also in basically the opposite direction.”  Q puffed out a sigh, finally turning to look at Bond, a bit desperate for some sign that he wasn’t about to be summarily executed.  He wasn’t sure if it was a good sign, but 007 was now sitting with his arms draped forward over his knees, watching Q with undivided interest.  Q admitted on another heavy, defeated exhale, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re hoping to accomplish, but it doesn’t actually seem that dangerous to me, so I don’t feel as though I need to waste my breath screaming for reinforcements.”

“Because you don’t want to draw attention to yourself either?” 007 hazarded, a slight grin flickering onto his face again.  His eyes were like coldfire, intense and blisteringly blue while still somehow managing to look playful.  If fire could be playful.  

“I never said that,” Q retorted primly.  He went back to typing.  He also went back to lying out his arse.  “I have a perfectly legitimate reason for being here.  And before you ask what it is-”  Q had heard 007 taking in a breath to do exactly that.  Q held up a belaying finger, and valiantly tried to keep it from shaking like the rest of him.  “-It’s above your paygrade.”

For another long moment there was dead silence.  Q continued to worry that it would become literally dead silence, but he was allowed to continue his typing unmolested.  Eventually, he heard the chair creak as Bond leaned back again.  He commented, “You’re quite an uppity little shit for someone I could snap in half.”  Despite his words, his tone was surprisingly light, like someone pointing out a new species of bird they’d just spotted on their morning walk.  

Q’s fingers skewed on the keys and he had to rapidly delete and start over, silently cursing both his own nervousness and 007.  “So long as you call me ‘sir’ and stop bothering me, I don’t care what you think of me,” Q said tightly, while trying to simultaneously block 007 out of his head and pay excruciatingly close attention to the man’s every move.  

“I’ll see what I can do about the second part,” 007 surprised Q by acquiescing, and then further surprised Q by doing just that.  The high-Pass agent closed his mouth, slouched back in his chair, and proceeded to do nothing at all but quietly watch Q work.  It was eerie as fuck, but at least it wasn’t bloody and painful.  Q counted his blessings, even as the rest of his luck started to fail him - some of the information on this computer was buried deeper than he’d thought.  It wasn’t that pending agents were being purposefully hidden, but in all the information that Q was finding, no one seemed to feel that it was necessary to draw a map to the location of their holding cells.  Right now, Q was facing the prospect of finding a Sherlock-shaped needle in an Eigengrau-sized haystack, and that wrung a sound of frustration out of him.  

“Not finding what you need there, Quartermaster?”  It was obvious that Bond was playing nice, his tone jovial with a veneer of politeness like honey on shit.  The fact that 007 was wearing a shit-eating grin didn’t help the analogy, when Q glanced at him.

Somewhat sourly, Q snipped, “Notice that I’m not asking you what you’re doing,” and got nervously back to work.  He got the sense that 007 kept watching him, contemplating.  Further contemplation on 007’s part and information-hunting on Q’s part was cut short, however, as the noises outside definitely escalated, to the point where Q couldn’t help but turn around, pressing his lips together into a thin white seam.  He managed to hold back the curse that wanted to fall from his lips, but he couldn’t get his hands back to work, now that discovery seemed inevitable.  

Bond hadn’t moved except his eyes.  Now, though, as Q’s jaw worked and clenched as if physically chewing over a new plan, the larger man rose fluidly to his feet.  It was like watching a big black cat move, with his dark clothing and easily powerful motion.  Q’s eyes were drawn to him immediately, and the Quartermaster tensed in preparation for trouble, but instead was favored by a wintry but somehow still charming smile.  

“What are you doing?” Q asked, anxious.  His heart rate picked up.  

Arctic blue eyes watched him for only a moment, but then moved to regard the door instead.  “Oh, I figured that it was high time I stretched my legs again.”  Bond’s face was in profile, but one eye still swiveled back to Q, just in time for a playful, “Since you were decent enough not to blow my cover, the least I can do is not blow yours, eh?”

“I…” Q stuttered, looking away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bond shrugged, admitting, “I’m not really sure either, to be honest, but I figure one good turn deserves another.  Don’t you agree?”

Since the man was clearly waiting for a response, the smug bastard, Q choked down his anxiety and rising annoyance, forcing himself to unclench his teeth and reply, “Yes.”  The sounds of guards were getting more audible.  Q wanted to bolt and run, but knew that it wouldn’t do him any good - he wasn’t much of a runner to begin with, and honestly still shaky from his swift sprint up the stairs.  Bond would have much better odds, even if Q couldn’t parse out why the man was offering to take the risk in the first place.  Unless it really was a case of quid pro quo?

While Q was still trying to figure out the enigma that was 007, the blond-haired agent winked at him, then strode towards the door.  He opened it, leaning out just far enough to get the lay of the land, then commented back with a roguish grin that made Q want to slap him a little, “Don’t stick around too long, Q.  Wouldn’t want someone else stumbling across you, and asking silly questions about why you’re digging around on a locked computer.”

Flushing at the reminder that Bond had him pegged, even if he didn’t know the details, Q huffed and replied resignedly, “Noted.”

“Nice chatting with you,” was what Bond left Q with, then disappeared like smoke up a chimney.  

Q was left staring and blinking as the door clicked shut behind Bond; he heard the lock reengage, which wouldn’t keep him in, but would make it less likely that someone would immediately find him out.  It was all very puzzling, although what Q found himself muttering to himself was, “No man his size has any right to move that quietly.”

Not long after, and there were footsteps pounding past the door, and a massive amount of shouting.  Q imagined 007 at the head of the pack like a wily old fox, proud tail strung out behind him like a blood-russet banner, and grinning with all his sharp teeth as he ran.  It wasn’t much longer before the alarm turned off - signally that the case had come to an end - but it was long enough for Q to close out all of his windows, clean up his trail, and beat a hasty retreat back to floors he was actually supposed to be on.  He still didn’t know exactly where Sherlock was, but he was closer.  

Only once he was in his room did the true import of everything that had happened hit him.  Closing his door, Q sank down against it, shivering hard.  

He’d just met 007.  Agent Bond.  A man too dangerous to let out in normal society without a lethal collar on and a Handler to watch him.  A man who apparently had a habit of killing his Handlers, if he didn’t decide to fuck them instead.  And since he seemed to only fuck the female ones, and Q was decidedly male, then… it felt suddenly like Q had dodged a very real bullet.  A blue-eyed sort of bullet.  

“Shit,” Q swore, burying his face in quivering hands and not caring as he smeared his glasses, “How the hell am I still alive?”

~^~

Bond had been apprehended.  There were no casualties, although apparently 007 bloodied a few noises before he was subdued.  Apparently it was a relatively mild affair, compared to other such occasions.  

“When Hart was first brought in, he tried to escape,” said Tanner, who was fast becoming Q’s source of gossip.  The man knew everything.  Q wondered if Tanner had worked here from the day the first stone of Eigengrau had been placed or something.  “He didn’t actually disable the collar, but he still nearly got away.  It was pretty damn impressive, really, but the body-count was high enough that he was nearly terminated right then.”  Q ate his breakfast, listened, and tried not to feel sick at how detached the word ‘terminated’ sounded.  True, the Sybil System had declared these individuals to be monsters, but did that really mean they didn’t deserve to be treated as humans anymore?  “However, the higher-ups decided that Hart’s actions just proved that he was even more useful than they thought, and I think they even sat down and had a talk with him.  High-Pass agents don’t have contracts, per se, but I think that Hart got something good out of the deal.”  Tanner shrugged, went back to his breakfast.  “At the very least, he’s accepted his place in the program since then, so either the reward or the threat was big enough to make him rethink his views.  Hannibal, though...”  

A woman with skin a shade lighter than Handler Joss Carter sat down on Tanner’s far side, immediately groaning, “Don’t you dare talk about that man at the table.”  At Q’s guardedly curious look from Tanner’s other side, the woman leaned forward.  She was also slimmer and sharper-featured than Carter, but had a hardiness to her that matched the toughness of 008’s Handler.  “We haven’t met, but I’ve heard all about you - the youngest Quartermaster in Eigengrau’s history.”  She stuck out a hand right over Tanner’s tray, and perhaps it was punishment for bringing up Hannibal.  Q shook it, feeling immediately the strength of her hand, the callouses on her palm and fingers.  “It’s not a particularly long history yet, but still,” she smiled.  “Call me Eve.”

“This is Eve Moneypenny,” Tanner supplied, stoically waiting until his plate was clear and he could reach his food again, “She’s 006’s Handler, and has been for some time .”

“I was 007’s originally, but after a few months, we realized that I worked better with Trevelyan,” she supplied, and Tanner immediately busied himself with eating.  Q, meanwhile, desperately hoped that his thoughts weren’t showing up on his face, because he was vividly recalling what Tanner had told him about 007 sleeping with his female Handlers.  The terrible part of Q that had no filter wanted to ask if that was the real reason Eve had switched Hounds…

The part of Q that was a functional adult put a sock in the filterless part, and shoved it to the back of his brain where it couldn’t get him into trouble.  He managed to put on a smile, and thankfully the topic changed swiftly.  It turned out that Eve was very fun to talk to, and her agent - 006, Alec Trevelyan - was due to come in today for Smartblood.  

So was Bond.

~^~

By the time Q got to his branch after breakfast, 007 was already waiting for him - in fact, he’d already been put in the chair, right arm secured in the arm-lock and left one handcuffed similarly on the other side, and there were four armed guards flanking him.  It was really rather unsettling.  Despite all that, Bond looked supremely at ease and calm, smiling charmingly when Q entered, as if shamelessly amused by the whole thing.  It was also a dangerously knowing, overly familiar look, and Q did his best not to skitter away from it like a guilty cockroach from the revealing light of day.  

“So this would be 007, would it?” Q feigned ignorance, going over to one of his computers and plugging in a cartridge of Smartblood so that he could at least pretend to check whether the little nanites were alive and reading correctly.  In reality, he was stalling and he knew it.  He reminded himself that he wasn’t supposed to have met Bond outside of seeing him from the catwalk with Tanner, and all he was meant to know about yesterday’s shenanigans were rumors.  As it was, the only sign that 007 had been leading Eigengrau’s guardsmen on a wild chase seemed to be the vivid bruise on Bond’s left cheekbone.  Of course, one of the guards behind him was sporting an even more vivid shiner, and the only person smiling in the room was 007 himself.  “I heard you were doing some unsanctioned extracurriculars yesterday evening,” Q finished as blandly as he could.  

He half expected Bond to reply with “So were you,” and held his breath in trepidation.  Therefore, he was flooded with relief when one of the guards answered instead, grunting, “This smug bastard slipped his leash and made a run for it, yeah, but he didn’t get far,” and nudging the back of Bond’s head with a rifle-butt.  The agent didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes got flinty and hard.  Q reviewed his conclusions from yesterday (that 007 hadn’t actually been trying to escape anywhere), but kept his thoughts to himself.  

The guard kept talking like 007 was a mute, and it took only one quick glance at Bond’s face to see just how little the agent appreciated that, “Out of everyone here, he probably needs this Cyberblood or whatever the most.  I’d like to see him try to disable it.”  Again the butt of the guard’s rifle prodded at the agent in the chair, and Q began to worry that 007 would try to enact some retribution despite the odds stacked against him.

“Smartblood,” Q corrected while at the same time stepping into the metaphorical frey, “not ‘Cyberblood’.  And you do realize that the primary purpose of these nanites is to monitor the health and condition of the agents, don’t you?”

“Not for this one it won’t be,” the guard maintained, and a few of the other guards chuckled.  “Believe me, if you had chased this blue-eyed monster around as much as we have, you’d know that the primary purpose of your invention here is to make sure we can keep tabs on him.”

There it was again, the reminder that these agents were treated like beasts more than men, a mentality that Q was having a hard time learning now to swallow.  He was aware of H in his periphery, watching him, while working at a nearby computer terminal from a chair because an old leg injury was bothering him more than usual today.  Q couldn’t afford to blow his cover by being soft-hearted, but he also didn’t think he was a good enough actor to join in with antagonizing 007.  The best he could manage was to walk over to the agent and his guards, pretending to focus on his work while murmuring in a seemingly distracted voice, “I see…”  

As Q got close with the vial, 007’s hands clenched.  He didn’t start thrashing and struggling, like some of the younger agent had, but the signs were there: 007 knew what was coming, and he didn’t like it.  Now that he was closer, Q could see that they’d handcuffed Bond’s ankles, too, giving Q a whole new appreciation of just how dangerous this man was considered to be.  This was emphasized when Q also got a closer look at 007’s knuckles, seeing how they were still raw and swollen from yesterday.  When Bond had walked in on Q in the computer room, the boffin hadn’t really noticed any such wounds.  True, he hadn’t been looking, but he strongly suspected that 007 had wracked up these injuries after leaving Q’s presence.  

Q was nearest Bond’s right arm, naturally, as that were where the armlock lay ready for the ampule of nanites - but since that arm was also more firmly restrained than the other, it allowed Q to really look at Bond’s split knuckles as the clenching of the man’s fist caused some of them to sluggishly bleed.  “Were these ever seen to?” Q found himself asking, his brain-to-mouth filter failing him.  In fact, his brain must have been failing him entirely, because the little spark of righteous rage he felt on 007’s behalf gave him enough reckless courage to even reach forward with one hand and just barely touch the back of one of Bond’s fingers.  The fist unclenched suddenly, but Q thought it was more in surprise than anything else, because 007 didn’t make a grab for him.

The guards looked, ironically, caught off-guard.  One of them managed to find his voice pretty quickly and answer, however, “Er… yes, Medical did see him, last night.”

“These look like they should be bandaged,” Q opined quietly, then physically forced himself back on task.  He was aware that everyone was staring at him, with varying looks that said they didn’t know what to do with him.  Returning to his ‘Quartermaster persona’ as soon as possible seemed wise, so Q straightened his spine primly, straightened his button-down and cardigan with a little tug, and changed topics as professionally as possible, “Well then, let’s get this over with, shall we?  We’ve all got jobs to do.”  And wasn’t that the truth?

Now James struggled.  Q had already come to appreciate the thought that had gone into the chair: it was bolted down, and sturdy as hell, no doubt with muscular individuals like 007 in mind.  Even Root, the least physically intimidating Hound to come through this room, had possessed a frankly terrifying strength to her, but the armlock and the chair it was attached to had held her, too.  Now, James gave the designers a run for their money, as his cuffs barked against the metal arm and chair-legs, and Q swore the whole thing gave a groan.  Bond’s charming smile had fallen away, revealing something colder and harder, and it was like a frosty fist reached into Q’s chest and clamped down upon his heart.  The fear froze him where he was for a moment, right in front of Bond, ampule in one hand and a set of frostbite-blue eyes locked on his face.  

The guards immediately surged forward, doing their job, and none too gently.  It actually broke through Q’s fear a little, to see so many hands releasing guns to instead grab at the blond-haired man in the chair, and Q found himself lurching forward, too.  “Enough!  You’re not helping,” he snapped, sincerely unsure if he was talking to Bond or the guards.  No one else seemed to know the answer to that either, especially as their new Quartermaster now had one hand on Bond’s chest and the other pressed warningly on a guardsman’s arm as it lay wrapped around Bond’s throat.  It was surreal for Q, really: he was distantly aware of the hard, impenetrable look on his own face even as he was viscerally aware of the way powerful pectoral muscles heaved in a steady rhythm beneath his left palm. At first, Q just met the nearest guardsman’s startled eyes, staring him down, but when Q shifted his vision, he found pale-blue eyes watching him not with fury, but with curiosity.  Q backed away, and watched as the  guards unexpectedly did the same.  

Wishing that he’d had a second cup of coffee - anything that might have helped him act just a bit more sensibly just now - Q inhaled and exhaled to a careful count to ten, then tried again.  This time as he approached, he focused on 007, who was now watching him with a guarded sort of keenness, unblinkingly.  “Look, I know you don’t believe me, but this is meant to help you,” Q found himself explaining, steady and quiet and calm, wondering where the calm had come from as he showed Bond the small glass container of unassuming liquid, “When I first began this project, I was informed not only of the high rate of agents like yourself going off-grid, but the even higher rate of you getting into locations where no one could track you during missions - and then being without back-up in dangerous situations.”  It was hard to tell if James was believing any of this; he hadn’t started struggling again, but Q was aware that looks could be deceiving, and a mask of calmness could be shattered by a second of explosive movement.  So Q kept talking, wanting to diffuse this situation as much as possible, “I wasn’t lying when I said the primary purpose of this is to keep track of an agent’s vital signs, diagnosing injury and illness instantly and even from a distance, so that assistance can be rendered.  I’ve heard that high-Pass agents of your skill are difficult to replace, but this is meant to ensure that you don't’ need replacing.”

For a moment Bond just looked at him, narrow-eyed, gaze like a scalpel.  No one else moved or said anything, and for a moment the agent’s jaw worked silently, as if chewing words over but unsure whether or not to spit them out.  Q just waited.  Finally, 007 spoke, voice low but impossibly smooth, “You know what I think?”

This was a voice that charmed birds from nests, only to devour them.  Q shivered.  “What?”

“That this is just a more advanced leash than before,” was the belligerent answer, cold to its core.  

One of the guards immediately cuffed 007 over the back of the head.  “Watch your mouth!”  

Q watched the chilling light in Bond’s eyes turn positively murderous, and just as the agent made as if to swivel his head around and retort back, Q let his temper fray and snap.  It helped to firm up his voice, so that he had a lot of authority in his tone when he interrupted the worsening scene, “Stop it, all of you.”  When Q found himself once again the center of attention, he held his head high, making his displeasure quite clear in his frown and his tone as he said steadily, “This is my branch, and I’ll have no unnecessary violence here.”  Feeling some of his energy drain away, Q sighed and added a bit more softly, “007 was merely speaking his mind, and I’ve nothing against that.  We all have our jobs-”  Q looked from the guards to Bond, pointedly, and couldn’t help but add, “-And our leashes.”  He wasn’t sure if he hoped the agent would read into that or not, but once again his mouth seemed to be running away from him.  Q quickly looked back to the rather startled guardsman.  “So if you’d kindly stop intervening, I’d like to do my job.”

No one argued at that point, and only then did Q realized that his hands had been clenched into white-knuckled fists.  As he forced them to loosen, he noticed that Bond had opened his hands as well, a strange change of demeanor that had Q looking to the man’s eyes immediately.  It was almost disturbing to see that the anger had drained out of them, replaced again by that implacable, close-lipped smile, an impenetrable expression of practice charm.  Whatever the hell Bond was thinking now, Q had no hope of parsing it out.  Gathering up his nerve again, Q stepped forward, and this time slipped the ampule into its slot in the armlock, murmuring not unkindly, “I don’t like this anymore than you do.”  Which was entirely the truth, but on more levels that Bond probably knew.  Q wasn’t happy with essentially microchipping a person against their will, and Siger Q. Holmes wasn’t exactly thrilled to be playing Quartermaster while hunting for his incarcerated brother.  

“Are you sure?” James sallied back in an irksomely patronizing tone.

Some of Q’s pity evaporated, and he punched the button to inject the Smartblood.  Bond’s body gave an all-over flinch and he swore colorfully, because the needle was not exactly small, and Q had not exactly given him any forewarning.  Straightening, Q noted primly before turning back to his computers to check the read-out from the newly implanted Smartblood, “Perhaps I enjoyed that just a little.”

~^~

The rest of the day was uneventful, but only by comparison.  All of the other agents seemed to come in willingly enough, although now Q couldn't help but see it as forced, and the only other time that multiple guards were present was when 003 came in.  It turned out that this was the infamous Hannibal, who ate his last Handler.  

“Allegedly,” the man said in regard to that crime, voice tinged with a thick accent.  Q couldn't place it, although Hannibal had a masterful control of the English language even if it wasn't his mother tongue.  “Some people in this place have an unfortunate habit of jumping to conclusions, and I assure you, there is no proof that I ate anybody.”  Of course, then the man smiled, and while it was a terribly charming smile, it also revealed a set of incisors that Q could have sworn were pointed.  The agent screamed ‘predator’ in a way Q had never seen before, and it took effort not to shake as he worked around the man.  H once again didn’t leave his computer terminal, but Q was willing to bet that it had nothing to do with the older man’s aching leg this time.  

Because it was instinct, Q fell back on carefully precise politeness and professionalism to hide his building fear, and only found out later that that was exactly the right thing to do around Hannibal.  Apparently the man had killed people before for rudeness alone, something that Q really wished someone had warned him about.  

“Are there any other lethal quirks that I should know about!?” Q demanded later, gesticulating wildly as the pent-up adrenaline finally sought an outlet.  Q felt like he was quivering right down to his innards, and thankfully everyone had cleared out for lunch except for himself and H, and Bill Tanner, who had made it a habit to come fetch Q for meals (lest Q forget them entirely).  

“Well, I already told you that Bond tends to either fuck or kill people,” Tanner defended a bit weakly.  Which didn’t help.  At all.  Q had been entirely too close to the man not to think about the man’s habits on a personal, horrifying level.  Pushing his fingers up under his glasses and against his eyes, Q groaned defeatedly and continued to pace back and forth blindly.  His mental picture of the room assured him that he wouldn’t hit anything, although knocking himself unconscious now sounded rather promising.  

Unbeknownst to Q, Tanner and H were exchanging worried looks, no doubt concerned for the sanity of their new Quartermaster.  It wasn’t exactly the first time that close interactions with Hounds had raised the Psychopass of Eigengrau employees, and neither of them wanted to find a new Quartermaster, not when Q was actually doing rather well.  Scrambling about for something to say, Tanner caught on a thought and blurted, “Do you speak Russian?”

Q paused in wearing a track in the floor and lowered his hands, “...No?”

“Damn,” Tanner signed explosively.

“Why?  Is this because Hannibal is Russian?” Q tried to guess.  He’d stopped reading Hannibal’s file long before learning his backstory.

Tanner was shaking his head, however, sitting back on a nearby table and admitting, “No, actually, he’s Lithuanian.  It’s just that this means you won’t understand the warning signals of at least three agents - Bond, Trevelyan, and Hannibal all know how to speak Russian, especially when they’re up to something.  It’s like a storm-warning, if you can interpret it.”

H chimed in, a bit more helpfully, “Mr. Reese speaks multiple languages as well, and he and Ms. Shaw - 002 - often switch to an Israeli dialect when they don’t want to be overheard.”

Folding his arms now, Q just stared for a moment, then asked with something between caution and awe, “Just how smart are these agents?  What’s the average I.Q.?”

Tanner let out a breath past his teeth and turned to H, who for a moment feigned ignorance, then pursed his lips and gave up on the ruse.  “I don’t put much stock in I.Q. tests, but it’s safe to say that most of the high-Pass agents in the Eigengrau program have above-average intelligence, albeit in disparate fields that don’t necessarily include scholarly components.  Streetsmarts rather than book-smarts, if you will.”

“That’s what sets them apart from other high-Pass individuals that the Sybil System identifies,” the realization dawned on Q.  Suddenly, Sherlock’s instant inclusion in the program made sense.  “Eigengrau doesn’t just want them because their Psychopass numbers are unsalvageable, but because they’re geniuses.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Tanner argued, then seemed to regret saying that when H and Q both gave him sharp looks that said they didn’t believe him.  Tanner extemporized, “I’d just like to point out that Trevelyan refuses to do simple math, Sameen didn’t realize that a whale was a mammal, and Harkness once had to go to Medical because ‘his dick was broken’ - his words, not mine.”

Since Q’s brother Sherlock had a habit of forgetting that the sun was the center of the solar system (as opposed to Earth, or Sherlock himself), he found he couldn’t argue with that.  However, for the next five minutes and then the entire walk to the mess hall, the three of them argued about what exactly constituted ‘genius’ and whether the agents at Eigengrau were not actually quite a bit more dangerous because they were smart.

~^~

“All right, where’s this chair of doom I’m supposed to come in and sit on?” the boisterous voice broke across Q-branch and startled nearly everyone in it.  

Q looked to the door in surprise to see an agent who reminded him of three agents at once: the man had blond hair like Bond’s (albeit longer and more tousled), grinned with all of his teeth like Hannibal, and had the honestly terrifying playfulness that Harkness had.  It probably said something about Q that it was the last trait that worried him the most, and had him subtly checking his exits.  

This was Alec Trevelyan, 006, half an hour early for his appointment and a lot larger than life now that Q wasn't seeing him from one story up or through a computer screen.  

Realizing that running away would not only be cowardly but downright counterproductive, Q pulled his ‘Quartermaster facade’ on a bit more tightly, and cleared his throat, pointing towards the Smartblood station and its apparently infamous chair.  “I’m not sure about a ‘chair of doom,’ but if you’re 006, then I’d be much obliged if you’d sit there,” he said, finding some of those manners that had apparently worked so well on agent 003.

On Trevellyan, the effect was that the man suddenly chuckled, deep in his chest.  “God, you’re adorable,” he noted as if it was the most pleasant surprise of his whole day.  He added in a tone that said he was musing to himself but at a volume that said he didn’t give a fuck if Q heard, “James said a lot of things about you, but he didn’t say you were adorable.”

“I…”  Q stumbled, finding himself more off-kilter by the second, and possibly starting to flush an embarrassed pink, “You…  What?”

“I had a chat with Jamesy,” Alec said as if that clarified everything, even as he sauntered over and dropped down carelessly into the same chair that other agents had fought against, or at least eyed warily.  Green eyes looked up at Q with all the expectant brightness of a cat gazing up into a birdcage.  

“Who?”

“James.  James Bond - you know, 007?” Alec laid out, raising both eyebrows, and finally Q realized who 006 was talking about.  Q started to get nervous about just what had been said, until Alec shrugged and said brightly, “He actually speaks quite highly of you.”

‘What the hell?’  Q had been expecting the man to curse his name at best, betray him at worst.  Even more off-balance than before, Q busied himself with filling an ampule of Smartblood and tried to regain his mental and verbal footing.  “Oh… really?” was all he managed to clumsily say.  

006 either didn’t notice the verbal klutziness or didn’t care.  He cross his long legs at the ankles and affected the look of someone waiting in a barber’s chair, chatting amicably, “You’ve actually been getting pretty good reports from all us Hellhounds, at least those of us who have met you.  I mean, all Hannibal said was that you were polite, but for him, that’s practically praise.  Harkness gives your arse a nine out of ten, but he said that he’d be willing to raise it to a ten out of ten if you came to his quarters and proved you could stick the landing.”

Unsure whether to be scandalized or flattered, Q leaned against the nearest desk and pushed his glasses up his nose, as if that could somehow help him see this whole bizarre situation with more clarity.  “What…?” he started, stopped, and started again with candid bluntness, “I don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.”

Fortunately - or, rather unfortunately - Alec was more than willing to elaborate.  “I think that what Harkness means when he says ‘stick the landing’ is you landing on his stick-”

H, who had been working studiously in the background until now finally stood up sharply.  He cut in with a rather obvious amount of desperation in his usually mild-mannered voice, “Okay, that’s quite enough!”  There were blushes of color starting up on his cheekbones, and Q was sure that he himself wasn’t much better.  

In return, Alec affected an innocently questioningly smile, hands folded over his trim stomach and acting like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.  

The blessed silence that followed allowed Q to focus on what he was doing for long enough to get the Smartblood all set up.  After he had everything ready, he asked without turning from his computer, “Weren’t you supposed to come later?  With your Handler?”

“Moneypenny believes that on time is the same as being late, so I figured that I’d be good and come early,” the green-eyed agent said guilelessly.  

Q didn’t believe that for a second.  “Why do I have the sinking suspicion that you’re lying through your teeth?” Q sighed fatalistically, walking back towards 006 and the chair.  

The agent answered once Q was within arm's’ reach, without moving.  “Maybe because you’re a fast learner.  James said you were smart.”

“It sounds like James Bond has an awful lot of opinions about me,” Q muttered, unsure how to feel about that.  “Should I be worried?”  He gestured that Alec should put his right arm into the waiting cuff.  

The agent obliged, the only indicators that he wasn’t completely at ease being a subtle tensing of his entire frame.  Like James and most of the other high-Pass agents, Alec was bigger than Q, heavy with muscle, but right now he was doing a good job of appearing unthreatening.  “Probably,” Alec admitted in response to Q’s question, “But, I mean, that’s a given, right?”  Alec’s grin was as crooked as the day was long, knowing and wry.  “We agents have all got a few pieces missing in our heads, and our morals don’t work the same way yours do,” he went on with unexpected transparency, speaking of his high-Pass status without hesitation, “So, yeah, go ahead and worry.  You’ll live longer.”

H cleared his throat, speaking with very subtle warning from across the room, “Mr. Trevelyan…”

“Oh come on, that was barely even a threat!” Alec leaned his head back to look around Q and defend himself to H.  Meanwhile, Q took the opportunity to snap the arm-lock closed, feeling marginally safer once that was in place.  It hadn't originally been designed with restraint in mind, but Q was glad that it served a purpose beyond just keeping needle and vein lined up.

“It’s all right, H,” Q spoke up calmly, getting the ampule in place but also subtly watching 006 from under his fringe of hair, “I think I’ll know a sincere threat when I hear one.  Mr. Trevelyan was just giving sage advice, am I correct, Mr. Trevelyan?”

Alec was watching the arm-lock now with open distrust, and seemed to be regretting his visit.  A scar on his jaw stood out as his teeth briefly clenched.  “Call me Alec.  But yeah, just advice.”

“Now, Alec,” Q tested out the name, recalling M’s strict lecture about the power of titles in a place like Eigengrau and wondering if it was a good idea to lose formalities, “I’m going to tell you something that I didn’t tell 007.”

“And what is that?”

“This is going to sting a little,” Q said, then promptly pushed the button.  The results were much the same.  So far, no agent had particularly liked the injection process - even the stoic Mr. Reese had flinched the teensiest bit, and he’d had H at his back forewarning him of everything.  Alec, with only Q’s timely warning, swore almost as colorfully as 007 had, his free hand coming over as if to grip the spot of pain within the armlock.  Q was just turning away to check his computer readouts when he heard the agent grit out, “Shit, I thought James was kidding about you being a little sadist…”

Q decided to pretend he hadn’t heard, but felt a little buzz of emotions in his stomach that could have been pride - after all, it sounded like he was making a lasting impression.  He had a feeling, too, that it would pay off to be remembered as more than a spineless, harmless, bespectacled boffin.  That, and he also had a feeling that it wouldn’t do to let anyone know that he secretly sympathized with the very Hounds he was working with.

Chapter Text

With the increasing fear of rising Psychopass numbers, and the almost infectious way that those numbers could rise if too much time was spent around others who already had high numbers, it was deemed necessary to cycle out the Eigengrau guards on a regular basis.  This also lowered the chance of any men becoming compromised - because while the Hounds were known to be dangerous and manipulative, and also to be remorseless liars, people still fell to their charm from time to time, or their threats.  If a high-Pass agent ever escaped, it was almost always because they’d co-opted some guard.  So, by cycling different guards through regularly and just as often bringing in new recruits, the window of opportunity for the agents was smaller, the risk of them taking advantage of the guards lower.  

Hannibal Lecter always managed to manipulate guards and other Eigengrau employees by the dozens anyway.  And those he couldn’t manipulate, he slowly destroyed, mentally or physically.  The ocean was slow and patient, but everything bent before it - or broke - eventually.  It was a well-known fact that Hannibal Lecter was one of the leading causes of high Psychopasses in others.  

Of course, some people were more useful to him whole and sane.  Namely, the cooking staff, who had started letting him into the kitchens about half a year ago ago.

“One of these days I’m going to figure out why you get actual food while the rest of us get slop,” Agent 002 said from across Hannibal at the table.  When everyone looked at her - except Hannibal, who kept eating, but perhaps smiled a little - she raised her hands and defended, “Hey, I’m just calling ’em like I see ’em.  I’ve eaten worse than this-”  She indicated her own meal, then finished as she pointed to Hannibal’s, “-But I don’t think I’ve ever even seen food like that, and it sure as hell isn’t what the rest of us are eating.”

Inwardly, Hannibal thought that, given a choice, he would not even be eating at the same table as them, much less the same food.  Outwardly, though, he pretended not to hear, instead fabricating a smile like magic, seasoning it until it fit the atmosphere of the table.  When he directed it at Shaw, she narrowed her eyes, but otherwise didn’t react.  Out of all the high-Pass agents, Shaw was the least skilled at reading people, which was almost worthy of Hannibal’s pity.  “If the usual food here is not to your liking, then what do you like?  What is your favorite dish, if you could have anything in the world?”

Shaw seemed surprised at first, but then actually stopped to contemplate it.  Next to her, Reese had been obviously tensing in preparation to split up a fight, but when Shaw relaxed and looked towards the ceiling as if her memories were all flocked there, the other American Hound visibly backed down, too.  Hannibal rather wondered what it would have come to, if he’d decided to actually goad Shaw into attacking.  Shaw was a dangerous woman, even collared and locked up in Eigengrau.  They only had plastic utensils on hand right now, of course, but in all honesty, there wasn’t an agent in Eigengrau worth mentioning who couldn’t kill someone with a plastic spoon.  

John Reese had to be aware of this.  The salt-and-pepper-haired Hound barely looked up from his meal, and kept eating stoically, like a machine.  Like an animal.  In a vague sort of way, Hannibal appreciated the man because he was silent, but now he felt an ugly sort of anger rise up because Reese bent so easily to the power of Eigengrau all around them.  Reese was, in his own way, a very physically strong sheep, but nothing more.

“A Beatrice Lillie,” Shaw answered, smiling suddenly.  Hannibal drew his attention back to her, mentally checking to be sure his smile hadn’t faded or slipped, but no - it was still a perfect glaze atop the bones of his face.  “From Park’s Deli.  With pastrami, extra mustard, spicy and yellow.”  If nothing else, her face showed a laudable appreciation of her food, as her eyes grew distant and happy at the memory.  “Enough pepperoncinis to just about die from, but no mayo.”

“You have very particular tastes,” Hannibal observed.

“All served with a bag of chips.”

The smile got harder to hold in place, but Hannibal did his best, even as he fought the urge to curl his lip.  Particular tastes and refined tastes were not the same thing.  “Sometimes it’s the side dishes that bring out the true flavor of the main dish,” he responded with a nod, and while Shaw seemed to be too lost in her memories of food to be listening, everyone else was beginning to watch the exchange cautiously.  Especially 007.  Three days ago Hannibal had considered making an abattoir out of Q-branch to show what he thought of being injected with Smartblood.  It was already infuriating enough that these animals thought that they could collar him like a common cur, but to also inject something foreign under his skin to track him…  Hannibal had certainly killed people for less.

But the Quartermaster and his fellows had all been such singularly polite people that Hannibal ultimately decided that it would be a shame to destroy them all.  There were so few people who valued good manners nowadays…  And, of course, there was the peculiar fact that James Bond had taken the time to politely ask Hannibal not to murder the new Quartermaster.    

Of course, because Hannibal had spared the Quartermaster, that also meant that Agent 007 now owed Hannibal a favor, and that in and of itself was a rare treat.  While outwardly discussing Shaw’s favorite pastrami sandwich, Hannibal mentally amused himself with guessing the paths of 007’s mind - why he’d come to Hannibal, suspecting a bloodbath, why he’d taken the time to ask him to avert it, why he’d singled out the new Quartermaster in particular.  It was certainly more interesting than playing nice with Shaw.  Hannibal made a habit of studying people like most others studied bugs under lenses, and most motives were quite easy to parse out.  The first question, for example: it was easy to see why the blue-eyed agent had suspected that Hannibal was going to paint the walls red, because that was simply what Hannibal did.  It was in his nature, to kill those who were lesser, and those who dared attack him first.  While the true length and breadth of Hannibal’s crimes would probably never be discovered, what little was known was quite accurate, and just as Bond played fox-and-hound with the guards when he got bored, Hannibal killed people when they didn’t treat him with respect.  He culled the herd.  Weeded out the annoying and stupid and self-important.  

But why had Bond thought to stop him?  That was a more interesting question, because Hannibal didn’t really think 007 capable of particularly complicated emotions.  And when he’d approached Hannibal in one of the common rooms, bringing with him a glass of champagne (that was most certainly smuggled in) like a sort of olive branch, 007 hadn’t seemed particularly emotional.  He’d seemed… curious, perhaps.  

It had been decades since Hannibal had felt anything like real curiosity, and he missed it.  The champagne had also been very good.  Perhaps that was why he’d taken James’s delicately phrased request under advisement, instead of deciding then and there to spread Q’s ribcage open like a butterfly.

~^~

Days like these were the times Will missed his old home in Wolf Trap the most.  

The Machine of the United States and the Sybil System were not unlike twins separated at birth: by nature they were incredibly similar, but by nurture, intrinsically different.  So when Will had been forced to shoot a man back in the United States and had found himself unable to get over it, it looked increasingly likely that the Machine would begin to see him as a threat.  Insanity and dangerousness were often the same thing to the Machine nowadays.  There were no Psychopass numbers in the United States, but that just meant there was less forewarning before potential threats were arrested, so the FBI, instead of risking losing their best criminal profiler to the penal system, had requested that Will become part of the exchange program with the U.K.  Will had always thought that he was too standoffish and awkward to have real friends, but apparently he’d had more than he realized, because before his mental status could get him arrested in the United States, his records had been carefully doctored and he’d been shipped off overseas.  Considering Will’s (slightly edited) record as a profiler, he was readily accepted.

“You do a lot of good, Will,” Jack Crawford had said right before Will boarded the plane to Heathrow, bending to catch Will’s eye and ensure that his look of sincerity couldn’t be escaped.  Will hated eye-contact, but gave in to it just this once, as Jack squeezed his shoulder and finished quietly, “Now, go do good somewhere else, and try to feel better.  Think of it as a… working vacation.”

When Jack said ‘try to feel better,’ he probably meant coming to terms with the unavoidable murder of Garrett Hobbs.  Unfortunately, Will was pretty sure that that was only a symptom of the problem, which was Will’s uncanny ability to get into the head of anyone he came across.  A trip overseas wasn’t going to clear his head any, not in that sense.  

Now Will was facing his new job, a questionably prestigious position on the island of Eigengrau, and wishing he was back home in Wolf Trap, Virginia, with his dogs and his solitude and his fishing lures.  He’d realized pretty quickly that Jack’s two commands were impossible to fulfill at the same time (the very act of doing good as a profiler tended to make it hard to ‘feel better’), but since Jack had been so nice as to get him a job as a profiler in Britain, Will figured that he’d just have to do the best he could with the options he had.  Right now, on a boat to the infamous Eigengrau, he was heading to where theoretically he’d do a lot of good.  

And where he’d most likely struggle to keep hold of what sanity he still had, getting into the heads of some of the most insane criminals in the world.  

Will tried not to focus too closely on the men and women around him, all prospective guards for Eigengrau and abuzz with energy.  Everyone’s emotions were easy to guess, especially for someone like Will: fear, excitement, the righteous not-quite-anger that came with the knowledge that one was about to work with serial killers and other necessary evils.  Will had to focus hard on the chopping sound of the waves around the boat, the sting of the salty cold air, just to keep those second-hand emotions from swallowing him.  It felt like being surrounded by a foreign sea, and Will just happened to be a dangerously porous vessel.

When they docked and disembarked, Will heaved out a sigh that felt like a kind of vomiting, physically trying to eject all of the emotions that the close-quarters voyage had pushed into his skin.  Will hated crowds.  He’d met other people with a similar Ochlophobia, but he’d yet to meet anyone with reasons like his.  In fact, he’d never even heard of anyone who was so capable of empathizing with people around them that it was as if he was constantly in danger of becoming someone else.  That was why he only liked to deal with small numbers of people at a time (when he couldn’t be alone entirely) - in small numbers, it was easier to keep his defenses up, to remind himself where his boundaries began and ended, and realize when bits of other people were slipping into his thought processes.

“Feeling a little seasick there, Graham?” someone called, and Will - still bent over his knees, trying to ignore the crawling sensation of someone else’s anxiety under his skin - looked up and just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  The speaker was a young guardsman named McKenna, with his cronies around him, who had been entirely too interested in Will ever since the American’s arrival.  Interested in bothering him.

Will’s reclusive nature had always been an attractant for bullies, ever since childhood.  Of course, that had eventually been solved by Will avoiding bullies, by dint of avoiding people in general.  All in all, he was comfortable as a recluse, and what he probably resented most about this reassignment was that he’d been stuck almost constantly around people, and it was starting to seriously wear on him.  It was like being a white shirt tossed into a washing machine with a load full of colorful clothes - he could all but feel the other colors dyeing him, and he was always worried that those colors wouldn’t come out.  It didn’t help that he’d been stuck with McKenna and his fellows in particular, and rumors had started to multiply thanks to the chatty group:

“There’s something off about that Graham bloke.”

“Did you see him at that last crime scene?”

“Way too interested if you ask me - or, at least, entirely too accurate for my taste.”

“And they say his Psychopass is just fifty-four…?”

That last one was the phrase that really had Will worried.  Upon coming to the U.K., he’d gotten an official number, and there were secure sites that anyone could log into to get an update on their number just to see if they needed to start doing relaxing/nice things to correct an upward spike in their Psychopass.  At the time, Will did indeed have a Psychopass of fifty-four.  

But he heavily suspected that that wasn’t always the case, and he worried that some of his cohort was beginning the suspect the same.  Before being assigned to Eigengrau, he and his cohort had worked homicide for a few weeks, enough for McKenna and company to see that off-duty Will Graham and on-duty Will Graham were very different.  At the scene of a crime, Will was well aware that the better he did his job at profiling, the more honestly insane he seemed, even if he came back to his normal, shy, socially awkward self right afterward.  Mostly.

People’s Psychopasses did fluctuate, but usually it was like the level of a lake: it took a lot to get it to rise or fall significantly, and if/when it did, the progression was pretty easy to follow.  A body was water didn’t suddenly go from a meter to a mile deep overnight, not without some pretty obvious warning signs along the way - in other words, there were no surprises in Psychopasses, with the exception of extreme circumstances.  Experiences of extreme trauma could cause a Psychopass to jump dramatically, but that was akin to a sudden and unavoidable mental break.  What Will could do… was also remarkably similar to sudden and avoidable mental breaks.  Reversible sudden and avoidable mental breaks, thankfully, but that was one of the fears that kept him up at night.  It was entirely too easy to adopt bits and pieces of the personas he submerged himself in.  

“It’s like he gets right into the killers’ heads,” McKenna himself had whispered at one point, no doubt thinking that Will was out of hearing range, but Will had excellent hearing.  He’d kept pretending to be deaf, however, because what was he going to say?  ‘You don’t know how right you are’?  ‘I could get into your head, too, without even trying - I just really don’t want to’?

“All right, everybody,” came a low voice in a rolling accent that stood out, even to Will who was still getting used to hearing British accents instead of various American ones.  “Come queue up over here.  I’m sure you know the drill.  The dock is narrow, so don’t push.  Pulling you out of the drink will be just as unpleasant for the person drowning as for anyone who has to try and rescue their soggy self.”

Everyone’s head turned, and Will would have remained confused about the new accent had not he heard someone whistle and chuckle under their breath, “Just listen to those Welsh vowels.”  Will had enough military training to line up in an orderly fashion with the others, like soldiers awaiting marching orders.  He mostly watched his feet, fidgeting a little as his personal bubble was once again invaded by the people near him, but chanced a glance up at the person addressing him.  The fellow looked surprisingly young, with boyish features and neatly trimmed brown hair.  Counteracting the youthful, clean-shaven look was a suit and tie, looking pretty out of place with the wild waves on one side and the mountainous structure of Eigengrau on the other.  Will looked down again before his damnable empathy could start reaching for bits and pieces of what made this man who he was.  

“Now, someone will bring your luggage to you - your quarters have already been assigned,” the young man continued, his voice almost melodic as it rose and fell, reaching easily over the ambient noise of the water between them and the distant British shore.  “My name is Ianto Jones, and it'll be my pleasure to take you there, but first, a few warnings.  If you don’t know already, all collared individuals are high-Pass agents.  Do not interact with them.”  Ianto lowered his head a bit, so he was looked at everyone seriously from under raised brows.  He gave his last sentence a moment to sink in, before continuing, “Generally speaking, they don’t attack without being provoked.”

“And what if they do get rowdy without being provoked?”  This time Will did roll his eyes, just to himself, because of course that was McKenna asking that.  

Ianto may have looked young and green, but the look he turned towards McKenna’s part of the line was surprisingly level and steady.  When Will glanced up, interested despite himself, he could read a surprising level of self-assuredness in the look, like someone who had both feet firmly on the ground - and therefore was not easily swayed.  “That’s what Handlers are for.  Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to handle a high-Pass agent on your own - if they decide to cause trouble for you, you’ll want their Handler to…”  He paused a bit, as if to roll the word in his mouth for just a second, then seemed to grow years younger as he shrugged and finished guilelessly, “To, well, handle it.  If at all possible, Handlers should be the first responders to any Hound-related incident.  Always call for back-up.”

In theory, that sounded fantastic, but already Will wondered just how often that was actually possible.  For Will, though, it was a moot point - he was here as a profiler, not a guardsman and certainly not a Handler.  After shooting Hobbs, and honestly even before that, he’d been a rather abysmal shot, and according to Jack, all of Will’s letters of recommendation had stressed that his brain was far more useful than his gun-hand.  That wasn’t strictly true, but like the true depths of his terrifying empathy, Will kept some facts to himself.  Besides, the last thing he wanted was to be put in a position where violence was called for.  

They followed young Ianto Jones away from the boat and towards the looming presence of Eigengrau.  There were continued mutterings of how Mr. Jones looked too young and soft to even be on this island, but mostly silence descended as awe overtook those who had never seen Eigengrau before, and as a familiar sense of impending doom struck those who had survived shifts here before.  Will hunched his coat closer against the chill, damp weather and marvelled despite himself at the massive structure.  Under a sky of pewter-colored clouds, it looked like something alive, the whale that had swallowed Jonah.  This whale was harboring a lot more than random Biblical figures in its belly, however, and Will tried to keep a lid on his anxiety as Mr. Jones got them past security and into the maw of Eigengrau.  

~^~

Unsurprisingly, guardsmen shared quarters - three bunks per room, allowing for six guards to sleep there, which Mr. Jones had explained quite calmly was just in case a Hound ever decided to attack the guards directly.  It was harder for one agent to pick off six guardsmen at once.  

Someone asked, “What about two agents?”  

Ianto informed them that agents never worked together.  

Will was still stuck on the fact that Mr. Jones had called six-to-one odds harder and not impossible.  They actually hadn’t come across any high-Pass agents on their trek to the bunks, and it was hard even for Will to imagine any one individual capable of that much violence.  He’d seen a lot of ways in which one human being could kill another, but already it was clear that Eigengrau was on another level entirely.  

Will hated sharing sleeping-space.  For starters, he didn’t like company in general, and besides that, he had nightmares.  He’d had them for as long as he could remember - twisted, uncomfortable not-quite-memory dreams that came from absorbing too many external personalities - but they’d worsened after he’d been forced to shoot Garrett Hobbs.  Back at Wolf Trap, he’d gotten used to handling it: his many dogs were always good to wake up to, even if they couldn’t defend their master from his own subconscious, and there were plenty of towels to place on top of sweat-soaked sheet and a sweat-soaked body.  Will definitely resented his old boss a bit for removing him from that.  And to top it all off, it turned out that McKenna had been assigned as one of his roommates.

At least Eigengrau intended to keep Will busy, be it in the daytime, or when he was up at night, shaky and damp with fear-sweat and unable to get back to sleep: when everyone’s luggage arrived, Will’s sparse belongings came with an added bonus - a secure laptop containing the files on every Eigengrau agent.  “Oh joy, a bit of light reading,” Will murmured to himself after stiffly thanking the men who delivered the device.  While everyone else would be either sleeping or getting their marching orders, Will would be studying up on some of the most lethal men and women alive.

~^~

Getting Smartblood into the last of the high-Pass agents would have left Q feeling triumphant (moral ambiguities notwithstanding) had this task not also made him so busy that he hadn’t made any more headway on locating Sherlock.  Q felt like a failure.  True, the Holmses were not a particularly functional family, but Q liked to think that they were there for each other when it counted - yet here he was, in the very heart of Eigengrau for over two weeks now, and he hadn’t even seen the form he’d come to rescue.  

It didn’t help that Q’s last high-Pass agent to see was Agent 004 - the man he’d seen briefly in the hallway his first day in Eigengrau, and who turned out to be much creepier in person.  It had been shocking, really, how normal most Hounds appeared.  Shaw and Reese had both been rather obviously lacking in emotion, but Bond, Hart, and even the cannibal Hannibal Lecter had been downright charming for the most part.  Only Root had come close to being well and truly spine-chilling, but even that had been intermixed with moments of friendliness.  On a logical level, Q knew that it was only a ruse, a clever camouflage on the bodies of apex predators.  Only on Raoul Silva, though, did the monster beneath ooze through so obviously.  

Q had actually met the man just hours previously, while taking a late lunch right before the agent’s designated appointment.  Aware that agents had a nasty habit of being early, if only because this sometimes allowed them to duck their Handlers, the Quartermaster was eating hurriedly so that he could go back.  He’d been alone for once, Tanner and H having abandoned him to his workaholic tendencies and eaten earlier.  They were setting up for the Smartblood transfusion even now.  

“Ahhh, the famous Q!” an almost musical, low voice rang out from behind Q, nearly making the boffin spit out the tea he’d just sipped.  Unbothered, the man went on, “If I had but known, I’d have introduced myself when we first met.  How remiss of me.  You remember me, though, no?”

In his hurry, Q hadn’t really taken stock of the room when he’d entered - he’d gotten so used to eating with the rest of the crowd, with Tanner and H and sometimes Moneypenny, ignoring the room’s more dangerous occupants.  Now he turned around and found the agent he’d first walked by in the hallway looming over him, mouth stretched in an almost unsettlingly broad smile and tell-tale collar glinting past the open top button of his shirt.  Q felt his left hand twitch towards the watch on his other wrist - the watch capable of incapacitating or even killing an agent.  In all honesty, Q had forgotten that it was there most of the time, making it a particularly ineffective form of self-defense, but now the urge to use it was an almost physical tug on his fingertips.  There was just something about 004 that put ice down his back.  If nothing else, the man was the first high-Pass agent to ever leave his assigned table and come this close.  

Silva’s almond-shaped eyes were watching Q’s face, and suddenly the man laughed.  The noise was enough to make Q flinch.  “Oh my - did I scare you?” the man chuckled, expression sliding into something almost - but not quite - sympathetic.  “I assure you, that wasn’t my intention.”

“Wasn’t it?” Q asked back, but his voice sounded stilted and hollow.  He wasn't sure what to do, and could feel a trickle of sweat starting up between his shoulder-blades.  

“Of course not, boy.  What kind of man do you take me for?” was the seemingly offended response, ruined by another burst of chuckling.  Q was beginning to feel as though he was being played with, and as much as he didn’t like it, he couldn’t see a way out of it.  The tables had bench-seating, and Q was presently twisted around awkwardly, legs still under the table and Silva too close behind for Q to back out and get up properly.  Q wanted to turn around and scan the room for assistance, but the instinctive, animal part of his brain told him that if he took his eyes off a predator for so much as three seconds, that predator would attack.  Without turning his head, Q’s peripheral vision was really rather lamentable - still, with what he could see in his range of vision, the tables were empty, except for a few high-Pass agents across the room.  Obviously, they’d be no help, and Q mostly just hoped that they didn’t get it in their heads to join their tall, grinning compatriot.  Before dragging his eyes back up to Silva’s, Q’s eyes caught just momentarily on a familiar blond-haired head, and briefly he was met by watching, pale-blue eyes.  

Then Silva was taking up his attention again, folding his powerful arms behind his back.  Many of the agents, Q had noticed, preferred almost professional dress - again, more camouflage, he reasoned.  They looked like well-dressed men and women, and it made it easier to forget that they were really more akin to steel tigers in silk suits.  Silva was no different, although his present button-down and jacket did little to hide the breadth of his shoulders, or how his height had him towering over his sitting Quartermaster, despite his seemingly harmless posture.  “I just came over to say hello, I assure you.  After all, we’re soon to get to know each other more intimately, aren’t we?”

Startled and suddenly twice as uneasy as before, Q blinked and blurted, “What?” while trying to follow Silva’s line of thought.  

At first, 004’s expression remained neutral, playing at innocent, but then his mouth curled upwards and his eyes narrowed in a lecherous grin.  His words remained coated in a disarming sweetness, though, belying the poison in his eyes, “The Smartblood, Q.  Or had it skipped your mind, hmm?  There’s really no greater intimacy than that, in my humble opinion, and I’m looking forward to getting a feel for your work.”

Q would never have thought that someone could actually make a sexual innuendo out of his Smartblood, and he wasn’t sure whether to be appalled, sick, or just plain shocked.  As it was, he just sat there, still twisted around awkwardly in his seat with the food he’d eaten turning leaden in his stomach.  

“Well then, I suppose I’ll leave you to it then,” Silva dipped in a very shallow bow, still keeping his hands behind his back in a mockery of a military at-ease stance - still playing the gentleman, but clearly not playing it with any real intention of selling the role.  “You’ll see my name under your schedule as ‘Raoul Silva’,” he added, as if Q didn’t already, “Feel free to call me Raoul.  I’ll be seeing you soon.”  With a mocking little wave, Silva turned on his heel and glided out of the room, as cocky as a morning rooster.  Q was left sitting and shaking, unsure whether he was more angry or afraid - he’d just been toyed with like a mouse by a cat, and hadn’t even had it in him to do anything about it.  By now, he could see that guards were coming up from behind him, rounding the table hesitantly, so that was probably the only reason that Silva had left in the first place.  

Across the room, Bond put down his utensils, finished eating even though his plate was still half full.  As the guards stationed at the kitchen - newbies, still fresh to Eigengrau and slow to react - began crowding around Q and asking if he was all right, 007 slipped out of the mess hall in Silva’s wake.  

~^~

Chapter Text

“Mr. Q, are you feeling all right?” asked H, his usual professionalism softening to a tone of gentle concern.  

Q had just arrived at his branch, and had immediately taken a seat, plucked his glasses off, and given his eyes a good hard rub.  His heart was still pounding from running into Agent Silva, and it was like his entire digestive system was in knots.  “Nothing,” he started, talking into his palms, then added more reluctantly, “I ran into 004 at the mess hall.  Nothing happened, and he was polite, but apparently I’m not used to talking to high-Pass agents.”  It wasn’t the entire truth, but it was all he could think to say.  After all, Silva had been well behaved, at least in the most basic sense - and Q didn’t think that he could explain the bone-deep anxiety that he’d felt with the man smiling down on him like a bipedal viper.  

As of yet, Q hadn’t asked why H limped, but today the older man was moving around fairly well, and therefore shuffled up easily enough to put a hand on Q’s shoulder.  “Dealing with Hounds is never easy,” he said solemnly but kindly, “even with the best of them.”  H hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision.  There was no one near enough to eavesdrop, but H still spoke more cautiously than before, his voice not one to carry, “I’m sure that you’ve noticed how Mr. Reese and I work together?”

Q dropped his hands back to his lap, glancing up at H’s face without putting his glasses back on.  H was close enough that Q could read his expression even without his spectacles, a look of wariness mixed with something else on his professorial face.  Realizing he had to say something, Q admitted carefully, “I might have noticed that he responded very naturally to you.”

“Well, there was a time when I was as afraid of Mr. Reese as I am now of Miss Root,” H explained.  It called to mind the day when Root, 009, had come in - H had made himself as scarce as possible, but his fear had been transparent nonetheless.  Root had seemed to feed off it, all smiles and razor-sharp eyes.  “You quickly learn, though, that not all fear is bad - because while I still wouldn’t ever want to be in a room alone with Root, I’ve come to realize that despite his Psychopass, Reese is not ultimately a bad person, at least so far as I am concerned.”  H squeezed Q’s shoulder with one hand and reached out with the other to coax Q into putting his glasses back on, the gesture comfortingly paternal somehow.  “I’m not saying that you should trust Mr. Reese, but I am saying your job is to find out which agents you can trust, which you can tolerate, and which you should avoid at all costs.  You’ll find men and women for each of those categories, I assure you,” he said with a small, wry smile.  

The brief speech had Q relaxing a bit, if only because H’s calm was infectious, as was the tiniest glint of whimsy in H’s usually serious eyes.  However, just as Q smiled back, the door banged open, and two of the agents tentatively on Q’s ‘Avoid At All Costs’ list came in - escorted by at least eight guards.  Q stood instantly, unable to comprehend what he was seeing: James Bond and Raoul Silva, each handcuffed and clearly fresh from a fight.

Silva and James looked a bit worse for wear, but the latter was grinning, all bloodied teeth.  It was hard to tell if he’d cut his lip, or if the redness was just from his nose, which was dripping blood all the way down his chin.  Silva, whom Q had been expecting, did not appear to have come voluntarily - and he most certainly did not look as cock-sure and posh as he had back at the mess hall.  He had the start of a fresh bruise around his right eye, and Q could practically see it starting to swell, and his previously pristine button-down and jacket were rumpled.  James, if Q recalled correctly, had been wearing a shirt and jacket similar to Silva’s at lunch, but was lacking the latter article now - although he didn’t seem bothered by that.  When Silva snarled something at Bond, too low and animal for Q to discern, James just volleyed back blithely, “Oh, stop being such a pansy, Silva.  I barely even hit you.”

The guards immediately ganged up on the two high-Pass agents to enforce silence, and while Silva acquiesced with a snarl, James gave in with another easy (but thankfully close-lipped, reddened teeth disappearing) smile.  The latter agent caught Q’s eyes and the smile grew roguish, and Bond flashed the dark-haired boffin a wink.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Q belatedly demanded, recalling that he was in charge of this branch… and whatever chaos got dragged into it.  

“We caught these two trying to rip each other apart in the halls just down the east corridor,” the nearest guard explained.  With seven of his fellows holding the agents in place, he seemed to feel safe turning his attention to the Quartermaster.  The guard continued to obediently explain, “004’s Handler has been paged, but apparently she was scheduled to meet her agent here anyway at 4:00, so we brought him here.”

“And Bond?” Q asked tensely.  He felt like a cat that had been doused in water, and was struggling to stay fluffed up and threatening.  

In lieu of an immediate response, the guard Q was questioning  reached over, past the restraining arms of his fellows, and gripped Bond’s hair.  The agent bared his teeth again as his head was drawn back, revealing, Q saw, a heavily battered collar.  Around the collar and up and down Bond’s neck were bruises, some of them obviously hand-shaped.  “Silva damaged his collar,” the guardsman explained with only a modicum of interest, “He was probably trying to trigger the kill-mechanism and remove 007 permanently, but he didn’t manage it.  Still, the collar needs fixing, and that's your department now.”  

When he let go of Bond’s short blond hair, the agent dropped his head forward again with a grimace, but otherwise didn’t get too riled.  If anything, Q thought that the agent was taking this quite well, which urged him to ask slowly, “Do they do this often?”  He directed a finger between 004 and 007 in particular.  

It seemed that many of the guards didn’t know, as they exchanged glances and shrugged; Q didn’t recognize most of their faces, and recalled that a new batch had just come in.  The same fellow who had been speaking this whole time, however, answered without trouble, “Usually it’s Bond and Hart you have to watch out for.  I’m not sure why Silva attacked-”

“I didn’t attack him,” Silva interrupted, clearly furious, his voice a loud snarl.  He jerked against the hands restraining him again, and actually managed to drag the guards a half-pace closer to 007.  Q tensed, not only because of how intimidating Silva’s show of strength was, but because 007’s tolerantly playful eyes suddenly became as cold as freon and his smile froze in place.  “He attacked me,” Silva finished frustratedly, and the only reason Q believed him was because the big man looked so honestly confused - a look that Q didn’t think was normal for such a egotistical individual.  Silva was looking at Bond like 007 had just transformed into a serpent and no one else could see it.

For his part, 007 had put his devil-may-care mask back in place, the glimpse of merciless cold once again buried.  “Are you sure about that, Silva?  Seems you’re the one who tried to have me killed.”

“You filthy, lying-!”

“And here I thought you liked me.”

“I’m going to remove your head from your shoulders.”

“I guess the wedding’s off then?”

The banter devolved into Silva very nearly frothing with rage, and somewhere within the chaos that followed, Silva was strapped into the chair much as 007 had been for his own injection of Smartblood.  It took more than half the guards to do it, so it was perhaps fortunate that 007 was as mild as a lamb the whole time, allowing himself to be walked over to another chair.  This chair wasn’t nailed down, so the three guards looked a bit unsure what to do, and ultimately just ended up hooking a spare cuff through the chain between Bond’s cuffs and around the back of the aluminum chair.  James could still get up and run off, but he’d have to do it with his hands still behind his back and a chair as deadweight behind him.  Bond smiled at them as if they were waiters seating him at a restaurant, all the while Silva went absolutely animal in the background.  

A full ten minutes later and the two agents were situated, and the fury had finally burned itself out, more or less.  Silva’s panting was the only sound in the entire room, and a few of the newer guards were giving away just how green they were by the shaky, shocked looks on their faces.  All of the Q-branch denizens were subtly hiding, and even H had taken refuge behind a bank of computers.  Q found himself in the position of being the only non-military unit standing.  “Well then,” he said, trying to infuse some semblance of professionalism into the situation.  He straightened out his latest cardigan with a little tug.  “That was an absolute shitload of unnecessary excitement.”  Okay, maybe perfect professionalism was too much to ask for just now.  “I hope you’re both very proud of yourselves.”

Although Q had looked at both 004 and 007, he finished his statement focussing on the latter, letting his eyes weigh on him most heavily - making it clear that he knew who the true culprit was.  In response, all Bond did was grin broadly, as pleased with himself as a devil on God’s throne.  “As a peacock,” Bond shamelessly replied.  

Resisting the urge to either roll his eyes or just skip right to banging his head against a wall, Q turned back to Silva.  004 had apparently seen Q’s particular focus on James as the guilty party and, unexpectedly, that seemed to have softened his mood significantly.  The large, pale-haired man relaxed a bit and even managed an ingratiating smile of his own.  “I suppose this means you’ll pencil me in early?” Silva dared to ask.  

Q sighed, then turned to H and beckoned for the Smartblood.  “One of these days I’ll actually do this with a Handler present, and everything will go smoothly,” he muttered to himself.  No one responded, and a few of the guards even looked a bit sorry for him.  Everyone got out of his way, however, as he moved between tables and consoles, ultimately approaching Silva after he realised he couldn’t stall any longer.  Fortunately, the stalling had given him time to collect his nerve again, and he had to admit - Agent Silva was much easier to face when his every limb was restrained and his right eye was swelling shut.  007 clearly had a mean left hook.  

“So,” Silva started making conversation as Q slipped the ampule of nanites into its slot, “aren’t you going to tell me about your clever little invention, Q dear?  James may have crashed the party, but I’m still very interested.”

Oh, Silva looked interested all right, but Q didn’t really think it was in the Smartblood.  The man’s gaze was like a physical touch, and it skated up and down Q’s frame when the young man came close to do his work.  

“Don’t let him butter you up, Q,” James called from across the room.  Silva’s ingratiating look immediately became an eviscerating glare against which Bond appeared utterly immune.  “He just wants to be the only agent in Eigengrau running around without Smartblood.”

“Don’t pretend to know my intentions,” Silva snapped.  When the guards began to get restless again, however, the big agent subsided with a stymied look.  Surprisingly, 007 let the conversation drop, too, though Q wasn’t really sure why - the three men guarding 007 hadn’t made any moves towards him because Bond was at least acting calm, so conceivably 007 could have retorted with impunity.  And yet, the moment Silva shut his mouth, James subsided as well with a small, Cheshire smile.  

Silva tried to chat up Q a few more times, but James kept interrupting.  

Q-branch’s main door opened again, and Q was too busy refereeing James and Silva’s latest verbal joust to look.  He heard H greet, however, “Hello, Ms. Severine.  We’ll have your agent back to you in just a moment.”  If this was Silva’s Handler, then in Q’s opinion she already had a lot to answer for, but H was treating her with surprising kindness - almost gently.  She’d failed to keep her agent in check twice so far (once in the mess hall and once in the corridors with James), but H didn’t sound chastising.  

Q understood why a moment later when he glanced back, taking in a clearly stressed but devastatingly gorgeous woman (tanned skin, mink-brown hair, accented with dark lipstick and eyeliner, and a body full of curves that Q would have appreciated more if he were straight).  There was something harried in her eyes, and, at first, Q thought that hers was the face of a woman who’d just been told that she’d failed at her one and only job: babysitting a high-Pass agent.  However, that spark in her eyes flared to something that was almost fear the second Silva spoke.  “Ahhh, meu docinho,” 004 practically purred, the voice raising the hairs on Q’s nape instantly, “How nice of you to show up.  This will save me the trouble of hunting you down.”

The unnecessary emphasis on ‘hunting you down’ made Silva’s Handler freeze in place, and suddenly all of the usual safety checks for the Smartblood seemed inconsequential.  Q hit the ‘inject’ button without further hesitation, turning and stalking away as Silva roared in surprised pain.  He tried to hide his own thunderously angry expression by working on the nearest computer, ostensibly to check the Smartblood readings like he always did, but then he realized that 007 had been ensconced nearby.  Q tried to ignore the blue-eyed man, sitting closely to his left, although he could tell the man was silently watching him.  “Mr. Silva is free to go,” Q stated coldly, and found that his next words spun themselves almost magically out of thin air once he started talking, “Since he’s suspected of trying to murder 007, I’d recommend putting him away for a while, if only to prevent more violence.  I presume that’s protocol when a high-Pass agent gets violent?”

While Silva stared at Q in shock, as if he hadn’t expected the skinny boffin to suddenly grow a spine, the guards started mumbling explanations.  Q ignored them, letting his eyes - which were apparently quite forceful - do the talking, and soon the mumbles had a distinctly compliant ring to them.  “Good.  Remove him, please.  Ms. Severine, if you’d stay a moment, I’d like to show you how the Smartblood works.  I’m sure the guards can handle your agent a moment longer,” Q softened his tone as a little as he addressed the woman.  He did his best to give all Handlers a quick tutorial on the system, should they need to access stats about their agents, but to be honest, usually he didn’t stress the need for such a talk - he’d be monitoring all the agents anyway, and Hannibal and James didn’t even have Handlers at the moment.  But right now, he had the strong urge to keep Silva and his Handler apart a bit longer.  

Ms. Severine looked between Q and her agent for a moment, but when the guards blocked her view (surrounding Silva to get him safely unlocked from the chair), her attention turned back to the former and her willowy body seemed to relax.  She nodded, and for the next twenty minutes, stood silently and attentively by Q’s side as he briefed her.  Q wasn’t sure if he liked her or not - she had a pleasant, smoky voice with an exotic accent he couldn’t place, but didn’t reveal much about herself when she talked - but he sure as hell pitied her.  

Eventually she left, saying she’d just gotten a page - her agent was in Holding, a location where Hounds were left to cool their heels after violent incidents.  Only after the woman had sashayed away (Q could just imagine Silva’s eyes on her, eating up that hip-swaying walk, and it made the boffin sick to think about it) did the Quartermaster take a deep breath, cross his arms, and turn to 007.  There were only two guards left in the room, and they jumped a bit at the realization that they weren’t invisible anymore, but James merely pasted on a charming smile and tipped one elegantly shod foot back and forth.  “You,” Q said, accusing.

“Me,” James acknowledged, cheekily.  God, Q wanted to murder him.  

“If I dismiss these two nice guards, will you behave?” Q asked.  The guards immediately exchanged looks, flummoxed and perhaps worried.

007’s arctic-blue eyes danced with interest, and his smile turned a bit more introspective.  He actually seemed to think about it a moment, cocking his head to one side and regarding Q with clear interest.  “Will this collar accidentally kill me while you’re fixing it?” James asked cannily, tipping his head back to give Q another look at the battered piece of metal (Silva had really done a number on it), and also the strong, tanned column of Bond’s bruised throat.

“I have no interest in killing you, if that’s what you’re asking,” Q said truthfully, candidly, his earlier, impulsive thoughts notwithstanding.  “But these guards have better things to do with their time than get in my way while I work, so I’d much prefer your word that you’ll not give me any trouble in their absence.”

“I can’t tell if you’re brave or stupid,” said one of the guards unexpectedly, and Q gave the man a peevish look for interrupting.  He looked back down at the sound of Bond’s low chuckle, which was a beautiful and dark sound.  

“Done.  If you’re willing to make a deal with the devil, the least the devil can do is honor it,” 007 said with the same smile the snake in Eden had probably worn.  It was almost scarier than all of the stories of Hannibal’s cannibalism, and the only thing that kept Q from changing his mind and saying ‘NOPE’ to all of this was the undeniable look of curiosity in James’s eyes.  

Right now, Q was depending upon that curiosity, because he had a feeling that James wouldn’t hurt him so long as the agent still had more questions than answers about his new Quartermaster.  

A compromise was reached - the guards went to stand against the wall, out of the way but within range of sight.  They kept glancing back as if expecting James to leap upon Q the second they were out of arm’s reach, but all 007 did was slouch more comfortably against the chair, shifting his weight as he readjusted his bound hands behind him.  Blue eyes flickered from the guards, to H (whose eyes Q was avoiding, because he knew that practical little man was staring at him in blank horror), and ultimately back to Q.  Pretending not to notice the scrutiny, Q murmured, “Let me get my tools,” and surreptitiously watched to see if James would try to enact any kind of escape while no one was watching him.  Again, nothing.  James seemed supremely comfortable for a bruised man in handcuffs.  

Box of tools settled on the floor next to him, Q dragged up a chair facing the agent, determined to do three things: his job, obviously - keep his cool - and get a few answers out of this man.  “Let me get a look at the damage,” Q requested, holding his breath even as the agent complied with a whimsical little smile.  The truly terrifying part was leaning in close, reaching his own hands towards the damaged torc, and realizing that he could smell 007’s aftershave and feel some of his radiant body heat.  Q had one knee slipped in between Bond’s legs, to get close enough to work, and he didn’t notice until their thighs briefly brushed.  James’s mouth kicked up on one side, his only acknowledgement of the contact, while Q fought an involuntary blush.  “So Agent Silva just came out of the blue and did this to you, eh?” Q asked in a dry and disbelieving tone, “Damage like this takes a lot of rage.  Do you have any idea what you might have done to make Silva so spectacularly angry with you?”

“I’m told I have an infuriating personality.”

Q huffed, amused despite himself.  “I won’t argue with you on that.  Stop it-”  James had started lowering his head, no doubt to get a better look at Q’s expression, or to get on more even footing; Q nudged his chin back up.  “-I’m still working.  You got yourself into this mess, and I can only get you out of it if you let me.”

“I thought you and I agreed that Silva got me into this mess, by shamelessly attacking me without provocation,” James teased.  He sounded entirely amused, but did indeed bare his neck again.  Something about the easy vulnerability of it made Q shiver.  

This time Q snorted an indelicate laugh while slowly turning the collar for a better look at its entire circumference.  “If anyone believes that,” Q muttered, already getting distracted by work, “then they must know you even less than I do, and I’ve only been here since the first of the month.  H, do we have the authority to remove these collars?” Q switched his focus and called past Bond’s shoulder, “I know we have the means, and I’m not going to be able to fix this while it’s still around his neck.”

H’s eyes were narrowed.  “I don’t know if that’s wise.”

“Wise or not, it’s necessary.  Silva didn’t set off any of the collar’s offensive mechanisms, but only barely, and I don’t want to risk triggering them myself.”  Q kept his attention on H even as 007’s head lowered, once again fixing Q with the full force of his intense and quiet scrutiny.  That somehow made the rest of Bond ten times more real, a mass of muscle and bone within touching distance, only held in check by two sets of handcuffs and a flimsy promise.  He suddenly wished he’d read James’s file in more depth.  

Still not happy, H nonetheless said that he’d contact M, making sure they had the go-ahead.  Q, meanwhile, sat back with a sigh and waited.  James’s interested gaze immediately caught him.  “When you say ‘we have the means,’ you really mean you, don’t you?” he asked unexpectedly in a soft murmur.

Q tried not to look surprised, but he couldn’t help glancing around to see if anyone else had heard the accusation.  James had been quiet, though, and no one else was within hearing range.  Folding his hands primly in his lap, Q tried to look nonchalant and probably failed.  “I can’t discuss that with you.”

“Not even a little bit?” James pressed, all charm again.  He nudged Q’s ankle with the toe of his shoe, the sensation not unlike the playful butt of a cat’s head against Q’s trouser-leg.  

“I’m pretty sure that sharing information like that would get me fired.  Besides, you seem to get around your collar often enough anyway.”

“Maybe, but I can’t get if off,” James countered, for the first time sounding frustrated.  He controlled it quickly, though, after just a brief frown.

And that led to the first question still burning in Q’s mind, as it had been ever since he’d run into Bond in the computer lab.  The Quartermaster leaned forward over his knees, furrowing his brows and watching as James did the same, suspicious now.  “Tell me,” Q asked, keeping his own voice low so as not to carry, “Did you disable your collar because you were bored, or just to prove that you could do it?”

It was clear by the flash of Bond’s eyes that he immediately knew what Q was talking about.  Unfortunately, instead of giving a straight answer, he cast Q a shit-eating grin and replied, “Por qué no las dos?”

“You’re infuriating.  I can’t believe I didn’t just turn you in immediately that night.”

Disconcertingly, James immediately replied, “The feeling’s mutual.”

Q realized that he’d backed himself into a corner with this conversation, without really learning much, so he pursed his lips and changed tactics.  “Fine, touche.  How about why you attacked Silva then?  Another case of boredom and proving a point?”  

This time, James shifted his weight a little, and then slowly sat up from his slouch.  His hands were still behind his back, but just like Silva’s posture back at lunch, all that seemed to do was make his shoulders look broader, his chest more pronounced with its spots of blood drying a darker color on the white material.  Q had nearly forgotten about Bond’s bloody nose, the flow of red having stopped and dried and flaked, but now as the agent smiled crookedly from a closer distance, Q was mesmerized by the trail of rusty red smudged across the man’s mouth and chin.  James seemed significantly larger and taller when he wasn’t slouching.  “Would you rather I let him come in here, alone, as he'd planned?” Bond asked in a low, smooth murmur.  When Q’s eyebrows jumped upward in surprise, 007’s smile just got more lopsided and wry, and he finished, “I’m not a good man, Q - but I’m not the worst one in here.”

Before Q could respond, or demand to know what the bloody hell 007 meant by that, H called out from his computer console, “M replied.  We’re good to go, if you still insist on taking 007’s collar off.  We’ve been requested to restrain him a little bit better first, however.”  

“I… uh… of course,” Q stuttered, still off-balance.  He almost forgot to move, only realizing at the last minute that his and 007’s legs were close enough together that his were probably in danger of being cuffed along with Bond’s.  He hadn’t noticed that he was sitting quite that close, and only once he stood up and backed off did his stomach do an unsettled lurch.  He’d been all but in the lap of a man with a kill list as long as Q’s arm.  

Q managed to pull himself out of his own morbid, slightly horrified thoughts in time to see James tensing up, facing the oncoming guards and increased restraints with a look like a growing storm.  “Your word, 007,” he reminded sharply.  At first, he wasn’t sure he was in time - promise to behave or no, James was clearly tensing for a fight, having strong instincts against being overpowered.  Q couldn’t really blame him.  If he’d spent the past few years of his life not only locked up but also collared with a device that could kill or incapacitate him, his every move now monitored, Q would have fought for every ounce of autonomy he could get.  

Fortunately, at Q’s sharp tone - which had risen in pitch, embarrassingly, but at least hadn’t cracked - Bond’s eyes flashed Q’s way and he arrested his motions.  His eyes were like a winter sky, dispassionate and cold, unsettlingly so, but his frown was real enough as he took Q’s words into consideration and then visibly forced himself to relax.  The two guards moved in and swiftly, efficiently cuffed Bond’s ankles to the chair-legs.  He could probably still get free of those, if he tipped the chair over, but hopefully Bond’s promise to not commit violence would be enough.  

H came over with a small device that looked like nothing so much as a thumb-drive.  “This is the electronic key for the collars, one of three in Eigengrau.  You plug it into a computer like any other flashdrive, and it prompts you to enter the necessary access codes.  M remotely entered his, and I coded it for 007’s collar in particular.  Now, just putting it in close proximity should disarm and open the collar.”  He handed it over to Q reluctantly.  “It’s only good for one use, and then you have to plug it in and repeat the process.  It’s inefficient by design.”

Q took it, looking at how innocuous and simple the object appeared.  Then he guessed, “And you’re also going to tell me that you still think that this is a bad idea?”

Watching 007 and not Q, his expression shuttered, H murmured back, “I don’t think it needs repeating.”  However, he then added, tone going grave, “I witnessed 007 kill his last Handler, Mr. Q.  Ms. Lynd had been told the same story that Tanner told you, that 007 sleeps with women and kills men, but it’s not that simple, and it’s definitely not that sexist.  007 is, simply put, unpredictable.  I still don’t know why he turned so suddenly on Ms. Lynd, but I’ve certainly never seen him regret it.”  

That new information added another layer to 007, and Q’s hand tightened spasmodically around the little unlocking device.  The guards were backing away again, assured that 007 was as secure as they could make him.  “Oddly enough,” Q said to H, a bit breathlessly, “that doesn’t make me any more scared of him than I already was.”  And with that, Q strode forward, unlocking device in hand and his heart lodged suffocatingly high in his throat.  

An unsettlingly steady pair of blue eyes watched him, and it felt a lot like approaching a poised bird of prey.  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Q felt driven to say, as he inspected the collar, seeing a point at its back where the metal seemed fused - closer inspection showed a complicated, locked grid, like many geared teeth clenched together.  Short of a chainsaw, there would be no way to get out of a collar like this without the key Q held.  

“That’s good to know,” James tossed back offhandedly, but with an undercurrent of menace that was as subtle as sarin gas, “because people have tried that before, and generally not lived long enough to regret it.  I’d hate to add you to the list.”  

Q shivered, but he had the guts to grip the collar very carefully in one hand.  He noticed that James turned his head, but was watching Q’s wrist most of all - the wrist with the watch on it, with its dangerous little buttons.  If Q made a move towards those buttons, there was no doubt that James would react.  “I’m not sure whether I find that comforting or not,” Q admitted a bit shakily.  

Bond grunted, perhaps accepting that the line between advice and threat was a bit grey in this case.  The agent let out a little breath as if surprised, however, when Q touched the electronic key to Bond’s collar and the metal unlatched with an audible click.  Q removed it and was met by Bond’s suspicious and questioning eyes as he walked away with the device.  Meeting that gaze, Q said simply, “If I said I was going to fix this, then that’s what I intend to do.  There’s no subtext.”

“There’s always subtext,” James argued, eyes and voice becoming dark and jaded with knowledge.  

Considering what 007 had caught him doing during their first meeting, perhaps James was right.  Q tried not to look guilty or suspicious, even as he chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, regarding the collar in his hands.  It was dented and even slightly bent in places, and looking back, Q could see where it had dug into James’s neck.  “Perhaps you’re right, but not everything beneath the surface is a threat to you,” he argued, and dearly hoped that that subtext would get through to James.  Because yes, as 007 suspected, there was more to Q that met the eye - but it wouldn’t affect the agent, and therefore didn’t make Q the enemy.  

Perhaps it worked, because 007 didn’t say anything more.  He stretched his neck a little bit, grimacing as he no doubt felt the many bruises, but ultimately he seemed to relax when he realized that the metal loop was gone for now.  Q wondered what that felt like - to be rid of a collar you’d worn for years.  When was the last time James had had it removed?  Lost in those thoughts, troubled by them, Q bent to work, dragging his tools away from James and over to the nearest workbench.  It was only a few metres away from the restrained agent, and Q was soon too absorbed in his work to realize that the agent watched him keenly the entire time.  

H, across the way, looked worried.  

Of course, everyone got worried when alarms suddenly started going off.  They sounded different from the first time, but Q hadn’t familiarized himself with all of the alarms.  Still working on Bond’s collar, removing the broken pieces and triaging the damage, Q looked up, demanding, “What’s going on?”

In answer, a voice sounded like magic through the building-wide intercom: “There has been an incident in the West Wing, Section 5.  All Handlers are to secure their agents, call in with their positions, and await further instructions there.  Unattached agents are to be detained, by force if necessary.”  James looked temporarily nervous, but apparently everyone there thought he was detained enough - one of the guards called it in while the intercom kept broadcasting in harsh, tinny tones.  “Mr. Will Graham, report to the West Wing, Section 5, maintenance room 2, immediately.  Should anyone see Agent 003, he is to be detained at all costs and treated as a threat.”

“003, that’s…?”  Q recalled, his brain a bit slow after all of the excitement of the day, this new, amorphous danger scrambling his thoughts.

“Hannibal,” James supplied grimly.  

“He doesn’t have a Handler,” Q recalled.  “Is that why?”

“They’re singling him out in particular?” H interrupted unexpectedly.  If anything, his voice was more solemn than 007’s, and everyone turned to look at the sparse little man.  Unflinchingly, H finished, “No, I rather doubt that.  If they’re sending out orders like this and warnings as well, then it means that Agent 003 has most likely done something.  Something horrible.”  

Chapter Text

~^~

Two days.  Two days were all Will had got before they’d found a crime-scene for him to look at.  Those two days had barely been enough to plough through the files for the most dangerous of the high-Pass agents, and it felt like his brain was on fire, overworked, and crammed full of information that he’d sooner have cremated than remembered.  

“This is Captain Connor White.  Or was…” someone explained to Will, as the profiler stepped into maintenance room 2 and fixed his eyes on what was left of Captain White.  “He was one of our chopper pilots.  Damn, people are going to miss him.  He wasn’t friendly or anything, but he was a decent poker player in his downtime.”  There were other forensic experts flitting about the room, but Will’s mind was already unwillingly locking on the details: the room was large for a maintenance room, and seemed larger with everything pushed against the walls, leaving the body of a middle-aged, balding man prominently in the middle.  “We always keep five pilots on staff - enough to fly every chopper if necessary, but not enough loose hands running around for uppity agents to target.  The higher-ups are going to have to scramble to fill the gap now, with White gone.”  There was blood everywhere, and White’s bare chest revealed that his torso was split cleanly from throat to belt.  Gutted.  “Your paperwork says that you specialize in this sort of thing, that you’re a prodigy at crime scenes or something.”

“I’m a profiler,” Will finally responded, padding a bit closer, careful not to disrupt or touch anything.  His stomach did a little flip, something between fear and sick anticipation taking hold of him as his damned brain began to suck in details greedily.  “I learn about the killer by looking at their work.”

“Well, sorry to break it to you, but this is more a courtesy call than anything else,” the other man replied, and only then did Will drag his attention away from the corpse to stare at his companion, confused.  The speaker was another guard, but he was dressed a bit finer, carried himself with more authority.  Someone higher up the food-chain, then.  

“I beg your pardon?” Will blinked, frowned.  

The guardsman tipped a stubbled chin towards the corpse and said easily, “One of our guys beat you here and already took a peek inside the body - there’s nothing in there.  The killer took the organs, and we’ve only got one guy in this place with that kind of signature.”  The guardsman’s pager beeped, and he pulled it close to his face to read something on it, then smiled grimly, “And the kitchen just confirmed it.”

“Confirmed what?” Will asked, growing suspicious.  He had a feeling where this was going - but he also had a profile building like a monster in his head that was pulling him in another direction.

“They found the captain’s missing organs in the kitchen.  Now, maybe lots of high-Pass agents would gut a man, but there’s only one who’d take those innards to the kitchen like they were prime cuts for eating,” the guardsman explained, belatedly starting to look a bit queasy.  Anyone within hearing range of his brassy voice was looking green, too.  Still, his voice was jadedly triumphant as he concluded, “003.  Hannibal the Cannibal.  Heaven Almighty, I hope they finally put him down for this one.  I don’t care how useful he is.”

“You might want to rethink that,” Will said, recalling a beat late, “sir.”  Uncomfortable with the social situation, Will blinked rapidly and turned his attention back to the corpse, beginning to release the white-knuckled control he kept on his thoughts.  Like some sort of tentacled creature, he felt his mind instantly start reaching out, touching, grabbing.  “Because Hannibal didn’t do this.”

The guard escorting Will scoffed.  “Oh really?  How’d you figure.”

“Well, for starters, this line is too ragged, too imprecise,” Will crouched down by the body, pointing towards the eviscerating cut without touching it.  He felt his mind sidle up close to the facts, subsuming them.  ‘You are what you eat.’  As Will Graham began to slip away, suddenly, the sight before him wasn’t grotesque anymore.  He was vaguely aware that he was still speaking.  “All of Hannibal’s files showed great precision, and that he’s practiced medicine, so he has a skill with knives and an understanding of the body that he hasn’t let slide over the years.  That’s not what I’m seeing here.”  Will’s brain finally fully engaged, and it was like a flim was peeled off his eyes, revealing everything more clearly.  He backed up the scene in his head, staring fixedly as he imagined the blood cascading back into the body, revealing tanned skin beneath, thick body-hair.  Ah.  Bruises around the throat, no longer hidden by the smears of blood…

The more Will watched, the more relaxed he became, a seasoned calm above a mass of adrenaline, like a seagull above a dark sea.  “I’ve killed before,” he heard himself say, calm.  He can feel it now, imagine it.  The doorknob beneath his gloved hand, the image of Captain White entering just ahead of him.  “I manipulated Captain White to get him here; the location, the timing, was important to me.  Captain White never saw my face, though.  He never saw me at all.”  The seagull-above-the-sea sensation was tested as Will felt a surge of adrenaline, a rush of viciousness that made his mouth carve out a smile.  White was in front of him, back turned, just a bit shorter than him - the perfect height to hook an arm around his throat.  The movement felt easy and natural.  “I suffocated him to death, a practiced, professional move.  I try to stay in practice, which is easier to do than you might imagine.  Captain White is a heavy man, but easy to control after I’ve locked my arms around his head and throat.”  Will counted his own heartbeats, knowing how long he had to hold the suffocating arm-lock after the captain stopped moving.  He counted the beats like steps on a path, walking from consciousness, to unconsciousness, to death.  

“Efficiency is most important to me.”  In the pseudo-memory, Will lowered the body quickly, not so much cushioning its fall as guiding it to the ground without wasting time or making undue noise.  “I’m not compassionate. This is a task.  No… a job.”  That sounded more right in Will’s mouth, and he ran a tongue across his teeth before nodding and moving on.  He felt the weight of a combat knife in his hand.  “But I’ve never gutted a man before - not outside the heat of the moment, at least.  I’ve seen combat.  I’ve killed in ways that even I can’t remember.”  Will took a deep breath, let it out, as the killer had done.  He sank deeper into that very same killer.  He felt how the knife made quick work of the captain’s clothing, parting cloth to get at flesh, although the work after that was harder.  “I’m not squeamish, but this isn’t how I’d make a kill-”

A hand clamping on Will’s shoulder dragged him back to reality so fast that he felt whiplash, and it was like being hurled off a rollercoaster.  He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut against the sudden vertigo.  The sensation of shedding the killer was like sloughing off a second skin, leaving him feeling naked and raw underneath it.  

The same guard who’d so blithely discussed the crime scene just moments before - or had it been hours? - now looked parchment white and was holding Will at arm’s-length as if he might be contagious.  “What the bloody hell was that?” the man gasped.

Now that he was back to himself again, Will felt like he was going to be sick.  He had a high tolerance for gore, blood, and death simply from being in law enforcement for so long, but that was different than spending time in a killer’s head.  This killer had tenfold the tolerance that Will did, but now that the afterimage of that callousness wasn’t protecting him, Will had room to be horrified by the impressions still left in his head.  “Sorry - sorry,” he gasped, off-balance and starting to shake.  He looked at Captain White again and saw him whole, bloodless - until the skin of his belly peeled back magically like a chrysalis opening, and his intestines began to slither out of their own accord.  Will lurched clumsily to his feet even as the hallucination faded, leaving a bloodied, cooling corpse once again.  

“I’m all right,” he gasped as the guardsman’s hand tightened on his shoulder, and it was a pleasant surprise when the man let go.  Will reflected that this was one of the worst episodes he’d had in awhile; usually, when he put himself in the killer’s shoes, the scene played itself out in his head, but he wasn’t an active player.  Judging by everyone’s reactions, however, Will had been talking aloud.  It was a miracle that he wasn’t being arrested right now.  “I was…  That’s just how I work.”

“Talking about how you killed someone?” the guardsman asked, dumbfounded and obviously disturbed.

“No!”  Will shook his head emphatically, then rubbed at his temple.  Damn, but his head hurt now.  It felt exactly as if he’d just stuffed a whole new person’s-worth of thought into his head, and now it was too crowded inside his skull.  It got worse every time Will did this.  Grimacing in frustration, Will squeezed his eyes shut against the pressure-headache and tried to make himself understood, “This isn’t how I could kill someone - this is how your killer actually murdered Captain White.”  He admitted, grudgingly, “Maybe I’m wrong on a few details, but I can tell you one thing.  Your agent, Hannibal Lecter, didn’t do this.”

“The young man is quite correct.”

Everyone but Will spun at the sound of the voice, and there was a brief eruption of shouting and even the sounds of guns being drawn.  Will, his knees just about to buckle from the pain in his head, was slower to react, but at least the sudden hubbub hid the small whimper of pain he couldn’t contain.  The emotional dissonance wasn’t helping, either, and he fought the simultaneous urges to laugh and to vomit.  He could still feel the detached surge of adrenalin, of excitement, as he… no, as the killer… stalked up behind the captain and took him down before he could even know what hit him.  It was enough to make Will want to crawl into his bed and not leave it for days.  Therefore, it was only after a moment that Will lifted his head, focusing clumsily in the direction everyone else was looking, while at the same time being meticulously careful not to make eye-contact with anyone.  Eye-contact was the quickest way to kick his empathy into high-gear again, and right now, that sounded like torture.  

So, without meeting any eyes, Will glanced over to see a new figure standing in the doorway.  The man was dressed in a sweater, a dark gold color that reminded Will of beaten gold and old wheat, wrapped around a powerful body that was not dissimilar to the build of most of the guardsmen, but still stood out somehow.  Even without meeting the man’s eyes, Will’s raw empathy was still reaching out, touching, consuming.  He could read by the man’s posture more than by his dress that he wasn’t military, but was still dangerous.  Curious now despite himself, Will looked a bit more in quick snatches, seeing a calm, weathered face with prominent cheekbones, deep-set, almost sleepy-looking eyes, and a mouth with a full upper lip and a not-quite-smile twitching at the edges, all beneath ash-blond hair a few shades lighter than the sweater.  

Will knew that this was Hannibal even before he took in the guards flanking him, or by how everyone else in the room looked just about ready to shit themselves.  

“What’s he doing here?!” the guardsman who’d been Will’s guide (babysitter was probably a more accurate term) barked, looking to the three younger guards who had come in with Hannibal.  “You were under orders to locate him and lock him up, not escort him right back to the scene of his own crime!”

Despite the heavy tension in the room, Hannibal appeared unflustered.  Will watched discreetly as the man’s head turned in a slight, clearly purposeful motion, making Will’s babysitter the center of his calm attention.  It was like watching a whetstone sliding down a knife, Will thought, something in him stirring.  He recalled blood on his hands again, warm from the inside of the body-cavity, slick and dark and smooth.  Drawing in a shaky breath, he tried and failed to dispel the sensation entirely, almost missing it as Hannibal spoke, his voice incredibly cultured and wrapped in an accent that was like smooth river stones beneath old velvet, “I believe you are mistaken.  As your Mr. …?”  

Those eyes moved to Will, and it took the profiler a second to realize that yes, that had been a question; yes, it had been directed at him; and yes, he had some vague idea what answer Hannibal was looking for.  “Uh… Wi-Will Graham,” he stuttered out.  Head still pounding, he rubbed at his upper left arm distractedly, still trying to shake off the sensation of wrapping it around a vulnerable throat and crushing.

Hannibal smiled, a remarkably small yet cheery expression.  Very formally, the man dipped his head, the movement once again striking Will as supremely controlled.  Everything about Hannibal was controlled.  Will looked away sharply, realizing that he’d been looking back into tawny eyes, and starting to hyper-empathize again.  “Thank you,” he heard Hannibal say sincerely, while Will looked down at his shoes.  He was grateful when the conversation turned away from him again, “As your Mr. Graham has already deduced, I had nothing to do with this atrocity.  I merely convinced these nice men and woman-”  The guards with Hannibal included one young woman and two men, all looking very nervous now, and shocked, as if they couldn’t believe, in retrospect, why they’d agreed to do this.  “-To let me come and clear my name.  Misunderstandings get more tedious the longer they are left to fester.”

“I don’t think this is a misunderstanding,” the head guard stated stalwartly, and Will glanced at the man a bit uneasily.  There was violence in the air.  It wasn’t that Will was necessarily afraid of violence, but right now, he had a killer still wrapped up like a snake in the back of his skull, and he was afraid of letting it strike.  He felt again the easy choke-hold, the smooth confidence in his body, and was momentarily, irrationally frustrated that he was shorter than he should be…  Will lifted a hand to rub hard at his eyes while the guardsman continued talking, “I think that this is all about you and your ego, returning to see your crime.  You like reliving it, you sick bastard.”

“I assure you, I am not reliving anything,” Hannibal said with a truly laudable amount of calm.  Anyone else would have been rightfully angry at this point, but somehow 003 maintained the proverbial moral high-ground… at least verbally.  “Although I can understand why you’d think so,” the man even allowed, tone low and almost placating.  

“Why?” the guard replied with heavy sarcasm, “Because this is exactly the kind of crime that you’re famous for?  For fucks’ sake, we already found the organs in the kitchen-!”

Mostly, it was the yelling.  Will’s head was about to split open, and if the shouting didn’t stop, he was reasonably sure that he’d spatter his own blood and brain-matter all over everyone in range.  Both hands up and rubbing his temples, Will barked out just loud enough to be heard, interrupting, “It wasn’t him!”  He went on in a rush, eyes closed, determinedly ignoring the fact that everyone was probably staring at him now.  He could all but feel their eyes like fingers pressing against his skin.  “It’s too sloppy to be him.  All of Hannibal’s - Dr. Lecter’s-”  He corrected awkwardly, realizing that familiarizing himself with the files had made him feel like he knew these agents, these psychopaths.  “-Past murders have been meticulous.  Skilled.  This is…”  Will struggled for a word to describe what he was thinking, but it was like being a synesthete and trying to describe the color of a sound.  He struggled, feeling extremely socially awkward.  

Hannibal’s eyes were on him, though, so intense that Will met them for a second, involuntarily, before looking down.  Even that brief bit of contact gave him a sense of endless silence, of the kind of quiet you only found in the dead of a northern winter, where the cold seemed to freeze even the buzzing molecules of things.  It was like temporarily falling into a black hole, and while Will realized, logically, that that should have unsettled him - because no normal, compassionate person was like that on the inside - it instead made him ache for more of it.  His own mind was the opposite, a giant storm of everything, a tornado that had just torn up an entire city by its roots to twist and throw about inside Will’s skull.  

His little sip of Hannibal’s absolute-zero cold was like drinking poison, but being so damn thirsty that all that mattered was that it was a liquid to soothe his parched throat.  It was enough for Will to drag in a breath and finish his sentence, at the very same time as Hannibal intoned the exact same word, “...Artless.”

Will’s eyes snapped up to Hannibal’s again in surprise, and this time, at least, his brain stayed on its leash and behaved - it didn’t try to profile the ashen-blond-haired man in front of him.  Instead, it was just Will inside his own head for a moment, staring out in shock at the avidly interested gaze of the agent across the room.

~^~

On the top floor of the West Wing, which had gone out of use when the new helicopter pad was built on an adjacent rooftop instead, a guardsman ran his hands under the taps in one of the men’s rooms.  He’d wedged the door shut with a doorstop, and the place was windowless, precluding any witnesses.  He’d come in with the most recent batch of guards, but was dressed in civilian clothes at the moment - black shirt, dark jeans.  He’d had a jacket on, but it was in a pile at his feet now, in a plastic bag.  Just as the outside of his shirt was unavoidably smeared with blood, so, too, was the inside of his jacket stained from having been zipped closed over that same blood, hiding it to allow the man to move unnoticed through the hallways.  He’d have to dispose of it - and the blood-streaked plastic gloves - next, but the tide would make short work of the evidence.  He mentally sorted through the various ways to send things off to sea without running the risk of them floating back on the tide.  All the while, he kept washing his hands, ensuring that even if some speck or streak of Captain Connor Smith’s blood had made it past the gloves, it was gone now.  

Unfortunately, digging around in abdominal cavities was messy even with gloves, so there was quite a lot of red being washed down the sink.  Fortunately, he’d hid some heavy-duty cleaning products in this bathroom yesterday, right after arriving with the other guardsmen.  Still, he made a face, disliking the necessity of blaming a goddamned cannibal for this.  

“This had better be worth it, Jim,” the man growled lightly under his breath, before stripping off his bloodied shirt and letting it join his jacket in the bag.  His trousers soon followed, lean muscles on a long, lithe torso working with smooth, practiced ease.  Perhaps he wasn’t exactly practiced at disemboweling a man and staging everything in the kitchen as if saving it for a meal, but meticulously cleaning up all traces?  That Seb could do.  

~^~

“Sorry, 007,” Q said, meaning it, as he finally walked over with the repaired collar in hand.  It was almost an hour later, and the intervening time had been spent with Q going over security footage and tracking data as various people questioned him and/or his skills.  The murder of the helicopter pilot had everyone pretty riled, but Q was able to say, definitively, that Hannibal had been at the scene of the crime within a timeframe consistent with the killing.  However, the cameras in the area had been less forthcoming.  It didn’t help that Eigengrau had literally hundreds of cameras - and while they covered a large area, it was nearly impossible to constantly watch them all for possible signs of foul play.  Certain ‘hotspots’ were watched, of course (areas around living quarters, gathering areas, parts of the building where M and other higher-ups worked.  Unfortunately, Captain White had been killed in a less crucial part of the building that was in a blindspot for the cameras.  

So while everyone had been demanding, “Hannibal did it, though, yes?” Q had had to keep reminding everyone that there was no video evidence.  So far, there had been no biological evidence either, the crime-scene being empty of fingerprints, although it would take time for DNA analysis to get back. Still, everyone seemed certain, and the GPS data seemed to confirm it.

Now, at long last, everyone was gone and Q could turn his attention back to the agent who had been more or less ignored this whole time.  James flashed a small and minimally tolerant smile as Q bent down next to him, open collar in hand.  “Sorry,” Q repeated, this time not referring to the wait.  He didn’t move until blue eyes met his, giving him a chance to hopefully convey how little he enjoyed the act of collaring another person like a dog.  At first, James just frowned at him, displeasure clear and unmoving, but then something in the man seemed to buckle.  007 huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes, but tilted his head obligingly, making it easy to slip the collar into place.  It relocked with a soft, almost sibilant series of clicks.  “There.  You’re officially not a flight-risk, although honestly, the Smartblood should have been enough,” Q said frankly.  He looked around for the guards, who had relaxed their vigilance significantly, but who also were the only ones with the key to the handcuffs.  

“Depends,” James conversed back, the first time he’d spoken in an hour, “Can your Smartblood drop me in my tracks?”

“No,” Q admitted.  The reminder of the collar’s main purpose sobered him.  “Damn, where did those guards get to?  I swear, if they’re in the back gambling with my tech analysts, somebody is going to get skinned.”

“Careful with your threats there, Quartermaster,” James joked, shifting his position a little bit, although by now, Q doubted that anything was comfortable.  “Sybil is always watching, and even if she wasn’t, this is not the atmosphere in which to make violent jokes.”

Q sighed, peering over various cubicles and computer terminals and still failing to find the people he was looking for.  “Maybe you’re right,” he gave in, thinking of the descriptions he’d got of the crime scene, but also of the almost bloodthirsty tone everyone had had, pinning it on 003.  “This is why people don’t work here long, isn’t it?  Events like this make everyone a bit psychotic,” Q guessed.  

He turned back to find 007 already watching him, for all the world patient.  “Why do you ask, Q?  Is it getting harder and harder to tell apart the hares from the Hounds?”

“I’m no more a rabbit than you’re a Hellhound,” Q scoffed.  

“I agree,” James said all too easily, still watching Q with eyes like blue razors, “You’re much more interesting than a rabbit.  Of course, just how interesting depends on what you were looking for, back when we first met.”  

It felt like a cold finger had been dragged down his spine, and Q stopped trying to find 007’s minders and instead checked that no one was within hearing range.  Snapping a tense glare James’s way, Q observed cannily, “You’ve been sitting here like a saint this whole time just to ask me that, haven’t you?  That’s why you haven’t made a fuss, and why you manipulated things to get dragged in here with Silva.”

“That last part was actually just to save you from having Silva all to yourself.”

“And the first part?” Q stuck to his guns, determined to get an answer despite James’s easy evasion.  

In answer… there was a soft click, and 007 brought both of his hands forward, free of handcuffs.  Q stumbled back before remembering that the man’s ankles were still shackled.  Rotating his shoulders with a groan, James twisted his neck and cracked his back, saying lightly, “Well, I wasn’t just sitting around here because I’m lazy.”  He bent down, producing a bent piece of wire that might once had been a paperclip, and began picking the locks to his ankle-cuffs as he must have done ages ago on the cuffs at his wrists.  “So?  While there’s nobody around to eavesdrop but me, do you want to discuss why the Quartermaster of Eigengrau is doing illegal things in his free time?”

Q wasn’t sure whether to run or not, but suddenly he felt more like a deer than the rabbit from the earlier analogy - a deer in the headlights, frozen, even as a 007-shaped vehicle barreled his way.  There was the urge to call out for assistance, because he had no idea what 007 was going to do now that he was free, but the sound somehow got stuck in his throat.  Somehow, though, he did manage to rasp, “I didn’t… I wasn’t… doing anything illegal.”

James glanced up with one ankle still cuffed.  “You’re a piss-poor liar, Q.”  He bent down again to finish his task, pushing the subject without looking up again, “Come on, Q.  Spill.  Who am I going to tell anyway?  I’m an inveterate liar, after all, and you’re the first person to trust my word in easily a year.”  The other cuff fell away with a little click, and still no one was around paying attention.  With all of the earlier excitement, everyone was trying to either hunt down gossip or get a peek at the crime scene - and thanks to that morbid curiosity, Q wasn’t surrounded by as many people as he usually was.  Even H had gone for an early supper.  Q backed up until his thighs hit a table.  

When 007 stood, it was with remarkably little stiffness for a man who’d been keeping still for so long, although he took a moment to stretch before his attention focused back on Q.  He seemed to notice something then, and paused, watching Q’s expression with something like curiosity.  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked quietly, smiling.

“No,” Q shot back, but his voice shook.  

James’s smile just spread, making his eyes dance, the crow’s feet alongside them deepening playfully.  “Are you sure?  I mean, it’s not a bad look on you, and you’d be an idiot not to be afraid of me.”

“I thought you said that this wasn’t a safe atmosphere for people to be making violent threats.”  Q’s mouth kept running, but for some reason he just couldn’t make himself call for help, and that inability confused and frustrated him even as he found it in himself to scowl at the blond-haired agent.  

“No threats,” James raised both hands, palms forward and empty.  Q had the distinct impression that this man was never really harmless, though, regardless of his gestures.  Then the agent’s voice dropped a pitch to a low purr, and his smile took on a Cheshire edge, “Unless you want it to be?”  He eased a step forward, perfectly balanced, a natural economy of motion.  “Hmm?  How about it, Q - do you need a threat or two from me to remember what I am?”  Despite the words, he didn’t sound bitter.  He sounded natural, sincere, a man speaking truths that he’d accepted as part of himself ages go.  He slid another easy pace forward.  “I could threaten to have people check that computer you were at, dig into it and see if they could find your footprints.”

Of all the things that Q could have responded with, what he actually said probably wasn’t the most useful phrase: “If you think that I left footprints to find, then you’re more stupid than I thought.”

Instead of getting angry, James stopped getting closer and his smile became fully-fledged.  It was quite a wolfish grin, but if anything, it looked like the man was having fun now.  He folded his muscular arms and settled his weight more on one foot, a more complacent posture than before.  “So there is something to hide then?”

“Why are you so bloody interested?” Q hissed, looking around them.  Still no one within hearing range.  If he raised his head, he could see the tops of people’s heads in nearby cubicles, but they clearly weren’t paying attention to the world around them.  Or their rather compromised Quartermaster.

“Because boredom’s a bitch,” James said bluntly, “and you’re officially the least boring thing that’s landed on this island since that egotistical know-it-all they dragged in here two months ago.”

Immediately, Q froze, and he knew that 007 noticed; the playfulness froze in place like a video put on pause, blue eyes growing cool and keen.  “What did you say?” Q asked at a whisper.  

James didn’t answer.  His face was expressionless, the look of a falcon on a distant branch, just watching.  Calculating.  Learning all the variables instead of putting on a show and playing around like he’d been just seconds ago.  Later, Q would look back at this and be unsettled by how quickly 007 could go between the two settings: demonically playful and inhumanly detached.  

Right now, of course, what Q did instead was stalk right up to the man and fist a hand in his shirtfront.  Leaning right into Bond’s face, utterly forgetting that he was a high-Pass agent with unpredictable homicidal issues, Q demanded in a desperately soft whisper, “What did you say?  Who did they bring in?”

Bond moved without warning.  A hand came up over Q’s mouth while James’s other hand fisted in the collar of Q's shirt, gaining a more effective grip than Q’s by far, spinning him around.  Q found his back against a cubicle wall, 007’s calloused hand firmly muffling him.  Next, Q expected violence, but instead James released his shirt and reached higher instead.  Q flinched, closing his eyes as he felt fingertips on his cheek, but all that happened was 007 slipped his glasses off.  The move was careful, almost gentle, and Q suppressed the urge to struggle for just a moment longer as he opened his eyes.  This close, even without glasses, Q could make out 007’s expression, and all it held right now was quiet interest and thoughtfulness.  Glasses hooked over his fingers, Bond used his thumb to very lightly brush Q’s hair, and the silence and stillness remained unbroken as Q tried to anticipate what was coming - or even what was going on right now.  With Q’s hair settled a certain way, James murmured, “Well, I’ll be damned.  You look just like him.  How did I miss it?”

Sherlock.  James was talking about how much Q looked like Sherlock.  James had seen him.  Suddenly Q couldn’t hold onto the fear buzzing through his veins, because even though he had a high-Pass agent close enough to kill him, all that he could think about was Sherlock.  

James suddenly twitched, collar glinting as he straightened and turned before hurriedly tucking the stolen glasses into the neck of Q’s cardigan.  “As much as I’m enjoying this…” he whispered, then released his hold on Q’s face.  Without even finishing the sentence - although it had sounded like a worrisomely sincere remark - 007 abruptly turned on one heel and beat a swift retreat.  He was out the door before Q could even draw in a breath to call after him.

The reason for Bond’s sudden exit became apparent barely a second later.  A head popped into view around the cubicle wall.  Q couldn’t recognize the face with his glasses still off, but he recognized the voice as one of his more diligent minions, “Quartermaster?  Is everything all right?  I took my earbuds out and I heard-  Well, you see, I listen to music to cut out distractions, not because I’m neglecting my job, but I thought I heard-”

“I’m fine,” Q cut off the haphazard rambling before the techie could work himself into a tizzy.  Feeling shaky as the adrenaline fizzled through his system, and strangely cold now that he didn’t have Bond’s body-heat pressed threateningly against him, Q hurriedly plucked his glasses from their new perch and replaced them on his nose.  Surprisingly, 007 hadn’t even smudged them.  “I was just thinking.  Please, go back to work.”

Now that Q could see with twenty-twenty vision again, he could see that the techie was a bit worried still, but ultimately gave in with an obedient, “Sir,” and disappeared back into the cubicle.  Q remained where he was, dragging two fingers across his mouth, imagining that he could still feel James’s rough palm as he’d held him there.  The encounter had left Q feeling very shaken, but every time his mind tried to instill the memory with fear, all he could think was that James had just given him exactly the lead he’d been looking for.  

The only problem was that 007 was the lead, and that meant Q was going to have to talk to him again.  That thought was finally enough to shake Q’s courage a bit, and he made a beeline for his office, where he kept an electric kettle.  Hopefully a hot cup of tea would help him to calm down and think, before the growing tremors in his hands got the best of him.

Chapter Text

With one helicopter pilot dead and the killer locked up (or at least the alleged killer), Eigengrau was not unlike a lightly stirred hornets’ nest.  It didn’t help that an unprecedented number of agents were all on the island at the same time.  It was nearly unheard of for agents 001 through 009 to all be grounded at the same time, much less such a large percentage of the numbers above that.  The invention of Smartblood was also unprecedented, however, so despite the risks, further missions had been tabled for at least another week until the data were in, and it was clear that Smartblood worked or didn’t.  Meanwhile, Handlers were run ragged trying to keep their agents in line and out of trouble.  

The arrival of the new helicopter pilot helped  to ease a lot of nerves.  It had been a quick hiring with Eigengrau’s policy of having five pilots making them eager to fill the gap, even if no one had been prepared for any of this.  Usually, new hirings were sources of wariness and anxiety as a new person was laboriously trained and inducted into the fold,  but the new pilot was an unexpected exception.  A young fellow, with an MLE accent and an engaging sense of humor, the new pilot became a crowd favorite surprisingly quickly.  It probably helped that his predecessor had been overall a grumpy individual, and soon the newcomer - known as ‘Oxford,’ codenamed like everyone else with only M probably knowing his real name on file - was accepted into the ranks of his fellows.  He was boisterous and loud, and didn’t know a stranger.  He was also surprisingly self-assured and fearless considering his metaphorical ‘new kid on the block’ status on an island stocked with high-Pass killers.  

A considerable number of people judged him as lower-class because of his accent, but they stopped underestimating him after seeing him fly.  The kid was young, cheeky, and didn’t talk like the Queen but he was ace in the air.  

This generally cheery, friendly personality quickly became familiar to everyone he had contact with.  Therefore, it would have been something of a shock had any of those people seen ‘Oxford’ the night after his arrival, walking the halls long after most everyone else was asleep.  

‘Oxford’ counted turns and repeated directions to himself under his breath, making up for the fact that he didn’t know his surroundings quite yet.  Of his easygoing attitude, there was nothing evident. Even his posture was rougher, more daunting, like an alley cat stalking through enemy territory with its back partially arched for effect.  Serious hazel eyes took in everything they could in the nighttime ‘half lighting’ used on non-crucial halls like these..  He fingered a good luck charm hung around his neck on a pendant, rubbing at the familiar pattern: a tipped over ‘K’ set within two conc, the random phrase ‘Oxfords not Brogues’ etched into the back.  

Despite his watchfulness, 'Oxford' didn’t see the taller figure until it stepped out of the shadows of a doorway to his right.  

The new pilot immediately jumped away, drawing a knife seemingly out of nowhere - a simple thing, smaller than the usual military issue, but familiar in his hand.  The man who’d spooked him circled out of reach but otherwise didn’t get too excited.  “Fucking hell,” the pilot exhaled harshly, even as he recognized the older man.  Still, he only lowered his knife; he didn’t put it away.  “You’re a bit old to be sneaking up on a bloke,” he grumbled.  

The other man ignored him.  Tall and handsome in a lean way, he had a serene expression and eyes that appeared cold even in the dark.  “Have you had any issues gaining access to all of the helicopters?” he asked.  

Oxford released another puff of air, this time huffing it upwards and rustling his gold-brown fringe.  “Nah, not too much.  I’m supposed to focus on just my bird, but the other pilots are good guys.”

“Good,” said the other man, without any particular inflection to give away whether that ‘good’ made him happy or not, “Because this plan depends heavily on you, Unwin, and I don’t have to tell you what happens if you don’t come through.”

The younger man immediately tensed, something violent lighting his eyes.  His hands clenched, the knife a constant reminder of danger in his right fist.  “I fucking know,” he said in a low, steadily controlled growl.  

“Good.  Then take this-”  The other man passed over a mobile.  Everyone had Eigengrau-issued devices for communication purposes, but this one was clearly outside that system.  The new pilot gave the phone a glance and then quickly secreted it away on his person - something he was far better at than he had any right to be.  He’d been hired by Eigengrau as a pilot, but he had a plethora of other skills that were only useful on the other side of the law.  The taller man continued, “-And keep out of trouble.”  A small, impersonal smile stretched the man’s mouth, showing teeth in a wolfish sort of expression.  “With any luck, this will all be over in a week, and you can go back to your life a richer man.”  

With that, the older man turned and left, something of a predator in his gait, like a wolf made sinewy by winter.  Eggsy took deep breaths through his nose to try and rein in his temper, closing his eyes as the other man’s subtle threats conjured images that made him want to scream, or vomit, or cry.  “Seb, you bastard,” he snarled under his breath, even though he knew that Seb wasn’t actually the person at the heart of this.  

No, the person at the heart of this plot would be arriving in under a week, and Eggsy Unwin would be expected to play his part.

~^~

Q needed to talk to Bond.  That was all there was to it.  

True, the risk of getting caught hacking might have been less than the risk of getting caught by a dangerous high-Pass agent, but only in a physical sense.  Q would have no doubt survived being caught hacking into secure information, but his mission would have definitely been over, and all it would have taken  was one error on his part.  Eigengrau kept all its data on a need-to-know basis, and if you didn’t need to know, then you basically had to move mountains to get the data - all without setting off layers upon layers of alarms.  Dealing with James, however, meant there were more options - or at least opportunities for favorable outcomes.  The worst possibility, of course, was that 007 murdered him.  From all of his dealings with the man, however, Q was beginning to doubt that that would happen.  Bond was definitely dangerous, but the closest he’d come to bodily harm against Q’s person thus far was yesterday, and Q had grabbed him first.  007 seemed to follow rules… now if Q could just figure out those rules, maybe then he could work with them.  

It felt a lot like mapping out a minefield blindfolded.  

One thing that Q was certain of, however, was that Bond was curious about him.  ‘Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back,’ the phrase went, and 007 kept coming back and apparently hadn’t been dissatisfied so far.  Q was going to go prematurely grey from stress, of course, but he figured that that was a small price to pay if it meant that James was treating him with curiosity rather than violence.  It was a double-edged sword, unfortunately, because the same secrets that no doubt kept 007 coming back to Q were also secrets that he could use to control Q or ruin him if he wished - something he’d hinted at in his idle threats yesterday.  Bond had a nose for buried secrets and a mind for manipulation, that was certain.  

Well, Q would just have to see if two could play that game.  

By now, Q had debugged most of the issues with the Smartblood program, even though M insisted that Q keep running diagnostics.  Therefore, it was easy as pie to locate James within Eigengrau and then begin tracking him and waiting for an opportunity to catch him alone.  Q had familiarized himself with the security cameras, and between tracking James as a little red dot on a map and peeping in on him through available cameras, Q was able to tell even when 007 was escorted by guards.  Bond was between Handlers, Q recalled, so ‘interim minders’ were on him quite a lot of the time.  When Bond ended his day in one of the open gyms, however, and the late hour meant that no one else was there, the guards left him to his own devices.  After all, what trouble could he get up to all by his lonesome?  Between the Smartblood and the collar, it wasn’t like he could make a run for it when no one was looking,.  

Q immediately closed out his screens, looked up to say a swift farewell to everyone only to realize that it was so late that no one was left but him, and darted off towards Gym #3.  He took his tablet with him, keeping connected to the security feeds and essentially tracking his own progress - pausing frequently to scout ahead remotely.  This would have been a godsend back when he’d broken into the computer lab, because this time around, Q avoided any and all human beings on the way to the gym.  

Once there, he paused outside the doors, taking in a deep breath.  “You can do this, Q,” he said to himself, then made a face, rethought his words, and corrected wryly, “You have to do this.”  Before he could think better of it, Q pushed open the door and let himself in.  

He immediately heard the rhythmic slaps of skin on padding.  It took only a quick sweep of Q’s eyes to take in the room - broad and deep  with a low ceiling and all kinds of exercise equipment from treadmills to weights to punching bags to a floor of mats; one wall was occupied sporadically by mirrors, some looking like they’d been removed, probably broken.  James was halfway across the room, in jogging trousers and a sleeveless tee, barefoot and methodically pounding away on what looked like a simplified version of a tree: a vertical log with horizontal ‘branches’ jutting out at various points, all lightly padded.  James was standing in close to it, wrapped hands snapping out and hitting either ‘branches’ or ‘trunk’ with snake-fast speed before pulling back towards his body again.  He finished a swift combination of strikes before straightening out of his guarded stance and turning to face Q, face momentarily frozen over with caution.  The look broke into a wary smirk as he recognized who the newcomer was, however.  

“Quartermaster,” he greeted warmly, draping an arm over a horizontal beam and leaning lazily against it.  Q could see how sweat had stuck 007’s shirt to his chest down the center and over his sternum, emphasizing the contours of his pectoral muscles.  “I never took you for the exercising type.  What brings you here?”

Now that he was sure he’d indeed caught 007 alone, Q held off answering as he focused on his tablet one more time.  Bracing it on one forearm, he tapped the screen, activating a few programs.  All it took was the work of seconds to knock out the audio on the gym cameras.  Usually, anyone watching focused purely on the video, anyway, but Q didn’t want to run the risk of someone replaying the conversation he was going to have with one of Eigengrau’s deadliest and best.  

James’s mercurial expressions had gone from teasing to watchful again.  He tipped his chin towards Q’s tablet.  “You just did something there.  Care to tell me what before I start jumping to conclusions?”  There was just the finest thread of threat in his words, the first low bubbling growl of a wolf.  

“I figured it would be prudent to make sure that no one listened in,” Q said evenly. “The cameras are still recording video on the off-chance that you get it in your head to murder me, but the audio recording system has experienced a sudden and inexplicable glitch.”  Q didn’t look up the whole time he spoke, finding it easier to converse about such dangerous matters when he was focused on a screen - even as he regretfully turned off that screen and slipped it into his satchel.  He held his breath as he finally looked up, meeting 007’s expression again to judge his reaction.

The man was smirking.  “Why do I suspect that what you just told me isn’t listed on your CV?” he teased, but he was clearly thrilled.  Now 007 folded both arms over the short beam, so that he could rest his chin atop corded forearms, attention still rapt on Q, but his body relaxed.  

Q sighed, finally admitting to himself that 007 was about to learn the depths of Q’s subterfuge anyway, and said resignedly, “There might be some key omissions on my CV.”

“I knew it,” James gloated then pushed back from the post and wandered over to one of the benches.  He began unwrapping his hands as he walked, and Q gave in and followed him.  

“Then you also probably know that I’m here to ask you some questions,” Q pressed, wringing the strap of his satchel between his hands, watching 007 intently for signs of danger, “About the man you saw, two months ago.  The one who looked like me.”

“Is he your brother?” James guessed.  

Sweat had stuck the back of 007’s shirt to his body, too, and Q found himself momentarily mesmerized by the easily visible play of muscles across the back of his shoulders as 007 continued unwinding the wrappings from his right fist.  There were a lot of things Q would say about the high-Pass agents at Eigengrau, but he’d never say that they weren’t physically enticing specimens - like the pretty glow that an anglerfish used as bait.  “Yes,” Q finally gave out the information, and was surprised what a weight it seemed to take off him.  It made the rest of his words come out easier. “He was arrested two months ago, and it’s taken me this long to get to him - only now we’re on the same bloody island, and I still don't know where he is.”

James angled a look over his shoulder at Q, expression a bit disparaging.  “You’re not seriously here to get him out, are you?”

Q stiffened and bristled defensively.  “I am.”  

“You really are mad,” James opined, then, surprisingly, turned back to his task.  “Not that I’m complaining.  A bit of insanity really livens up the place,” he added in a lazy drawl.

“Look, I’m not here to have my plan questioned,” Q burst out, exasperated. “Believe me, I’m already well aware of how impractical this is.”

“Impractical?  Try bat-shit insane.”

“Fine then.  I’m still doing it,” Q closed the topic, folding his arms, but immediately unfolded them and was ready to run as 007 turned to face him without warning.  Bond’s hands were bare now, but he still had the tape in his hands, and Q had a vivid thought about how easily that could become a means of strangulation.  

But then the agent tossed the used tape into a nearby bin.  “You really believe you have a chance, don’t you?” he marvelled, and this time it was 007 who folded his arms, muscles bunching then relaxing into the new posture.  He seemed sincerely bewildered.  

Puffing out a little sigh past his nose, Q answered, “I have to believe that.”

For a moment, a little hum of acknowledgement was the only response Q got, and he worried that that would be the end of it.  James had him at a disadvantage, and Q didn’t feel prepared to threaten the man with the collar as many others might have.  Perhaps James was thinking of that, too, because his eyes kept straying to Q’s watch.  

Finally, James ended his silence and said, “Tell you what - you take that watch off, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

The Quartermaster’s eyes rounded before he could control his reaction.  He just about asked, involuntarily, if James was serious, but obviously he was - and if he wasn’t, he was clearly stubborn as hell and would stick to his demand anyway.  

Perhaps seeing Q’s uncertainty, the blue-eyed agent reminded, “You’ve got your cameras.”  He glanced up to where one of four hung from the ceiling.  “You’re not alone, per se.”

“Maybe, but you and I both know that at this hour, it’s not one-hundred percent guaranteed that people are watching those cameras,” Q countered, throat tight and heart beginning to hammer harder in his chest.  

“True, but someone will check eventually.  If I murder you, I won’t get away with it,” 007 pointed out as if that was the next logical conclusion to come to.  

“That isn’t nearly as comforting as you think it is,” Q assured.  

“Well, if it helps, I’m not too keen on being executed for the death of Eigengrau’s new Quartermaster,” James shrugged and pointed out, giving insight into how his own morals and logic worked - or at least how his pragmatism and logic worked, as he seemed to be rather bypassing morals, “The only reason Hannibal is still alive now is because the pilot he allegedly killed wasn’t all that high up on the food chain.”

“But you’ve killed Handlers.”  Q’s voice was a lot weaker than he’d meant it to be.

James met his eyes without blinking.  “Yes.”  He let that sink in, eyes moving keenly to catch the way Q shivered and flexed his hands nervously.  “But you’d be surprised how often Handlers try to kill us.”  Q blinked, caught off-guard by that simple, calm statement, but before he could ask for clarification, James was already going on as if that last point was immaterial to him, “If it helps, you’re decidedly more important than even a Handler.  I’m a lot of things, but I’m not stupid, and I’m neither homicidal or suicidal.”

That, at least, Q believed.  He found his initial denial crumbling.  “If…”  Q started, unable to believe he was doing this, but desperate to get answers, “If I remove my watch… that’s all you want?  You’ll answer my questions, then we’ll both be on our way, as if nothing ever happened here?”

“Almost,” James countered with a small, close-lipped smirk.  Q had noticed that while most of the agents smiled with their teeth, dangerous expressions born in the days when all predators had fangs to show off, James tended to keep his lips sealed as if he were trapping secrets in his mouth.  His eyes gave it away, though, blue and dancing even as Q’s heart plummeted.  “If you get to ask me questions, I get to ask you questions.  Fair?”

“Shit,” Q grumbled to himself, looking for an alternative, but one hadn’t magically appeared in the last few seconds.  “Fine.  But if we’re going for fairness, then your answers had better be truthful and complete,” Q found enough courage to shoot back, meeting 007’s eyes squarely. “If you give me half-arsed answers, then that’s what I’ll give you, too.”

The show of moxie had James’s eyebrows raising in surprise at first, before his smile broadened.  Q was beginning to realize that this was a game for 007 - but that the game wasn’t fun if winning was easy.  Never would Q have thought that his own mulishness would turn out to be a positive trait in the eyes of a highly skilled killer.  “Deal,” James said without hesitation then looked meaningfully at Q’s watch.  

This was the hard part.  For the slow count of five, Q couldn’t make his hands move and just stared stupidly at his right wrist.  He hadn’t used the device for anything but timekeeping since he’d gotten here, but the ability to disable or even kill an attacking agent had always been there like a safety net.  Now, he was being challenged to do a highwire act without that net, and the idea was paralyzing.  007 didn’t push, leaving Q alone with his thoughts until finally the pressure boiled over.  Q’s left hand went for the watch, and 007 at first stiffened but then relaxed as the younger man’s deft fingers undid the strap instead of going for the buttons.  “Fuck it,” Q muttered, removing the device but also glancing at 007 over the rims of his glasses, “You could have killed me already, couldn’t you?  Regardless of this watch.”

“Probably,” James admitted.  One side of his mouth was curled upwards, and he looked quietly pleased with himself.  “But doing that would mean depriving myself of whatever it is you have planned.”  When Q looked guarded and puzzled, James elaborated with another eloquent lift of one shoulder, “I think that your plan is insane and doomed to failure, but I still want to watch.”

“You’re viewing me as a train-wreck waiting to happen, and you want front-row seats,” Q realized.  The watch fell away from his wrist.  He watched the involuntary way James’s eyes snapped to it, intensely watching.  

The crooked smile widened a fraction more.  “Now you’re catching on.”

“You bastard,” Q found himself saying, before he snapped his mouth shut, shoved the watch into his satchel with his tablet, and slipped the whole thing from his shoulders.  He set it on the nearest bench.  “There.  Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”  James unfolded his arms and made a vague, open gesture with his hands.  “What do you want to know?”

Q’s relief at not being instantly betrayed and attacked was so palpable that his knees went momentarily weak.  He barely managed not to sway, and his voice came out a bit hoarse, “Sherlock.  Was the new recruit named Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes.”  When Q made a little noise of helpless delight, James kept to the rest of the bargain, immediately asking back, “Are you a Holmes, too?”

“Yes.”  Tit-for-tat.  Q felt nervous for a second, seeing the laser-light intensity with which 007 devoured that knowledge - but then he remembered that this man was essentially a prisoner, and unlikely to be believed no matter what stories he told.  “Sherlock is my older brother,” he therefore felt safe enough adding.  Next question.  “Where is he now?”

“Holding.”

“Yes, I know that,” Q huffed in exasperation, and thankfully, James just cocked his head and waited expectantly instead of taking his due of another question, yet.  Q asked again, “What I don’t know is where the bloody hell ‘Holding’ is - and why he’s there.  Is it normal for a new agent to be secluded for so long?”

“No, it’s not,” James admitted, and for the first time he looked a bit bemused himself.  He started to pace a little as he thought and talked.  “A fortnight is normal - maybe a month, depending on how long it takes the new Hound to accept the reality of their situation.  But not two months.”

“Do you think he’s-”  Q cut himself off, not only because it was rightly Bond’s turn to ask a question but because this was a question he didn’t actually want the answer to.  Biting his lip, Q shuffled to a stop, only realizing then that he’d been shadowing 007 as the man padded quietly around the room.  

James turned around, gaze as steady and keen as honed steel and just as pitiless as he filled in where Q had left off, “Do I think he’s dead?”  When Q pursed his lips and fought to hide how deeply the question stabbed, 007’s eyes turned just fractionally more human, although it was easy to miss the difference.  Fortunately, he went ahead and answered, even though Q was technically breaking the back-and-forth pattern.  “No, I’m pretty sure he’s alive.  Harkness sometimes fucks M’s secretary, and the fellow has access to an absolutely ungodly amount of information - sometimes he gives some of that information to Harkness.”  James caught Q’s vaguely scandalized look and grinned like a fox in a henhouse.  He hooked a finger in the hoop of deadly metal around his neck, saying, “Just because we’re collared like dogs doesn’t mean we’re entirely helpless, Q.  In fact, I’ve yet to meet anyone who can keep a secret after Harkness gets them in bed.”

“That is… very unethical,” Q just barely managed to say.  

“To be fair, he makes it worth their while.”  James was still having entirely too much fun at Q’s expense, blue eyes wicked.  “I’ve never heard anyone complain.”

“Oh my god, just stop,” Q begged, pinching the bridge of his nose and involuntarily imagining 001 and how much of a flirt the man had been when he’d met him.  A very good flirt.  And also a very handsome flirt who clearly knew how to use his mouth as well as his co-  Q squeezed his eyes shut as if that could somehow stop that train of thought.  “Sherlock.  We were talking about Sherlock,” he reminded stubbornly.  “He’s alive?”

James’s chuckle was low and deep, and Q almost felt it more in his sternum than heard it in his ears.  But the man showed mercy and replied, “Yes.  M’s secretary has a guardsman friend; a military man who was being groomed as your brother’s Handler.  He hasn’t been reassigned, so your brother is still in the running for 010.”

“010-?”  Q dropped his hand and opened his eyes in surprise.  

“Hey - you’ve had your turn and then some,” 007 cut him off this time, then began his walking again.  It couldn’t even properly be called pacing, because there was nothing frenetic or nervous about it; the man was simply moving, like a tide that, by nature, wasn’t meant to stay still.  It made his long stint of sitting in Q-branch even more impressive, really.  Clearly the man could choose to become a statue - but right now he wasn’t bothering.  “What did your brother do to get here?”

Q made a soft noise of frustration, but it was an old emotion - frustration with Sherlock was something of a natural state of being for the entire family.  “He… He had a habit of turning up at crime scenes.  Homicides.  He said he was investigating them.  And before you ask-”  Q lifted a belaying hand, just as 007 turned and started to raise an eyebrow at him.  The agent let him keep talking, amused.  “-No, he didn’t commit any of them.  I was his alibi at least twice, and if you knew Sherlock, you’d know that he’s just damnably curious.”

“Then why’d his Psychopass go up?” James furthered his question, “I assume it did, or he wouldn’t be here.”

This was the tricky part.  Q sucked in a breath, let it out.  “I don’t know.”

James eyed him for a moment then said, very succinctly but without inflection, “You’re lying.”

Q tensed and turned away guiltily.  “It’s… complicated.”

“Aren’t we all?” James asked with a slant of his mouth that was beginning to look more dangerous than humorous.  He’d turned to face Q again, arms folded like a bulwark, and Q’s wrist felt suddenly very empty, and his body felt suddenly very fragile.  

“All right, fine, it’s-  It’s that…”  Q cut off with a little growl, casting about for an answer that would make sense but was also the truth, because while Q had managed to lie his way all the way into Eigengrau, he couldn’t get even one lie past 007.  “Sherlock has probably…”  There was no way to surgarcoat it.  Q heaved a sigh and just blurted, “Sherlock has probably always had a high Psychopass.  Death doesn’t bother him in the slightest and hasn’t since he was a child, and people only matter to him about one percent of the time.  He’s probably a high-functioning sociopath.”  Now came, impossibly, the more difficult part, and Q just gave up on watching 007’s every move and instead closed his eyes, saying with a wince, “But I know for a fact that sometimes, no matter what the government tells you, the Sybil System messes up.”

“What are you saying?” James asked, voice laced with caution.  

Q let his head rock back tiredly on his neck, eyes still closed.  He felt suddenly exhausted… and exactly like he’d been living a double-life in a high-security prison for the past weeks.  “I’m saying that I’ve hacked the Sybil System.”

“What?”  Caution had turned to surprised disbelief.  It sounded like someone had stepped on 007’s metaphorical tail, and Q had the ridiculous urge to laugh.

“Sybil picks favorites, and just like she lets me get away with traipsing around in her systems, she used to let Sherlock get away with nosing around dead bodies.”  In for a pence, in for a pound.  It felt rather nice to finally talk about this.  Q finally opened his eyes and lowered his head, if only to see James’s look of startled denial.  He reflected that it was probably the most authentic expression he’d tricked out of the Hound yet.  “But then he apparently went too far, so now he’s here with a Psychopass of 125.”

Bond was slowly digesting this, and if not accepting it, at least compartmentalizing it.  “What’s your number?” he asked slowly.  

Aware that he owed Bond two questions, Q shrugged, “66.  But I’m not honestly sure if that’s true, because it never fluctuates.  It’s frozen.  So was Sherlock’s until 2 months ago.”

“Christ.”

“Oh, something godly, certainly, but only if that god is a machine.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock had been investigating a series of murders because Scotland Yard was too stupid to realize that they were connected.  It was obvious, really.  True, the individuals were from various backgrounds, had no physical similarities, and had never met, but if they were not connected, then these people were simply too bland to have all been killed.  Unfortunately, that argument didn’t really work out well with the police.  

And by the time Sherlock had truly begun to make breakthroughs, he had been arrested.  

“You know that I’m right,” Sherlock said from his holding cell, which was enchantingly medieval compared to the rest of Eigengrau.  The majority of the facilities that Sherlock had seen upon his arrival had been state-of-the-art, but Holding wasn’t.  It had been built earlier, he surmised, and  actually had bars like jail cells from the Old American West and big keys for the locks instead of electronic locks with codes.  

The man who sat on the chair outside the cell, a short fellow with sandy hair and an increasingly prominent frown-line between his eyebrows, dragged a hand down his face and groaned instead of responding.  

Sherlock took that as encouragement.  “You know that it’s not protocol to keep an incoming agent locked up for two months - not unless I had some sort of infectious disease that needed to be quarantined - in which case, they clearly don’t care about you contracting it.”  That still didn’t start a conversation, but thankfully, Sherlock had more than enough words for the both of them, and boredom was making him feel loquacious, “Discounting that, the initial orders to have me euthanized should also be seen as suspect.  After all, what did I do?  I don’t have a violent history-”

“Sherlock, you were hovering around fresh corpses like a very interested vulture,” the other man, Sherlock’s prospective Handler, finally muttered.  

“Yes, but I wasn’t convicted of any of those crimes,” Sherlock waved that off.  He got up to pace, long legs eating up the distance from one side of his cell to the other.  “And did I hurt anyone since coming to this insufferable place?  No!  Tell me what I did to get myself here, John.”  Sherlock rounded on one heel and came up to the bars that made up the front wall of his present living space, gripping them and glaring through them at the other man.  

John Watson, physically unassuming but military trained; stronger than he looked, but with a leg that he favored on stormy days (likely psychosomatic); highly moral, but also highly mindful of chains of command.  It was that latter fact that Sherlock was most annoyed with now.  

For a moment, the two matched gazes, both glaring, neither willing to blink.  Finally, though, John heaved in a breath and looked away, sighing, “I don’t know, Sherlock, but I’m not exactly privy to every decision in all of Eigengrau.”

“But you were there right before they decided to lock me away,” Sherlock pressed, veritably vibrating like a hound eager to follow a scent.  He had answers like an ocean inside of him, but he couldn’t do anything about them - nothing except rant to Watson.  “I made deductions that someone didn’t want to hear, and there were enough people of status in the room that I estimate any number of them could have taken it upon themselves to order my execution.”

“Sherlock, after only knowing you for five minutes, I kind of wanted to order your execution.”

“That’s immaterial, John.”

“Fine then, what’s material?”

It wasn’t often that Sherlock got someone who encouraged him - even at home, Siger and Mycroft had mostly just relegated him to background noise, usually too busy with projects of their own to submerge themselves in Sherlock’s hobbies, too.  John, however, for as much as he was clearly annoyed, wasn’t a bad person - and therefore he only seemed to stay angry at Sherlock for short stretches, and then gave in and started conversations like these.  It was surprising what a little comment like this could do to focus Sherlock's thoughts.  He paused now, eyes rapidly dissecting the middle distance, thinking.  “Gareth Mallory is not to blame, as he was the one who spoke up on my behalf and pointed out how ludicrous it would be to euthanize me like a rabid cat simply because I said something untoward.”

John pointed out, “You did kinda accuse the entire upper echelon of being rotten.”

“Not the entire upper echelon,” Sherlock huffed, “I merely pointed out that they had a traitor or two in their midst, someone who was murdering people on the waiting list for Eigengrau employee positions.”

“I know you said that, Sherlock - but how?” John demanded, raising his hands helplessly.  The man sat forward, his features set seriously, and laid out, “I get that you were the first person to connect all of those murders to Eigengrau, and that’s bloody incredible, considering you did it all without access to highly secure employment files.”  Sherlock preened a bit, momentarily forgetting that he was being lectured by someone with only a fraction of his intellect.  “But how does someone from Eigengrau manage to get away with murder without getting caught by the Sybil System?  That’s the whole point of the system.  Only people with high Psychopasses commit murder, and people with high Psychopasses get arrested, often times before they can even commit their first crime.  And no place gets more scrutinized than Eigengrau itself.”

“Someone who works outside of Eigengrau then,” Sherlock tried, John’s words forcing him to look at things from a different angle.  

John sat back with a huff.  “In that case, brilliant work, Sherlock, you just offended nearly all of my employers for nothing.  We’ll be lucky if they don’t keep us both on ice until we’re old men.”  The smaller man cocked his head.  “Unless they officially give your title of 010 to someone else, and I get a new Hound who’s less offensive to powerful people.”

Pacing again, Sherlock tapped long fingers to his lips and admitted, “Perhaps I miscalculated.”

“You think?” John raised both eyebrow nearly up to his hairline.  After holding the look of derision for a moment, though, he sagged and dropped his face into his hands again.  Sherlock wasn’t really very good at sympathy, but at that moment, he paused and made a face, realizing that this couldn’t be easy for Watson either.  

“You had a decorated military career, and were honored to be given this assignment at Eigengrau,” Sherlock deduced softly, combining observations to come up with a picture as easily as an artist making a stained glass window, “Especially when you were informed that you’d be a Handler, not just a dime-a-dozen guard.  For the next Agent 010, in fact.”  At John’s look of surprise, Sherlock tried on a smile; it was anemic, but sincere.  “I’m aware of what significance the numbers carry.  I’m also aware that this-”  He gestured around them.  “-Is the equivalent of quietly being honorably discharged, but without the benefits.”

For a moment, John just stared at him, hands still covering most of his face and therefore his expression.  Sherlock expected to be called a freak for knowing all that, but instead, John dropped his hands and said slowly, “We’ll figure this out.”  

The words hit Sherlock like a sucker-punch he hadn’t been prepared for.  He looked away sharply, blinking fast, and suddenly unsure what to do with himself.  Responding was out of the question.  

The middle Holmes brother went back to pacing without a word, his brain working at an even more furious pace than when he had first started trying to get himself - and perhaps John Watson - out of this mess.  

~^~

Trailing along in the Hound's wake, Q was starting to realize something, and he didn’t know if it was good or not.  007 hadn’t questioned Q about the little glitches in the Sybil System, which either meant that James believed Q or simply didn’t care if those were lies or not.  One way or another, though, instead of getting more bored with every secret that was revealed - making Q less and less mysterious - 007 seemed to be getting increasingly interested.  

When Q asked if James knew where Holding was, the agent had answered in the affirmative and even given directions to the far western side of the facilities - but when it was Bond’s turn to ask a question, he wanted to know, “Are you naturally a risk-taker?”  

The question had seemed so odd that Q had just stared and blinked for a moment, before suddenly bursting out in something like hysterical laughter.  He’d quickly gotten it under control, assuring Bond that, no, he wasn’t a risk-taker.  He was only doing this because he had to.  

“And you don’t enjoy playing ‘secret agent’ even a little bit?” Bond had asked next with a tempting smile.  

Unsettled, Q had looked away.  “You already used your question.”  In reality, though, the question felt like a seed in his mind, already growing roots.  Did he really hate all of this?  Up until now, he thought he had.  Up until now, of course, he’d also thought that Bond was like a lion: predatory, dangerous, and cunning in a feral, simplistic way.  

Now James was unfolding like a fractal, growing more complicated, and that was making it harder and harder for Q to figure out how to react to him.  

The conversation had reached a bit of a lull, if only because Q was trying to absorb so much information - not all of it related to Sherlock - and formulate more questions at the same time.  007’s idle pacing had brought them across the room again, to one of the mirrors that hadn’t been broken by rowdy Hounds, and Q had finally just stopped there, needing to think.  “Do you know why my brother is still in Holding after all this time?” he finally asked.    

With Q stationary, 007 shifted his pattern of movement so that he was like a big shark tethered to Q’s position, rhythmically and smoothly cutting a path back and forth behind Q, visible in the mirror.  “That I don’t know - not for sure,” James started, then went on, laying out information as easily as a butcher laid out cuts of meat, “But one of your employees might know.  A bloke I think has the nickname of ‘Merlin’.  Hart’s Handler, Roxy, is sleeping with him, I think, and word travels.”

“Jesus, does all of your information come second-hand from someone else’s pillow talk?” Q demanded in exasperation.  He didn’t turn away from the mirror for fear of his blush being more obvious than it was in his reflection.

James’s eyes met Q’s in the mirror, glinting with a wickedness that matched his slow smile.  “Sometimes I get it from first-hand pillow-talk.”  

This time, Q refused to react, although it took a massive force of will to keep his expression schooled.  He saw the responding glint of challenge in 007’s eyes, and spoke up to head the agent off at the pass, “So what did Agent Hart learn, then, from this friend-of-a-friend scenario?”

“Something about your brother mouthing off to people in power.”  James turned, paced the other way, his movements too purposeful to truly be called pacing.  “Accusations were made.  People were offended.  Does that sound like your brother?”

Groaning, Q pushed his fingertips up under his glasses and pressed them against his eyeballs.  “Yes.”  More to himself, he grumbled, “Sherlock, you idiot.”

007’s chuckle was a warm sound from two paces behind Q.  “My turn for a question?”

“Go for it,” Q muttered, still imagining Sherlock back-talking people with the power to have him executed - or, apparently, locked up indefinitely.  It took him a moment to realize that 007 hadn’t said anything yet, and that more than anything made the boffin suspicious.  He lowered his hands, looking up at the mirror again, finding the agent still behind him but favoring him now with a considering look.

Holding his ground in front of the mirror,  Q refused to show how unsettled he was now that he realized that he had a killer at his back.  The boffin also refused to turn around, instead watching as impassively as possible as 007 stalked with easy, lazy grace in the background.  The man slowly approached from behind, unexpectedly wrapping one hand around Q's shoulder.  Q tensed, but the grip was gentle, as was Bond’s other hand, which reached around to encircle Q’s waist.  Q’s breath caught, because up until now he’d have labeled his relationship with the unpredictable agent as 'tolerant at best.’  007 didn't mind the sudden breach of personal space, however, and met Q's eyes mischievously in the mirror as he snugged his chin over Q's shoulder.  Those dagger-blue eyes seemed to like whatever they saw in Q’s bespectacled hazel ones, although Q wasn’t sure how well he was hiding his surprise and fear by this point.  

A calloused hand traced from Q's shoulder down to his arm, finally gripping Q’s hand unexpectedly and raising it out in front of both of them.  "How would you like to be dangerous, Q?" 007 finally asked his question, voice low and husky - promising.  Q felt his breath catch.  Bond’s fingers folded around Q's as if grasping a gun, extending a scarred forefinger to form the barrel.  He pulled the 'trigger' at both of them in the mirror.  Those blue eyes promised so many things, and Bond's lips just brushed Q's ear, smiling, as he finished, "How would you like it if I were dangerous for you?  You’ve had a taste of danger, and you say you don’t like it, but maybe you’re just doing it wrong.  Maybe you need someone who’s an expert at that sort of thing."

Q dragged in a stuttering breath, his brain short-circuiting.  007 was a fearsome presence, almost shockingly solid and radiating a warm, living heat that made Q imagine for a fevered moment that he’d crawled up into James’s ribcage to nestle next to his kiln-shaped heart.  The man was devastating.  And the worst part was that his offer sounded sincere - and regardless of whether it was a total lie in reality, he was selling it like pure gold, impossible to ignore.  The power of suggestion was such that Q found himself involuntarily imagining what 007 was offering: with a man like 007 to shield him, Q could metaphorically walk through fire and know that he wouldn’t get burned.  It would be like having a guard-dog, a hunting hawk, a sentient gun sitting in his hands.  

Their joined hands were still hovering in front of them, and Q realized that this whole time he’d been staring fixedly down the make-believe barrel.  

Delayed reality hit Q like a bucket of ice-water, and he shuddered, mortified by the tendrils of temptation he could still feel slithering through his thoughts like silk ribbons.  Wisely, 007 backed away, being an old hand at reading body-language, no doubt.  The agent’s face was a mask, except for the tiny hint of a smile that was still in play.  “Think about it, Q,” he said as he retreated, “It’s a pity that genius like yours is held back by the fear of getting hurt, or getting your hands dirty - but I don’t have those fears.”

007 didn’t say anything more, just disappeared down the hall to the showers.  

Q was left standing, feeling like a puppet who’d just been played with and then had its strings cut - but the real problem was, he wasn’t sure whether or not he had been played.  007 was a pathological liar; he’d said so himself.  But he’d also turned Q inside out and showed him a corner inside of himself that he hadn’t known had existed, or if it was even real, outside of James’s gilded words.  Q’s logical side didn’t believe Bond for a second… but his illogical side, the side that was still inflamed by the feeling of chapped lips brushing his ear with every word, kept replaying the agent’s promise over and over again.  

Because, one way or another, Q somehow doubted that this was a promise that high-Pass agents made to just anyone.

~^~

The next morning was heralded by a rare break in the weather, sunlight cutting back the clouds - and a strange visitor, a boat carrying something other than new recruits.  The Director-General of the Joint Security Service - operating out of the Centre for National Security, which essentially owned Eigengrau - was coming for official business.  The visitors represented people who outranked M, so everyone was somewhat evilly looking forward to seeing their boss have to handle a more submissive role.  

It was just a small group of visitors, lead by a small, slightly built man with short black hair, a high forehead, and eyes of such a dark brown that the iris seemed to get lost in the pupil.  “Call me C,” he introduced, following the peculiar formalities of naming that existed on Eigengrau.  His smile was perfectly bureaucratic as he reached out and shook Mallory’s hand, M’s grip nearly swallowing his.  Despite being so much smaller, however, the Director-General looked entirely confident and at home.  “I haven’t visited Eigengrau in person before - would you believe it?” he exclaimed with breathless excitement.  

M, naturally a very reserved man, resisted the urge to beetle his brows, and merely replied, “Considering your recent promotion to your position, I imagine you’ve had better things to do with your time than to make social calls.  Or is this more than a social call?”  M was nobody’s fool, and while he carefully kept suspicion out of his tone, he was suspicious.  C had taken over the position of Director-General after the unfortunate death of his predecessor, and so far as Mallory could tell, no one had really had time to get a feel for the man yet.  Even without C’s unpredictable newness to consider, surprise visits from higher-ups were always cause for concern.

But C was quick to assure, waving a hand as if brushing away gnats, “Oh, no - noooo, there’s nothing more to this than me getting a feel for all the nooks and crannies of this new job.”  His smile was boyish and encouraged reciprocation, which was perhaps why Mallory felt the sudden urge to glower.  Anyone who worked around manipulative agents as much as he did gained a natural suspicion for any overt or pushy displays of friendliness.  Having no solid basis for his wariness, however, and because offending C would be career-suicide, Mallory shaped his mouth into a small smile.  

It was good enough.  

C went on to chatter about how exceedingly unexpected he found the facilities - “I guess I expected some sort of dungeon.  What better place to hold monsters, after all, right?” - and self-deprecatingly commenting on all the facets of Eigengrau that he’d underestimated when he’d reviewed it on paper.  “This program really is incredible,” he stressed, drawing out ‘really’ as if M somehow wouldn’t get the point if he didn’t.  M was unsure if it was meant to be patronizing or if this was just C’s natural speech-pattern.  The two men and two women who’d come with C from the Centre for National Security didn’t seem to notice.  “I mean, you’ve literally got Britain's - dare I say the world’s - most dangerous men and women at your beck and call.  With the spreading of morality-enforcing AIs, I imagine that a lot of people envy you that power.”

“What power exactly are you referring to?”  Mallory was an old hat at political pussyfooting, and knew how to feel out the situation without also putting his foot in his mouth.  He kept his tone formal and offhand.  

“Holding the leashes to tigers, of course,” C said, with a confiding look as if Mallory should have already known this.  C looked ahead again, as they continued their tour of Eigengrau, walking down hall after hall.  C mused, “The Sybil System has made housecats of everyone, and while that has its benefits, there’s a certain envy to be felt in looking back at our wilder roots.  Eigengrau is like a zoo, only it can also choose to send its lions and tigers and bears out into the world now and then.”

M wasn’t sure where this was going, but some of the ideas he was hearing made him uneasy.  “I’m not sure there’s that much to envy,” he cautioned, political niceties be damned, “A zoo is just a gaol with a nicer name, and those tigers are kept under lock and key.”

“Exactly,” C agreed unexpectedly, then abruptly changed the subject and continued to talk like a jubilant fop.  

~^~

Harry Hart was playing a friendly game of chess with his Handler.  Congenial relationships between Hounds and Handlers were not altogether uncommon - they had to work together to be competent outside of Eigengrau, after all, and smart Hounds quickly realized that they lived longer, happier lives if they made friends with their Handlers.  Nevertheless, Harry had had a truly atrocious Handler before Roxy (a man named Arthur who’d ultimately suffered from a rapidly rising Psychopass, and had had to be retired prematurely), and was therefore particularly grateful for her good company.  She was a young girl, chatty, and sometimes still a bit naive for his tastes, but she could be depended upon to do her job on missions, and keep Harry’s interests in mind as well as her own.

She also had the most delightful ear for gossip.  

“Is that the Director-General?” Harry asked, glancing up just briefly from the chessboard.  He was winning, handily, but he had hopes that Roxy would get better at the game someday.  “I heard that he was visiting, but I’ll admit I thought he would be taller.”

“His predecessor was.  That’s the present Director-General, though, newly minted,” Roxy said, pouting down at the board.  Her nature was just a bit too impulsive for chess, but she knew that if she gave in and played chess with Harry, it would be easier to coax him into sparring with her later.  Some people frowned at sparring with one’s Hound, stating that it not only gave them insight into all of your fighting techniques but also gave them a convenient opportunity to hurt you, but Roxy did it anyway.  If there was anything she had learned about Harry Hart, it was that he was as much a gentleman as he was a killer.  When necessary he was capable of shooting a man without blinking, but unless Roxy were to try and kill him first, he was positively polite around her.  Sometimes she could get him to set that politeness aside and go a few rounds on the mats, an educational event that taught her quite a lot every time.  Instead of moving any of her pieces, she looked up from their spot in the common-room at the gaggle of officials on the catwalk above them, led by M and the Director-General.  She smirked and stifled a giggle, “God, it looks like M wants to shoot himself.  The Director-General must be a real bore.”

“Now now, it doesn’t do to insult our betters,” Harry chided, but Roxy could see - from an angle invisible to those above - that Harry was grinning wryly.  “You’re stalling,” he said a moment later, reminding  her of the board.  Roxy returned reluctantly to the game.  

Of course, by the next move, Roxy wanted to stall again, because this match was seriously not going in her favor.  So she asked, “Hey, have you met that new pilot?”

“The replacement for the murdered helicopter pilot?” Harry replied, unrattled by the subject matter, “No, I can’t say I have.  Why, is he good company?”

“Actually, you’d probably hate him,” Roxy said after a moment of considering it.  

Intrigued grey eyes shifted from the chessboard up to her face.  “Oh really?  I would, would I?” he asked mildly, dryly.  

This time, it seemed safer to play the game than to answer.  Roxy just shrugged, moved a piece, and then tried not to feel too devastated when Harry put her in checkmate.

~^~

Usually, Harry was a pragmatic man, not given to flights of fancy, but Roxy’s comment yesterday about the pilot had made him mildly curious - and what else did he have to do with his time?  In Harry’s opinion, it was the height of stupidity to ground this many high-Pass agents for this long, because the only thing that kept most of his fellows in line and out of trouble was constant business.  At this point, Harry had to admit that going on missions was even a bit fun.  He enjoyed the espionage facet immensely, and wasn’t opposed to a good fight if it came to that, and the feeling of accomplishment helped to settle something restless beneath his skin.  And Harry wasn't even the worst - most of the Hounds got cabin fever far sooner than Harry did, and it was something of a miracle that only two of them had been locked up so far.  It didn’t surprise Harry to know that Bond had been involved in the most recent altercation (007 was brash, unprincipled, and had an ego the size of Eigengrau), but the separate incident with Hannibal had been somewhat unexpected.  Harry didn’t know Hannibal all that well - no one did - but he knew enough to say that 003 was possibly the most patient man he’d ever met.  

“He should have been the last one to go stir-crazy,” Harry mused to himself, walking alone towards the west wing.  Ultimately, though, it wasn’t his business.  Sure, he didn’t believe for a second that Hannibal was guilty in this instance, but as a high-Pass agent, Harry knew that no one in power was liable to ask his opinion on the matter.  It was bloody frustrating, but it was just the way things were.  

So, with nothing better to occupy the time or take the edge off his restlessness, Harry meandered towards a part of the building rumor had it that this new fellow, ‘Oxford,’ was often seen in.  Harry had entirely too many skills for stalking people to let them go to waste just because he was off-mission…  And since Roxy was with Merlin, she’d never be the wiser.  

It had taken a bit of careful nosiness to find out where Oxford would be, but Harry was a patient man, and good at listening.  The fact that he often wore glasses and could pull off a paternal look helped, too.  Part of the benefits of cultivating a gentlemanly persona was that few employees were truly afraid of him - and those who were nervous quickly loosened up with a bit of gentle small-talk.  The only Hound who socialized more rapidly was probably Harkness, but Harry cringed at his more flamboyant methods.  Regardless, it had taken only a day for Harry to feel out Oxford’s habits, and learn that the young man had a habit of walking alone down this way, as the day drew to a close.  He’d also learned that Oxford was young, gregarious, and spoke with an accent that made many people think that he was under-educated, and if that was why Roxy thought Harry wouldn’t like him, then he was going to have to have a polite chat with her.  

There was one unexpected bit of information that he’d gleaned, however, something that had nearly been enough to crack his benign, posh mask and show real shock beneath.  “The kid’s got some sort of pendant,” one of the cooks had said, reflecting on random facts about Oxford while serving Harry’s food at supper, “Don’ know what it means, but it’s like a circle in a circle, and then some pattern inside that.  Didn’t get a close look, but it was pretty.  Maybe you’ve seen somethin’ like it in your travels.  You agents are always going exotic places.”  

That was true, but when Harry had asked for more specifics about the description, he’d begun to suspect that this pendant wasn’t foreign at all.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  

The older agent paused in his walking, setting his foot down quietly and then freezing in place.  Head cocking, he listened to voices around the corner.  He quickly recognized an MLE accent that could be Oxford, but also another, a speaker he didn’t know by sound.  Interest piqued but heart rate still slow and steady, Harry looked around with a trained eye, found a likely place to go unnoticed, and then hid himself with unhurried, silent steps.  ‘Only fools rushed in,’ as the saying went, and Harry Hart was in no way a fool.  

The more  he listened, the more the MLE accent was familiar in a nagging sort of way, but Harry couldn’t place it.  Eigengrau had so many people and such a high turnover rate that he’d heard nearly every accent imaginable anyway, and not just British-based ones.  “Yeah, I’m ready.  I said I was, didn’t I?” that voice was saying, sounding tense, the consonants coming out even harder with frustration.  Oxford sounded very young.  

The other voice, older, lower, but also male, replied with more measured, untroubled speech, “Just checking.”

“Why?  You think I’m gonna chicken out?  That’s it, innit?” was the increasingly sharp reply.  Harry could hear the knife-edge in those words, and it made him narrow his eyes.

“Of course not,” the other answered smoothly, but Harry recognized the edge on those words, too: no anger this time, but a calmer threat, like a cold scalpel.  Harry frowned, because it was a tone he usually would have expected to hear from high-Pass agents,  articulate yet immorally cold in a way that few people with a Psychopass below one-hundred were.  The unseen man finished lightly, “Because you know that as bad as things look now, they’ll look much, much worse if you don’t play your part.  Good night, Oxford.”

The sound of retreating footsteps filled the quiet, quickly fading to nothing.  Harry held his ground, though, knowing that moving too quickly could flush his game prematurely.  His patience paid off just seconds later as he heard an explosive curse, revealing that the younger fellow - probably the pilot, Oxford, was still there.  It took a few beats, but he started walking, too, in the opposite direction of his threatening companion, towards Harry.  The agent held his position, confident that he was in shadow, tucked away in the doorway of an unused, open side-room.  

He saw the boy’s silhouette first - not a large chap, probably shorter than Harry, lighter, too.  It wasn’t until Oxford walked further and the lighting changed, however, that Harry’s breath caught quietly in his chest.  Sharp slashes of eyebrows above clear hazel eyes, a familiar jawline leading to a slightly cleft chin - the resemblance wasn’t perfect, but it was uncanny, especially when combined with the pendant he could see resting against the pilot’s Eigengrau-issued shirt.  

Harry had had a pendant just like that.  Before he’d been arrested and brought to Eigengrau for having a dangerously high Psychopass.  

Usually capable of standing still for hours, not moving a muscle even under duress, Harry had to struggle not to break his cover as Oxford - which was most definitely not this boy’s name - slouched past, hands in pockets and shoulders defensively rounded.  After the pilot had made it a few strides down the hall, however, Harry stepped smoothly out.  He faced the back of the boy’s head squarely, and said in a calm but clarion tone that he knew from experience carried like a dinner bell, “Oxford, is it?  As in…”  He let that silence hang for just a second, even as he watched the boy freeze in his tracks.  “... ‘Oxfords Not Brogues’?”

“Fuck,” the boy spat, spinning, his eyes wide with alarm.  He had to still be in his mid-twenties, and all Harry could think was that he was far too young for the inside of Eigengrau’s walls.  “Did you just melt out of the fucking shadows?” the pilot demanded exasperatedly.

It was reflexive to chide, “Manners,” even as Harry’s brain was working at a rapid pace, trying to figure out what this all meant.  

“Isn’t it good manners to introduce yourself instead of just sneaking up on a bloke?” was the whip-fast retort.  

Harry raised a measured brow, then dipped his head in a polite nod that conceded the point.  “Of course.”  He nodded a bit deeper, almost a bow, perfectly measured to appear gracious.  “Harry Hart.”

“The pleasure’s all yours,” the boy grumbled back, wariness coming off him in waves.  “Now I suppose you want my name, that right?”

“Actually, what I’m more interested in,” Harry said as he began to step forward slowly but steadily, “is where you got that pendant.”  He watched the way Oxford, or whatever his name was, shifted his balance and angled his body, telegraphing a strong desire to bolt.  

“Why you wanna know?” Oxford tossed back like a challenge.  Harry raised an eyebrow again, reevaluating his measure of the boy’s courage as balanced with his defensive body-language.  

“Because-”  Harry stopped talking, having calculated correctly when the pilot would move.  The only reason that Harry was prepared for an attack rather than an escape was the last-minute glint he’d seen in the boy’s keen eyes.  Harry met it, sweeping the young man’s first punch to the side, and gripping onto the wrist as it passed.  It was actually only as he did this that he saw the small knife protruding from the boy’s hand, well hidden, but with more than enough blade extended to do some damage.  Harry used his grip, and the boy’s momentum, to swing Oxford into the wall.  It was a not entirely unpleasant surprise when Oxford didn’t give up, even when Harry’s full weight was pushing his face into the wall and his knife-hand was disabled.  Harry had to weather a well-aimed elbow to his ribs, absorbing the blow with a grunt before leisurely finishing his sentence, “-I happen to know everyone I have ever given one of those to, and for your sake, I hope you’re one of them.  I can’t abide by thieves.  So tell me…”  It took just a moment to cast back in his memory, recalling another young man, another set of clear eyes - snuffed out while saving Harry’s life.  The pendant had gone to the man’s young son.  “Are you Gary Unwin?”

The pilot stopped struggling.  “Oh, shit.”

At first, Harry smiled, because that was as good as an answer - and he already knew he was right.  Gary Unwin was a dead ringer for his father, even if Harry couldn’t parse out what the devil the boy was doing here, now, conversing with dangerous-sounding men in the heart of Eigengrau.  

It turned out that the soft expletive had nothing to do with being found out, however.

Because right then, everything went dark.

~^~

Chapter Text

10 minutes earlier: Q-branch

~^~

Now that all of the agents had Smartblood, Q was beginning to realize that Q-branch was meant to be a nine-to-five job.  Everyone arrived after breakfast and left before supper, which grated on Q’s workaholic tendencies, but it also meant that he’d have time to work on freeing Sherlock.  It was perfect, really, because now that Q had learned from 007 where Sherlock was - an encounter that still made the boffin shiver, although he wasn’t entirely certain it was from fear anymore - he needed some alone-time to figure out what to do next.  

So now, with Q-branch devoid of everyone - even H - Q was working quietly on the problem in one of the back cubicles.  He’d purposefully left the lights off when he’d returned to Q-branch after supper, and instead of holing up in his office where people would think to look for him, he brought his laptop over to someone else’s cubicle, keeping the screen light turned down low.  The laptop, like every other piece of technology in Eigengrau, was connected to the Eigengrau networks and therefore very well-guarded against hacking, but now that Q had precise knowledge about his brother’s location, he felt confident that he could bypass the necessary firewalls.  He worked carefully, however, just in case he was wrong, and so was still there, hours later, when the main door to Q-branch opened.  

During regular hours, when the branch was heavily populated with personnel, the doors would let just about anyone in; now, though, it should have been set so that only personnel with the appropriate codes could get in, so Q  was mildly curious but not particularly worried.  He’d have to explain why he was using Simon Runkle's cubicle, of course, but he thought that he could do that without too much trouble.  After all, he was apparently a pretty skilled liar when he was dealing with anyone but 007.  Hoping that it wasn’t Runkle walking in right now, Q peered up over the edge of the cubicle cautiously.  

When multiple silhouettes filed in and no one turned on any lights, however, Q felt the blood in his veins go cold.  

Only once the door was closed again did Q hear a newly familiar voice say, “All right, let’s get some lights on in here!”  The arrival of lights showed that the speaker was, of all people, the Director-General, and that he had about seven other individuals with him, one of whom was using a chair to jam the doors shut against anyone else entering.  They hadn’t turned on all the lights, leaving Q’s portion of the room in shadow, but he still ducked down below the edge of the cubicle desk as nameless fear washed through him.  Something was very, very wrong here.  

Q had recognized some of the other people with C as part of the entourage that had arrived with the man, but there were others that Q swore were regular employees of Eigengrau - or new recruits, whose faces he was only just starting to recognize.  Even worse, he saw Root, sans Handler.  He was also positive that he’d seen guns on them, even though C’s group, at least, had not been armed when they’d come by earlier in the day for a tour of Q-branch.  Now, looking back, Q thought that C had been entirely too interested in how things worked down here, especially as the bespectacled young man began to hear keys tapping.  Still not sure what was going on, Q quietly turned down the light on his laptop screen as low as it would go to remove as much glow as possible, and opened up another program - it took him only a few moments to remotely connect to the only other computer in the area that was online.  With a few more carefully hushed double-taps on the touchpad, he activated the other computer’s camera.  Immediately, Q had an image of C’s dark, dark eyes and rabidly triumphant expression on his screen.  Q’s breath caught before he reminded himself that this wasn’t a video call - the man on the other end couldn’t see him, but clearly was interested in something.  A few more commands showed Q the same screen that C was seeing, and what he saw had him sucking in another swift, soft breath.

C was a hacker.  A good one.  Q could tell that by the programs that were up and running on the screen, a veritable beehive of digital activity.  These were programs that only Q-branch and a few other facilities on Eigengrau had access to, although to truly meddle with any of them, some firewalls would have to be messily knocked down.  Chin on hand, Q tried to figure out what C was doing before he remembered that this laptop had a touch-screen. Bringing up the virtual keyboard, he silently typed up and sent a quick message to Security: “Unauthorized personnel in Q-branch.  Send assistance.”

As soon as Q sent it, however, he realized that Security should have been tracking all of the high-Pass agents’ signals.  If Root was here, then either people had been alerted already, or there was no one in Security in any condition to be alerted.  The thought chilled Q to his bones, and his hand began to shake.    

A millisecond before the man’s mouth moved on the video feed, Q heard C call out lazily, “How are things coming along on that machine of yours, hmm?”

For a panicked second, Q thought C was talking to him, but then Root responded, “I’ll have her purring like a kitten in just a minute.”  Her smooth voice made it sound like she was talking to a lover, gentle and sweet.  “If anything, I should be asking if you need help.  You doing okay, sweetheart?”

“Oh, I think I can manage,” C murmured back with a grin so lopsided it was like part of his face wasn’t responding, making the expression supremely unsettling.  And looking at C’s hacking work, he definitely didn’t need any help.  As Q watched, what had to be a premade virus was let loose on the computers; it was something that Q would have employed himself if he’d been able to smuggle it in.  Unfortunately, even Quartermasters didn’t have carte blanche the way Director-Generals apparently did.  The virus began spreading and eating its way into firewalls at an alarming rate, and Q had to open up a few more programs just to track and analyze it as fast as he could.  Q sent another message, this one to M’s office and then to his personal number, which Q  wasn’t supposed to have.  If the man was on duty or off, Q wanted him to know that something was happening - something bad - and that parts of Security might already be compromised.  

That was the last message Q managed to send before he realized something: the virus was masterful work, like a highly advanced and useful plague.  And like a plague, it was spreading to any victim it came in contact with… and all of the systems at Eigengrau were interconnected.  

Q almost swore out loud, and only just managed to keep his scrambling quiet.  His own computer was already infected - it was connected to the main server.  Q had his tablet with him, though, and since it was turned off…  it was clean.  The problem was, it was also useless, because everything in Eigengrau ran through those same, infected systems-

And right then, C made a sound of triumph as his virus chewed through enough firewalls to give him facility-wide access.  

C began to shut things down.  Q watched through his computer, horrified, as power, wifi, even emergency systems were turned off.  Q’s laptop was already showing signs of being affected by the virus , and he felt himself hyperventilating as he admitted to himself that there was already nothing he could do.  

“There!  Got it,” Root said with deep satisfaction.  He heard her tapping something metallic, presumably her machine.  “She’s running.  The interference should keep anyone from activating these pesky collars, even if we’re right on top of them when they push the button.”  

Shit.  This was planned out.  Very planned out.  The collars were probably the only system that C wouldn’t have been able to remotely hack, because it was too dangerous for agents in the field - it was useful for a Handler to be able to put down an agent if necessary, but not for an enemy operative to hack the signal that could kill the Hound that was hunting them.  But if C and his people had some sort of signal jammer strong enough to prevent anyone in the building from connecting to the collars, then the watch on everyone’s wrist was suddenly only good for keeping the time.  

But… the Hounds still couldn’t get their collars off.  Q realized that that was another system yet again, and one that couldn’t be resolved by a souped-up signal-jammer.  Suddenly recognizing that maybe there was something he could do, Q closed his laptop - practically dead now, so sick that the screen was fuzzing out and freezing - and carefully slipped his satchel (holding his tablet) across his chest.  He cast back in his photographic memory for where H had put the little device that could unlock collars.  

“The lights have been turned down, the curtains are drawn,” C said, filling the quiet while Q slipped, bent low, through the shadows, “I think it’s time for the main show to begin, don’t you?”  There were murmurs of agreement, and Q paused at a workbench nervously.  After just a moment’s thought, he took the blow torch that someone had been using on a project earlier in the day, as well as the box of matches next to it.  H was paranoid about that kind of thing, being of the mind that guns and ammo should be locked away separately, but Q had never been happier to find these two things in the same place.  

Q startled as he heard a crackle above his head, taking a second to realize that C had left power to just one thing: the building-wide intercom system.  Now he was making good use of it, the tone of his voice rising into a high and unsettling singsong as he crowed, “Helloooooo there everybody!  Hopefully I’m not interrupting anything - although what’s there to interrupt?”  His laugh was wild and gleeful, and then his voice shifted suddenly to a wild roar, “Because everything is shut down!”  After a pause in which Q froze midstep, afraid of being heard if he moved, C went on again, flipping like a switch back to calm.  “If any of you haven’t figured it out already, this is a takeover.  I know, I know, it’s so sudden, but I think that’s the best - like ripping off a band-aid.  Get it over with quickly.”  

Q was no longer as much in shadow as he’d have liked, but he’d reached the desk he wanted - H’s desk.  It had a locked drawer, but Q had the key, and he waited for C to speak again so that no one would hear the light grinding of the pins in the lock.  

“I’m sure that some of you are asking, now, whyyyy take over what is basically a big zoo?”  Q had no idea why C was emphasizing the word ‘zoo’ with such vehemence, but by this point, he was pretty sure that C was a few eggs short of a dozen.  C went on, low and vicious and dramatic, “Who would take over a zoo?  Hmm.  It’s easy, really - someone who cares about the magnificent creatures caged up in that zoo.”

Q had the drawer open, and soon had the collar-key in hand.  He slipped it into a secure pouch in his satchel made specifically for carrying small gadgets like this, even as he began to slowly register what C was saying.  He imagined that his dawning horror was not unlike the effect of seeing a tidal wave roaring down upon a beach, inescapable.

“So you see, this message is for the Hounds.  You probably haven’t noticed, but your collars are harmless now - just bands of metal.  No one can kill you with them,” C had grown more impassioned, more delighted, but sobered enough to add in a suddenly low tone, “And if you want them taken off, then you’ll meet me at Helicopter Pad C, where you can decide: stay here like a tiger in a cage, or come with me and… explore more employment options.  I guarantee I pay better.  Don’t believe me?  How about a familiar voice?”  

There was the sound of C’s chair rolling back followed by Root’s voice purring over the intercom, heard by all of Eigengrau, “If you were waiting for a ringing endorsement, here it is.  I don’t know about you, but I’m getting pretty tired of being collared and kenneled like a dog.  Sorry, Fusco.”  Q recalled that that was the name of her Handler.  Root actually sounded vaguely regretful, but only in the shallowest of ways, and he could imagine her pretty pout, her dangerously cold eyes above it.    

C rolled back to the microphone, finishing up the narrative, “That’s my offer - take it or leave it.  I’m sure you have a lot to think about.”

“And a lot of people to discuss it with,” Root chimed in, her voice close enough that the speaker still picked it up - right down to the violent edge sewn into the word ‘discuss.’  These were the types of discussion that ended in blood and a dead body or two, and Q picked up his pace towards the nearest exit, realizing that he was watching the equivalent of a bomb going off.  Insanity and destruction would soon follow.  

“I’ll give you… oh… how about three days to think about it, starting at dawn tomorrow?  Help isn’t coming, and Eigengrau is literally its own little world, so why rush?  Christ  rose from the dead in three days, coincidentally, for those of you who subscribe to that myth,” C elaborated spiritedly.  All Q could hear was: three days of bloodbath.  It would be a purge.  While the employees of Eigengrau outnumbered the Hounds fifteen-to-one, a large number of those employees were just pencil-pushers, secretaries, tech-analysts, maintenance - and one Hound was dangerous enough to take on absolutely monstrous odds and still come out on top, bloodsoaked.  To make matters worse, the guards were used to hunting in packs and coordinating their numbers through radio, phone, and the very same intercom C was using, but Q was willing to bet that C had knocked out all of those means of communication.  Everyone was on their own, except for those people they were already with.  The high-Pass agents, on the other hand, were solitary hunters.  They worked best alone - specialized in it, actually, Handlers notwithstanding.  

And then C suddenly put the fucking cherry on top: “Oh, one last thing I just remembered.  I heard you locked up one of your agents because he committed a murder.  Well, guess what?  It wasn’t him!”  Q froze as the wild laughter rolled around the room like a storm, amplified by the speakers but also coming directly from the man across the room.  C calmed down to add in an excited tone, “So I let the agent go.  Wasn’t that nice of me?  Freeing the innocent?”

Fuck.  Hannibal was free.  Q’s blood had permanently frozen in his veins.   

“I now return you to your regular programming,” C humorously mocked.  Q, no longer able to hide his every sound, scrambled faster towards the door.  

He almost sensed the eyes that turned toward him before a new voice called out, collected and low and male, “Someone else is in here.  Heading for the door.  Go!”  

There was a whole room of desks and cubicles in the way, but it still didn’t feel like enough as Q clutched his satchel to keep it from jouncing, and bolted flat-out for the door.  He all but ran into it, skidding and scrambling with the handle, already hearing feet behind him.  The last thing he heard before he quit Q-branch and escaped into the lightless hall was C chuckling self-assuredly, “Don’t worry, Seb will handle it.  That’s what he’s here for - to remove things that get in my way.”  And C catcalled into the speakers one more time, “Run, boy! Run!  The game is afoot!” followed by delighted laughter.  

~^~

“Sir!”  Ianto’s voice was so familiar that Mallory could have recognized him in the midst of any chaos - even the chaos they were all facing now: the siege of Eigengrau.  Mallory had been in his personal quarters, but of course Ianto would appear there as if by magic.  “Sir, there’s a load of people coming, and I don’t think they’re friendly.”   

“After that lunatic’s little speech, I’m not feeling very friendly myself,” Mallory seethed quietly, but strapped on his shoulder-holster.  His steely grey eyes flicked over the weapon, hands going through the process of checking it efficiently.  He hadn’t found time to fire it in weeks, but he hoped that wasn’t long enough to get out of practice.  Absently noting that the perimeter lights warning ships away had not failed as pale, orange-hued light filtered in the windows and gleamed on the gun beneath his fingers, he recalled that their power systems were separate, for exactly this reason.  “You should get going,” he encouraged, glancing at the younger man in the doorway.  

His secretary gave him a deadpan look, tipping his head and looking up from under his raised eyebrows.  “You’re serious.”

“I’m serious that there’s a mob of high-Pass agents headed this way, and that I’ve got the biggest target painted on my back because I know the codes to open up their collars,” Mallory retorted shortly, holstering the gun and dragging on a coat over it.  The heating must have gone out with the power; it was already getting cooler.  “The Hounds’ collars might not be working right now, but I bet a month’s vacation that they didn’t turn them off permanently - if those agents leave this island, and any of us catch up with them, we’ll be able to end them with the push of a button.”

“In that case, we might have a problem.”

“Besides a score of killers closing in?  Lead by the bloody Director-General?” Mallory couldn’t help but snark back bad-temperedly as he fished for his extra ammunition, stuffing it into pockets.  

“Well, as much as they need you for your codes, they need the keys to open the collars, too,” Ianto finished, unfazed by his boss’s tone, although the whites of his eyes showed that he was, indeed, afraid right now.  He produced something from a pocket: a familiar little device shaped like a flashdrive.  Ianto finished morosely, “This is one, but that leaves two unaccounted for.”

“One in my office…” Mallory grimaced, wishing that he were more paranoid.  Up until now, though, it had seemed safer to keep it in a locked strongbox than on his person - which now seemed stupid.  

“And one in Q-branch,” Ianto finished.

Mallory remembered the messages that he’d received on his phone, just minutes before everything had gone to shit.  He froze.  

Ianto shifted nervously.  “What is it?”  

“C and Root are in Q-branch,” Mallory said hollowly, and when Ianto’s eyes grew huge, M went on, dragging a hand hurriedly over his face and trying to think, “Q was there, too, and tried to raise the alarm, but I think that that bastard, C, must have had men attack Security first.  He’s also got men on the inside, because a coup like this would take more people than those he came here with.”

“Wait, if Q was in Q-branch,” Ianto went on, proving why he had this job, and M’s ear - he was quick-minded, “then was he the one they were…?”  

Both men were thinking about the last words they’d heard jeering through the intercom: ‘Run, boy! Run!…’  

“We don’t know that they were chasing down Q,” Mallory said soberly, but he didn’t believe it.  No.  He couldn’t believe it.  The head of Eigengrau straightened.  “There’s a chance that Q has the other key.  He’s not stupid - he’d be aware of its importance.”  Noises of shouting further down the hall made both men turn their heads like stags hearing the distant baying of hounds.  “And either way, we can’t worry about that, because Q-branch is halfway across the entirety of Eigengrau.”

“Here.”  Ianto seemed to come to some decision, approaching and passing the collar-key over to M.  The older man noticed immediately that despite his outwardly calm appearance, Ianto’s hands were shaking violently.  But the young secretary nonetheless stepped back, towards the door, saying stalwartly, “You take that, and I’ll go get the other key from your office.  I know the combination to the lockbox.”

“That’s a suicide run,” Mallory informed him bluntly to dissuade him.

Ianto smiled a watery little half-smile, starting to look as afraid as he felt, no doubt.  But he wasn’t letting it stop him yet.  “Not with you running off in another direction.  At the very least, it’ll distract everyone, split their forces.  Not that I want to use you as bait, sir,” he finished congenially.  

Suddenly, Mallory couldn’t help the fierce grin that stretched across his face.  “I keep underestimating you,” he commented, something he’d said a few times since hiring the baby-faced young secretary with the impressive resume and magical coffee-making skills.  

“I’ll take that as a compliment, sir.”  Ianto turned to make way for Mallory at the door

As they both slipped out to make their escapes, Mallory laid a hand on Ianto’s shoulder before they could separate.  “Take it as an incentive to survive.  You don’t look threatening, and I don’t think C saw your face upon his arrival, meaning you’re anonymous, so long as you don’t deal with any Eigengrau employees ...”  Mallory pressed something into Ianto’s hand: a knife and an ankle sheath.  Before Ianto could protest, looking at the blade as if it might bite him, M insisted, “Don’t try to strap it on - just carry it.  And don’t hesitate to use it.”  Mallory squeezed Ianto’s fingers closed around the weapon with a crushing grip, desperately hoping that he’d see this boy alive at the end of this, but knowing that it was out of his hands.  He finished, “Because you can bet that those against us aren’t going to hesitate to kill you.”

Hoping that his last sentence would scare Ianto just enough to get him to defend himself, Mallory stepped out into the hall, gauging where the noise was coming from, and shouting in that direction, “Are you looking for the head of Eigengrau?  Well you found me, you filthy cocksucking bastards!  Now come and get me!”  Wasting no more time, he darted off down a side hallway, away from any of the living quarters, avoiding any collateral damage as he led the human equivalent of a pack of rabid wolves through the building.  

His last glance was of Ianto’s wide-eyed, young, scared face before the Welshman ran off in the opposite direction, swift and silent.  

~^~

“What the hell is going on?” Harry growled, all semblance of gentlemanliness gone as he kept his grip on Gary - or Oxford, or whoever the fuck he was - and pulled him back just to slam him against the wall again.  The youth writhed against the hand on his shirt-collar and the other on his wrist, bending his arm up behind his back.  The knife had long-since fallen to the floor to be kicked away.

“It’s - It’s what he said,” the pilot panted, expression hard to read in the dark but voice appropriately strained, “on the intercom.  It’s a coup.”

“And you’re part of it,” Harry guessed stonily.  He watched as the boy nodded, cheek against the wall.  Slowly regaining his composure, when he spoke again, the agent’s voice was smooth and cool like the skin of a snake, “I suggest you explain what you know while I still have the patience to listen to it.”

“Why?” the boy had the gall to gasp back, the glint of his eyes opening and turning back to Harry in the dark showing surprise.  “You’re one of ‘em, ain't you?  A high-Pass agent, like them that C’s offering freedom to?”

“I am, but I’m cynical enough not to trust an offer from what is obviously a madman,” Harry drawled jadedly.

Surprisingly, the boy chuckled, very faintly.  “You ain’t wrong.  C’s mad as a sack of cats.”  

“And yet you work for him?”

This time the pause was followed by grudging answer of, “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.”

“Gary,” Harry said, because he truly did think this was Gary Unwin, the son of the man who’d died for Harry so many years ago, “it might have skipped your attention, but it’s a very poor idea to go about antagonizing a man with a Psychopass of one-hundred and thirty.”  At the same time, he pushed the pilot’s arm higher up his back, almost between his shoulder-blades.  The careful application of pressure made the pilot tense and gasp, and Harry reflexively calculated how much further he could go before the shoulder popped out of its socket.  “Don’t play games when you don’t have the upper hand,” he suggested seriously.  

“Name’s Eggsy.  And maybe-” the boy’s breath puffed out, and his teeth gleamed white as he bared them in discomfort, but then kept doggedly talking, “-I've more of an upper hand than you think, guv.”  

Without warning, Harry felt Eggsy’s foot hook behind his ankle.  It was so unexpected that the agent was flooded with surprise, and reacted with only a fraction of his normal speed, as Eggsy bucked hard at the same time that he pulled at Harry’s ankle with his.  They both went toppling over backwards, landing on the floor in an ungainly heap as Harry failed to catch his balance.  

Reflexes died hard, and it was instinct for Harry to let go of Eggsy and attempt to stop his own fall instead.  Therefore, the boy was able to twist loose, but Harry also wasn’t completely winded by the landing.  As Eggsy bounced to his feet with all the sprightliness of youth, Harry followed suit a bit more slowly, but only because he was calculating his options, judging distances, and deciding whether or not he could stomach killing the son of an old friend.  Contrary to popular belief, a high Psychopass, in Harry’s experience, did not mean a total lack of morals or regret - it simply meant that those two things followed a different, unique set of rules that society didn’t know how to understand.  

The fact that Eggsy had located his knife again didn’t help matters.  

Still, Harry made a decision.  “Eggsy,” he said, firm like iron but not threatening, just as he saw the boy’s body tense to turn and run.  As he’d predicted - hoped - the pilot froze at the unexpected use of his name.  It wasn’t the title that Harry remembered, but the boy certainly answered to it.

“I don’t nark.  So you can keep asking questions all you want, but I’m not gonna tell you nothing,” the boy said stubbornly.  He was clearly still torn between facing the danger - Harry - and running, but already the boy had attacked once rather than run, and now his hands were balled into fists, switchblade protruding once more from his right.  Harry rather thought Eggsy meant what he said, too, about not giving out information.  He remembered that same loyalty from the elder Unwin, and felt a little flare of melancholy in his heart at the memory.  

“So I’ll just be wasting my breath?” Harry made conversation as he thought.  He made his posture relaxed, stance easy, and even looked away from Eggsy to brush himself off a little.  

“Yup,” was the stubborn, succinct answer.  

Harry sighed, “Well, that’s a shame,” and then committed himself to the action to follow.  While not a spry young buck like Eggsy, or even like some of the newer Hounds, Harry was ferociously fast, and more than that, he was a man who knew precisely how his body worked and how to control it.  Young men could lop off a head with pure strength and a sword, but Harry had the control to kill a man with a pin precisely because he knew how and where to apply a fraction of his speed and strength, yet still get the same results.  That was one of the reasons that Harry Hart so rarely saw eye to eye with James Bond - for James, fighting was a melee, a struggle of bodies and a clashing of power, but to Harry, it was a dance, one in which he’d spent most of his lifetime learning the steps to perfection.  

When Harry rushed Eggsy, he could see the precise moment when the boy realized that Harry was a lot faster than he expected him to be.  Harry smiled a little bit, taking that as a compliment - he wasn’t an old man, and hated it when people assumed that he was of a retiring nature.  Eggsy had just enough time to gasp, “Oh, shhhhit-” before Harry was on him.  It was a surprise, therefore, when Eggsy managed to block the first punch, albeit sloppily.  Harry adjusted, machinelike, and felt his next punch connect solidly with Eggsy’s ribs - but he wasn’t ready for the feeling of very real regret he endured when the boy pivoted with a noise of pain.  The boy was tough, though, tough in a way that someone his age really shouldn’t have been, and when Harry pulled his next punch, Eggsy came back harder, knife leading.  The boy was truly fearless, which Harry usually regarded as a terribly stupid trait, but he remembered Eggsy’s father having the same reckless spirit - it was what had made him memorable, made him worthwhile.  Harry could see the almost rabid will to survive burning in Eggsy’s eyes, too, even as Harry swerved out of the way of the first wild slash.  

Changing tactics, Harry deflected Eggsy’s next blow and then swept the boy’s legs out from under him.  Eggsy landed hard, but still found breath to curse before rolling over quickly.  Harry didn’t follow through, instead using the time to remove his tie, already planning his next move.  As in chess, he preferred to be at least three steps ahead.  He circled idly until Eggsy scrambled to his feet, then raised an expectant eyebrow as angry, forthright eyes glared bloody murder at him.  

“You could always just choose to cooperate,” Harry allowed.  

Eggsy shook his head, bull-like, circling in time to Harry.  “I don’t nark.”

“You clearly don’t like these people,” Harry tried again, seeking a logical way through this that wouldn’t require him to beat this boy to a pulp.  

“Yeah, well…”  Eggsy spat to one side, a clear sign of his contempt.  His eyes never left Harry, though; smart boy.  “When I give me word, I give me word, even to utter arseholes.”

Harry sighed deeply, being careful not to draw attention to the tie he still held in his left hand.  “I figured I owed it to your father to at least ask one more time,” he said with real regret.  

Eggsy’s brows beetled, expression going almost adorably questioning.  “Wait, what about my dad-?”  This time when Harry came at him, Eggsy immediately snapped his mouth shut and threw his all into responding - which was exactly what Harry had been hoping for.  The older man’s first jab was a feint, and when Eggsy enthusiastically responded, Harry - tie clasped between his hands like a silken rope - intercepted the blow.  Binding up Eggsy’s knife-hand, Harry was able to pivot, pull, and feel that bone-deep sense of satisfaction as his opponent’s balance was compromised.  Eggsy gave a wordless yelp, and Harry neatly stuck out a leg and tripped him to speed up his fall.  This time, Harry was done playing games, and before Eggsy could recover enough to move, Harry straddled him.  It was but the work of seconds to bind up Eggsy’s hands in the tie, despite the boy’s cursing and struggling.  Harry considered the switchblade (a well-looked-after piece, clearly, and more than serviceable) for a moment before tucking it into his own pocket for safekeeping.

“I did give you the option of the easy way out, twice,” Harry reminded mildly, “I was quite reasonable.  There’s something going on, and I want to know the details, but it was up to you to either give me those details or force me to take them.”

“Fuck you.”

Harry was about to reply with something about manners when a sound caught his attention - something beyond the scuffling noise of Eggsy, on his belly and stuck there under Harry’s weight, trying to wriggle free.  He immediately straightened and stiffened, then reached forward to find Eggsy's head, fingers slipping past soft, thick hair and quickly clamping down over the boy’s mouth.  Harry felt wetness from what could only be blood, and recalculated for a second just how hard Eggsy had hit the floor with Harry’s tie around his wrist preventing him from breaking his fall properly.  Most of Harry’s attention was fixated down the hall, however, where he thought he heard people coming - drawn to the noise.  

“There are people coming, Eggsy,” Harry returned his attention to the boy now lying tensely still beneath him.  He spoke softly but efficiently, “There’s a chance that they’re your people, but it’s equally likely that they are other high-Pass agents like myself, drawn to the sound of fighting like sharks to blood.  It is a habit, amongst my kind.”  He felt Eggsy’s back go stiff beneath him, the reality of the danger sinking in.  “I don’t know about you, but I think it might be safest to get moving, hm?”  

Harry probably would have been safe regardless.  He’d heard the intercom - he knew that the collar he’d feared and despised for years was now harmless.  True, high-Pass agents were more likely to kill each other than ally together, but he wasn’t worried about being outmatched by another Hound.  He’d seen most all of them fight, and wasn’t boasting when he said that only a handful posed him any threat.  

Eggsy, however, was clearly scared enough now to be thinking just in terms of himself - which was what Harry had been counting on.  He waited, counting the seconds as danger drew nearer, until he felt Eggsy give a little shudder, a hesitant twitch of his head, and finally a nod against Harry’s palm.  

“Good,” 005 said cheerily, letting go of the boy’s mouth to instead grip him by the upper arms while he himself flowed smoothly to his feet.  Hauling Eggsy up took a bit of effort - if he hadn’t known already, he could feel by pure muscle-weight that Eggsy was fit.  Still holding onto one of Eggsy’s elbows, Harry met the boy’s slightly wild eyes once they were both on their feet.  “Let’s go for a walk then, shall we?  We can save discussions about your secrets - and your father - for a more appropriate time.”

Chapter Text

Q had two advantages over his pursuers: a photographic memory of the map of Eigengrau and a blowtorch.  His knowledge of the facility allowed him to lose at least some of his foes in the twists and turns of the halls, and Q clutched his satchel close to his chest now like a child as he struggled to keep the image of that blueprint in the forefront of his mind.  He eventually ended up in a room with a manual lock - most of Eigengrau's doors were electronic, meaning the rooms were sealed or opened via electronic keypads, which were now perpetually unlocked thanks to C.  This room, though, was old-school.  Engaging the lock, Q stood in pitch blackness, panting for breath, wondering if anyone had seen him enter-

Suddenly, the door behind him shook under the impact of a body, doorknob rattling violently.  Q’s bolthole had definitely been noticed then.  Unable to see and realizing that running probably wasn’t an option anymore - even if this room had another exit that he could find, Q’s legs were shaking and weak from exertion - Q felt around in his bag until he came out with the blowtorch and matches.  He quickly turned the knob, starting the stream of flammable gas, and fumbled out just one match, lighting it after a few misses in the dark.  In that instant nothing was so beautiful as that little teardrop of fiery light - and then it got better when he used that flame to ignite the blowtorch, a decidedly more respectable flame.  

By this point, the pounding and yelling on the other side of the door was almost deafening, and then there was the sound of wood splintering.  Much of Eigengrau was made of either concrete or steel, but some of the less important rooms had been made more cheaply.  Now that Q had light, he could see that this was a storage space with spare office chairs and tables pushed against the walls - things that didn’t exactly need strong security which explained the manual lock, but it meant that the very determined people on the other side of the door were going to break through at any second.  

Steeling his nerves, still sucking in deep gulps of air to satisfy his aching lungs, Q tucked the remaining matches away and approached the door with his blowtorch, the flame a tendril of blue tinged a vicious yellow at its tip.  Q turned up the gas on the torch, grimly watching the flame lengthen and brighten like a pale, hungry tongue.  He removed his satchel, setting it carefully down on the nearest desk where it would be out of the way.  Then he took a position just beside the shuddering door and waited.

When the door gave way, the first man to come in got a face-full of fire.  The resulting scream of pain was horrendous, and the room was immediately lightened even more by the gleeful yellow flames catching on clothing and hair.  The stench of burning hair and flesh was stomach-churning and almost instantaneous, but Q found himself equal parts sickened and viciously triumphant as the burning man fell writhing through the door.  

It was then that Q realized that there was one thing his opponents had that he did not: guns.

Up until now, no one had shot at him, perhaps because Q’s previous flight had included a lot of short hallways and tight corners - or perhaps because the primal thrill of the hunt had precluded thoughts of modern-day weaponry, everyone absorbed in the simple, bodily thrill of the chase.  Now, though, as Q’s attention was still transfixed by the flailing, flaming figure, an earsplitting bang filled the air.  Pain creased across his left trapezius, the agony spreading up his neck and down his left shoulder, and he involuntarily dropped the blowtorch in his right hand.  Crying out, the blowtorch clanging on the ground and spinning in lazy circles like a badly shaped rocket, Q fell back to avoid getting burned, too.  

A woman darted through the broken doorway, and for a panicked moment Q thought it was Root, only seeing the dissimilarities a moment later in the dim and flickering light.  Her companion was still on the floor, shrieking in the most ungodly way - “Put it out!  Put it out!” - and rolling to try and douse the flames, although Q had a sickening feeling that the man’s eyes would be a permanent casualty.  

Realizing that he was running out of options - for defense or for escape - Q lunged as another shot went off, thankfully far above his head this time, and grabbed for the blowtorch.  Just as he’d instinctively feared, rushing when handling fire was unwise, and Q cried out as heat scorched across his wrist.  It was worth it, though, as his hands closed around the cool cylinder of metal, and with a desperate heave, he threw it right at the female shooter.  

Clearly, she was shocked and unprepared for the desperate move.  Her eyes widened, and Q’s luck held out as his throw actually sent the blowtorch careening into her gun.  Perhaps the fear of fire or perhaps the simple impact of the torch had her jumping like a spooked horse, and the gun dropped from her hand.  Running on pure adrenalin, but knowing that he wouldn’t last long if he was the least armed person in the room, Q dove for the gun. This time, his luck failed him.  A badly timed sweep of his arm ended up knocking it further across the floor, and the weapon disappeared into the shadows beneath chairs and desks.  Q’s heart fell as he lost sight of it.

He only had a second to accept his loss before a solid kick from a booted foot impacted his side, and the woman bore down on him.  

“You little shit!” she hissed, as Q yelped and curled around the new hurt in surprise.  His household had always been a very cerebral one, and he only vaguely remembered physical fights with his brothers before they’d learned to use their words as weapons.  Pain was simply not something that he’d dealt with very often.  Now, with white-hot pain still radiating between shoulder and neck, and this new ache against his left ribs, Q felt his thoughts scattering into panic.  The woman kicked him again, and he curled tighter, into a ball, his hindbrain at least recalling the basic urge to protect his vital organs.  

“Fuck, you really messed Davidson up,” the woman commented without any indication that she was distraught by this.  Her voice grew nastier as she turned her attention back from her still-moaning companion and snarled, “Now I’m going to mess you up.”  Her next kick still managed to get past his defenses, connecting with his stomach with enough force that Q had to fight the urge to vomit.  The Quartermaster scooted weakly backwards, but the woman followed, chuckling when she saw his back bump up against the piled desks and chairs.  “Now, where’d that blowtorch of yours go?” she mused, deciding that her prey was trapped and weakened enough for her to toy with it, glancing around behind her and spotting the blue and yellow tongue of flame a few metres back.  She heard the rustle of Q moving, but didn’t think much of it as she lazily turned back to him to comment, “Ah, there it is.  What do you say, kid?  You know what they say about people who play with fire-”  She cut off, her eyes widening in surprise.  

While her back had been turned, Q had twisted around, reaching blindly into the shadows - because he’d purposefully scooted over to where the gun had disappeared.  Stretching to hunt around for it had made his entire body hurt, and he was certain that he was bleeding all across his left shoulder, but now he was sitting with his back to an old desk-chair with a loaded weapon in his hands.  He shook and gasped under the onslaught of panic and pain, but kept the gun trained on her.  

But… he couldn’t bring himself to squeeze down on the trigger.  The muzzle wavered, and he gave a little gasp, pained and frustrated.  

Slowly, the woman’s expression shifted from horror to smug realization.  “You’ve never killed anyone before, have you?”

No, Q most certainly hadn’t.  He glanced around desperately for inspiration before turning his focus back to the woman, not wanting her to get the drop on him as he had on her, but his heart plummeted when another broad-shouldered silhouette came through the doorway.  If Q couldn’t shoot one person then he seriously doubted that he could shoot two.

“It’s not easy, shooting a person,” the woman went on, the shifting of her weight the only indication that she was still edgy.  Her attempt at a cajoling tone failing miserably thanks to the chill in her voice overshadowing all else, she continued, “It’s not something you ever recover from.  Especially when you’re looking them in the eyes when you do it.  You remember the eyes.”

The new arrival was right behind the woman now, but still in shadow, as the burned man finally managed to put himself out and the blowtorch had stopped spinning and  was pointing away.  The woman hadn’t noticed, not even when the man came right up behind her - because his footsteps, Q realized with detached bewilderment, were so silent that he may as well have been a ghost.  

Then he proved that he was very real indeed when  he caught the woman’s head and chin in his large hands and snapped her neck almost before she could even look surprised.  She dropped to the floor like a discarded doll.  

Q gasped and very nearly did pull the trigger, belatedly recognizing none other than 007 in the dimness.  Bond didn’t look the least bit bothered by what he’d just done, which chilled Q’s heart like a touch of frostbite.  

“Put the gun down, Q-” James started to say then jerked sharply to the right just as Q’s nervous fingers spasmed and accidentally pulled the trigger.  Q missed.  James arched an eyebrow just visible in the bad lighting, impressed.  Speaking just loud enough for Q to make out the words over the ringing in his ears, 007 commented, “Not bad - but if you shoot me, you’ll be down one potential ally, and I’m not sure you want to be out on your own tonight.”

So terrified that he could barely breathe, Q whimpered, pain now washing nearly to the fingertips of his left hand.  He could still feel where he’d been kicked, as if there were permanent bootprints stamped right into his muscles, and as much as Bond’s words were calm and soothing, there was no forgetting that this man was a killer.  Evidence of his skill was even now lying at the man's feet.  

Even as Q found himself staring fixedly at the corpse, James stepped over it, slow and steady like a tide.  

“How do I know you’re not going to just kill me, too?” Q rasped.  He didn’t realize that he was hyperventilating until he began gulping air in earnest, at once getting too much and not enough in a way that usually only happened to him on particularly bad plane trips.  The sudden feeling of suffocation only tripled his panic, and he was barely holding the gun on James at all by the time the man dropped down onto his haunches just a couple of paces away.  

“Easy, easy,” the man murmured, almost preternaturally calm.  “Deep breaths.  In… out… in…  Yes, just like that.”  The muzzle of a gun was presently aimed in the vicinity of his head, but the agent watched Q’s face instead, blue eyes unblinking in the dark.  Sometimes James swayed slightly on his feet, possibly testing whether or not the gun would follow, judging how much control Q still had of the weapon.  “Listen to your heartbeat.  I know it’s racing, but can you feel it slow just a little bit when you breathe out?  Yes… see, breathe out slower,” James kept up the steady, unflappable murmur, his words becoming like the rhythmic susurrus of waves.  “That’s it.  You can sense that momentary slowing, can’t you?”  

In fact, Q was focusing on that heartbeat now like a life-raft, trying not to get frustrated when every inhale sped his heart up again.  He felt like a ship, rising leisurely to the crest of a wave and then plummeting wildly down the other side, and he still wasn’t sure how to escape the endless cycle of it.  He closed his eyes, trying to focus, and quickly realized how tempting the safe darkness behind his eyelids could be.  It was safe here; he could lie to himself and believe that what he couldn’t see couldn’t hurt him.  He was desperate for even a temporary, make-believe refuge right now.  

“Good, Q,” James crooned.  Q cringed away at the reminder that the man was still there, but it wasn't enough to get him to leave the false sense of security he’d found behind his eyelids.  He heard clothing rustling, which meant that 007 was probably moving, but instead of snapping his eyes open to watch, Q squeezed them shut tighter and curled in on himself.  That movement proved a bad idea, because hunching his shoulders reminded him viscerally of where the bullet had grazed him.  When Q cried out, hand spasming, he was aware of two things: firstly, that he had pulled the trigger again - secondly, that James’s hand had pushed Q’s arms sharply to the left at that exact moment, sending the bullet wide.  

This time Q’s eyes reluctantly opened, his chest still heaving and his lashes damp with unshed, panicked tears.  James was crouched right in front of him, his eyes pale and almost colorless in the poor lighting, and momentarily as emotionless as a snake’s.  Feeling totally lost, Q released the gun with a jerk and a gasp, staring up at those eyes and wondering if that snake was going to swallow him alive now.  He didn’t think that he could even begin to fight back.  He’d barely even made it this far, and was devastatingly aware of his own vulnerability, which made the tears build up again upon his lower lashes.  

James’s eyes didn’t exactly warm up, but they didn’t get scarier either, flickering about Q’s person with a relaxed efficiency.  “You’re going into shock,” he said, just stating a fact.  

Even if 007 was a serial killer, his calmness was appreciated.  Voice thin and reedy, Q actually managed to respond, “I-I-I know.”

“Come with me, and I’ll get you somewhere warm.”  James’s eyes were on his, his face still inexpressive but eyes seeming to try and draw Q’s in - the lure of a wolf, standing outside the porch-lights, trying to coax the household dog to run and play and be wild again.

It was so tempting to give in.  Q reached a hand gingerly up to his left shoulder, then cringed and drew back, the pain making it too much to touch.  “And you won’t kill me?”

“I haven’t yet.”

“That’s not reassuring.”  

James shifted his weight again, and once more the serpentine metaphor was back in Q’s dazed mind: a hooded cobra, swaying minutely back and forth.  But he seemed to be considering Q’s words, and after a moment spoke, low and surprisingly reasonable, “Do you want my word?  Would you believe it?”

“I-” Q started, unsure, but desperately aware that he didn’t have a lot of other options available to him besides 007.  “Yes,” he rasped thinly.  

“Good.”  A small smile played at the corner of Bond’s mouth, and it was clear that he was pleased.  “Then you have my word that I won’t murder you.”

“For how long?” Q pressed, feeling a lot like he was making a deal with the devil - so he’d be wise to dot his i’s and cross his t’s.  

“How about…”  007 cocked his head, thinking, then offered in a conspicuously careless tone, “...Three days?”

That surprised Q, and he just sat and blinked for a moment, aware that more blood was starting to trickle down his chest.  “That’s how long C’s offer lasts,” was all he could think to say for a moment.  He startled and then hissed out a pained breath as 007 reached forward unexpectedly - his hand falling on the juncture of Q’s neck and shoulder to put pressure on his wound, he realized through the throbbing.  

“What a coincidence - so it is,” James teased, then swiftly changed the subject, growing brisk all of a sudden, “Now, come on.  Can you stand?  If you can stay functional a little longer, I think I can get you someplace safe.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Does it matter?  Get up, Quartermaster.”

Whether it was the sudden air of command in the voice, or fear of what would happen if he didn’t, the boffin somehow managed to get his feet under him.  Wincing, he bunched together the material of his jumper under his right hand, providing a fistful of cloth to press down against the wound - even though it hurt like hell.  007 was standing now, too, though, and watching with a glint of something that might have been cautious respect in his glacial eyes.  

When James turned without a word while shoving the gun into the waistband of his trousers, Q snatched up his satchel and stumbled after him, keeping his eyes glued to that gun so that he wouldn’t be tempted to look at either the woman’s corpse or the still-moaning burned and blind man, whose bodies littered the floor like trash.

~^~

C’s offer was like a gift from on high for most high-Pass agents - they were already flocking towards the meeting place, albeit via roundabout paths that allowed them to lay old grudges to rest and repay those who had controlled them for so long.  Still, they were rabid for the promise of escape that C was offering them.  

It was the low-numbered agents, though, who were actually thinking the offer over.  They’d lived long enough to know that servitude wasn’t simple, and it wasn’t always easy to see - and they themselves had become masters of traps and manipulation in a way that the younger agents had yet to learn.  Harry Hart, 005, wasn’t the only one who wasn't seeing low-hanging fruit but rather rotten fruit.  007 wasn’t the only one who had decided he had better things to do with his time than rush off to meet a self-declared savior, because he didn’t believe in saviors anymore.  While the agents with numbers above 010 basically rioted with ecstasy, those agents with numbers from 001 to 009 - the true powerhouses, the true forces of nature within Eigengrau - hedged their bets, with the notable exception of Root, who’d sided with C since the beginning.  

Hannibal, for one, saw no reason to rush to join the mad salmon-swim of freed agents.  He’d sat up from his makeshift cot in curiosity when the power had gone out, instantly alert as he heard the little click of the lock deactivating.  He’d listened to everyone's panic, letting it wash over him as he assessed the situation, ultimately listening in the dark as the situation was more or less explained over the intercom.  Hannibal still had some questions on the matter, but all he really needed to know was that the damnable collar around his neck was now no more than a lamentable fashion accessory, and he was free to do what he wanted for at least three days - perhaps indefinitely.  

Aware that he and Agent 004 were the only agents presently locked up in this part of the facility, Hannibal moved quickly after that, expecting an uphill battle to freedom.  After all, the guards in this area had to realize the responsibility they had now: kill the two agents while the odds were still in their favor.  

Except that wasn’t how it worked out.  

Hannibal literally strolled out of his cell, eyes adjusting to the dimness and his other senses drinking in everything: the corrosive smell of spent bullets, the tang of blood, the sounds of fighting quieting down.  He couldn't recall where 004 was held, but it was a slight surprise to find that the copious bloodshed before him was not that agent’s work.  Men dressed like guards stood panting over the bodies of those who should have been their compatriots.  The nearest one straightened, wiping a combat knife clean on his trouser leg, while the two men with him gathered near with proud grins.  They turned to Hannibal like young whelps before an old wolf, waiting for the blood to be licked ceremoniously off their jaws.  

“Figured you could use some help,” the lead fellow said, gesturing to himself and his comrades, “C sent us. We heard that you and Agent Silva were stuck down here.  Couldn’t have that.”

“And here I almost mistook you for guards,” Hannibal said congenially.

The other fellow laughed.  “Nope.  Just dressing the part - C’s been putting his own people into Eigengrau for almost a year, but it’s nice to finally stop being the wolves in sheeps’ clothing and just finally be the wolves, you know?”  

Hannibal chuckled, and the men thought he was laughing with them.  He wasn’t.  He was laughing because these men thought they were wolves.  

Hannibal left their bodies alongside the actual guards, ensuring that no one in Eigengrau could spread word of his being at liberty.  Hannibal was a predator, but he was a big cat, a jaguar, and jaguars knew better than to howl their presence.  

~^~

Eggsy let himself be pushed into a sitting position on the floor, sliding down the wall a bit and feeling the friction against his arms which were still bound in that damned tie.  At least the silk didn’t bite into his skin, although it was tied too tightly for him to slip out of.  Still, Eggsy tried, twisting his wrists while keeping his eyes on the bespectacled man who’d put him in this situation in the first place.  Dressed like a frickin tailor, Agent Harry Hart didn’t look dangerous, being an older gentleman with glasses for chrissakes.  Yet that man had managed to take Eggsy prisoner without so much as losing a lens.  It would have been a lie to say that Eggsy wasn’t afraid of him - the man was a fucking monster in a fight, despite his posh appearance - but at the same time, Eggsy was aware that the man hadn’t just decided to beat the shit out of him.  Growing up with his stepdad had taught Eggsy that people could and did resort to giving a beating when they didn’t get what they wanted, and he found himself instinctively waiting for the same thing from this man, this high-Pass agent.  If anything, Eggsy imagined that it would be a helluva lot worse than any thrashing his stepfather Dean had given him - he was just unsure as to when it would happen.

Hart had marched him down a series of twists and turns he wasn’t familiar with, and they’d ended up in one of the loos, of all places.  Eggsy was sitting against the wall furthest from the door, Harry between him and the exit, the agent presently wetting down a handkerchief in the sink.  The man regarded him for a moment, pausing.  “Are you expecting something, Eggsy?”

Eggsy looked up at him, a bit pugnaciously at first, then grimaced as the upward tilt of his head made more blood run from his nose down the back of his throat.  “I don’ know,” he answered because he figured it could hardly get worse, and he’d be damned if he was going to just be meek and quiet, “It’s just a bit hard to believe that a Hound would be less violent than my stepdad.”

“What do you mean?”  

It was insane how reasonable the man sounded when he wasn’t fighting.  Actually, it was insane how reasonable the man could sound even when he was fighting.  Eggsy didn’t know what to make of that, and it scared him a bit, urging him to blurt out, “When I don’t give you the information you want - ’cause I’m not going to - are you gonna start laying into me with your fists, or just skip right ahead to using me own knife on me?”  

As brave as Eggsy’s words sounded, he still drew his legs up close to his body and leaned back as far as he could when the older man turned his attention to him fully.  Fortunately, Hart didn’t go for the pilfered knife, which Eggsy knew to be in the man’s right trouser-pocket.  Sure, Eggsy was brassed off that the man had taken his knife, but mostly he was aware of how knives were not loyal things - it would cut for Hart as easily as it would cut for Eggsy.  Hart took in Eggsy’s uneasy posture, but only frowned when he asked his own question in return, “Are you saying that’s what your stepfather would do?”

Too late, Eggsy realized he’d opened up a can of worms he hadn’t wanted to dig into.  Uncomfortable, he swallowed, tasting blood again.  He didn’t think his nose was broken, but he’d definitely hit his face on the floor, and the coppery taste was starting to make him nauseous.  “ ’M not saying anything,” he grumbled, looking away.  He immediately jerked his head back again at the first sign of movement, instincts too strong for him to look away from an enemy for more than a few seconds.  But the Hound had just turned back to the sink, taking out the dampened handkerchief.  

When Hart turned with it and approached him, Eggsy growled low in his throat and coiled his legs up even tighter, which was perhaps what urged Hart to give him a jaded look and say primly, “Eggsy, I sincerely don’t want to hurt you, but if you try to kick me, I promise that I can make you supremely uncomfortable.”

“Oh yeah?” Eggsy challenged, because he never could stop running his mouth.  It was usually what led Dean to beating him - although it at least got the bastard’s attention away from Eggsy’s mum and baby sister.  

“Do you want to be hogtied with your own belt?”

Eggsy deflated a little, making a face and then swearing under his breath - because he knew that the man meant it, and could do it.  “Well, when you put it that way…” he muttered with ill-grace, looking away.  He indeed kept his feet and legs to himself as Hart dropped to one knee in front of him and dabbed at his nose with the wet cloth.  It wasn’t bad, really.  The agent was surprisingly gentle, although when Eggsy tossed his head nervously, Hart’s other hand was as fast as a cat’s paw, coming up to catch Eggsy’s jaw.  

“Sit still and let me clean this up,” the man chided. “Even if signs of injury weren’t invitations for Hounds to attack, you look a mess.”

“And whose fault is that?” Eggsy grumbled back defensively.  

Hart, surprisingly, indulged in a small and grudging smile.  “I’d say it’s yours,” he smoothly replied, “for picking a fight with a superior opponent.”  

The cool, wet handkerchief felt rather good, but strange, as it was stroked over Eggsy’s mouth then chin.  Some of the blood had started to get sticky and itchy against his skin, and while Eggsy was honestly rather used to the sensation, that didn’t mean he liked it.  His skin felt cleaner and something in his mind had relaxed, too, by the time Hart tossed the cloth back to the nearest sink.  The grip remained on Eggsy’s chin a moment longer, a hold that he knew instinctively he couldn’t break, although he tried anyway.  “Stop that,” Hart immediately but quietly commanded, tightening his grip and pressing Eggsy’s head back against the wall for better leverage.  All the man seemed intent on doing, however, was checking Eggsy over, gazing right now at his nose, then one eye, then the other.  “I’m ensuring that I didn’t break your nose or give you a concussion.”

“Gotta tell you, bruv, I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

That small, wry smile was back again, just flirting with the corner of Hart’s mouth, even if he stayed otherwise focused.  His words were light, almost airy, “Usually I’m not, but like I said, I owe your father.”

Eggsy was aware that if he had been a cat, his ears would have perked up.  This time Harry did let go of his hold on Eggsy’s face as the boy turned to look at him more squarely, eyes giving away their curiosity.  “You knew my da?”

“Yes,” Hart said simply.  He hesitated, and Eggsy saw something troubled flicker across Hart’s  face, making him look suddenly older, his eyes darker like a storm had passed over them.  It was only after pursing his lips for a moment that Hart said, “I was with him when he died.  He saved my life.”

Now how was he supposed to take that?  Blinking in owlish surprise, Eggsy just sat frozen where he was, wondering whether to stridently deny that or demand further stories to sate the old hunger that had woken up inside of him.  “I didn’t…  Even me mum doesn’t know how he died,” he said, managing to infuse a bit of denial into his voice, because the last thing he wanted was a connection to this killer.  “Or what he did.”

“Do you want to know?” Hart asked, sensibly.  

Eggsy honestly wasn’t sure.  His life was already a train-wreck, and if he didn’t do something about it, things were only going to get worse.  Still, he couldn’t help but be tempted by the offer, because he’d grown up on little more than his mother’s silence - unless she was drunk enough to babble, in which case she told melancholic, often angry stories about Eggsy’s father always being gone for work.  

Eggsy didn’t answer immediately, and the agent must have read something in Eggsy’s eyes, or his lowered eyebrows, or the increasingly defensive set of his shoulders.  Hart smiled sadly with half his mouth.  “Perhaps another time.  Focusing on the present might keep us busy for quite awhile anyway, hm?”  And just like that, Agent Hart went back to being aloof and efficient, standing up much more smoothly than a man his age had any right to, in Eggsy’s books.  Hart returned to the sink to rinse out his handkerchief.  “This all started because you have information that I want.”

“Yes,” Eggsy grumbled, back to being wary.  He was surprised by how much he already missed the feeling of a truce - the wry half-smiles of understanding, the handkerchief cleaning blood off his face.  There had been some modicum of safety there.  

“And you maintain that you have no interest in giving it,” Hart summed up further, then turned to Eggsy, eyebrows raised and the sides of his mouth tipped downwards as he added, “You do realize what I am, don’t you?  Agents like myself with a dangerously high Psychopass are utilized for spywork all across the world - which includes information gathering.”  

“I.  Can’t.  Tell you.  Nothing,” Eggsy bit out as mulishly as possible.  Most of his moxie was a bluff, but he’d found that the more he puffed up and made a show of it, the less people called him out on his bluffs.  

“Ah.”  Hart’s eyes sharpened, and his faint frown became a smile, letting Eggsy know immediately that he’d screwed up.  “Before you were saying ‘won’t,’ now you’re saying ‘can’t.’  I’m going to call that progress, because that’s another thing entirely.”

When Hart didn’t say anything more, simply turned back to his task at the sink, Eggsy couldn’t help himself.  “Why’s that?” he cleared his throat and asked, then tried to look uninterested when the agent glanced at him again.  

“Because when a person won’t tell me something, it’s a simple matter of stubbornness,” Hart fell into a bluff, lecturing tone, wringing out his handkerchief then lifting it and inspecting it, frowning when there was still a pinkish tinge.  He went on, grimacing at the material, “Those cases are the most annoying, because torture takes time and is vastly unreliable.”  Eggsy went very still, shrinking back against the wall despite himself.  Hart gave the handkerchief a shake and put it back under the water, shrugging, “But when they can't tell me something, it means that there’s a point of leverage - a point that either someone else is already using, to keep the person quiet, or one that I can use to make them talk.”  

Hart was hitting uncomfortably close to home, and desperation clawed at the back of Eggsy’s throat.  He tried again to get loose of the tie and this time thought he felt a little give.  Adrenaline making his blood hot, Eggsy snarled back, “Look, I still don’t see why it matters so damned much to you - what else do you need to know besides what C said on the intercom?  You’re free to do what you want-”

“But at what cost?” Hart asked back calmly.

“I don’t know!” Eggsy snapped, exasperated.  The knot loosened further, and he twisted his wrists harder.  

“You still know a lot more about this whole business than you’re telling,” Hart pressed calmly.  

It was then that Eggsy got loose.  Knowing that the element of surprise was the best ally he could get, he didn’t waste a second.  Jerking his hands free, he got his feet under him just enough for a low, tackling lunge, and felt a surge of triumph at the too-late look of surprise on Hart’s face.  They both went down in a tangle on the floor, Eggsy on top this time.  

Even with Eggsy sitting on his stomach, Hart was an elusive target, blocking blows or twisting his torso to make a good punch hard to land with any real power.  Still, it felt good to finally be the one giving instead of receiving punches, and Eggsy had a helluva lot of frustration to work out.  “I don’t care what you want to know!” he shouted, feeling a torrent of helpless anger that had built behind his teeth.  He managed to land a blow on Hart’s shoulder, but at this angle, it held only half the power he wanted it to, which just made more of his frustration leak out.  “I don’t care about this fucking political game, or what C really wants with you and your friends!”  Hart shifted to protect his face, and left an opening. Eggsy took it, hammering hard into the agent’s ribcage on the right side, perhaps feeling a tiny bit more in control of the situation, though his blood was roaring in his ears, and he  couldn’t stop yelling, “And I don’t care if you decide to bloody beat it outta me, because believe me, I’ve survived enough of that at home!”

Without warning, and with such skill that Eggsy wondered why Harry hadn’t done this before now, the agent caught both of Eggsy’s forearms and pulled.  Eggsy’s hands slapped against the floor, pinned in place on either side of Hart’s head, dragging the two of them suddenly nose to nose.  Some voice in the back of Eggsy’s mind told him to head-butt the agent, but for some reason he was frozen; the same anger that had roared up and fueled his attack was now burning him instead, and it hurt.  He hadn’t realized how raggedly he was breathing until now.  The eyes looking up at him were so steady yet fierce that Eggsy wanted to fall into them, or drag some of that ferocity back into himself.  

“Then what do you want, Eggsy?” Harry demanded sharply past clenched teeth, meeting Eggsy’s wild eyes without blinking or turning away.

Those words stabbed neatly through Eggsy’s armor like a stiletto, and something in him gave way.  He’d been living under stress for what felt like forever, ever since a man named Max Denbigh called him up, saying that he’d heard about Eggsy’s brief military stint and how he’d gotten quite a name for himself flying helicopters. Thinking that he’d get out from under his stepfather's thumb, Eggsy had met the man and agreed to work for him, but found out too late that Denbigh, now called C, had other plans; plans that Eggsy didn’t like but couldn’t say no to.  

“I want them to let my baby sis go,” Eggsy found the words slipping like shards of glass from his mouth, cutting as they went and bleeding all of the fight out of him.

~^~  

Chapter Text

Q had picked up his satchel on the way out of the storage room, it felt awkward slung over his right because he usually had the strap over his left shoulder, a thought that made him physically cringe now.  His entire left side felt like it was throbbing, from the bruises and burns and grazes, and it felt like an eternity as he stumbled after Bond down the halls.  

At one point he squeaked as James turned around and suddenly crowded him into a closet, body pressing against him.  “Shhh,” the agent hushed, “I’m just hiding you here until one of your new friends passes.”

Never before had the building felt so damnably cold, and now Q felt like he was freezing, and suddenly 007 was a lot more inviting simply because he was very warm.  At this proximity, Q’s entire front was getting cozy, and when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t a fearful reaction but the actions of a cat huddled up against a space-heater.  “Not my friend,” he mumbled thickly but stubbornly in response to Bond’s suggestion.

James’s responding chuckle was more felt through Q’s chest than heard through his ears, as James stayed pressed close.  He was a veritable wall of muscle at Q’s front.  The agent kept an eye on the crack in the door, as watchful as a hawk.  “My apologies.  I forgot that not everyone makes friends with people who try to kill them,” he joked in a whisper.  Q didn’t respond besides a put-upon huff - more of a sigh - and he only twitched a little as one of Bond’s hands moved to cup his right shoulder, then slide over towards his neck. Q realized that the man was tracking his pulse.  Neither of them commented on the gesture, and soon the danger in the corridor had passed them, unaware of the hidden men.  For a time after that, neither of them moved. Q just stood with his eyes closed, wondering what 007 was learning from the rapid flutter of his heart-beat.  When the agent’s hand retreated from his throat without a comment being made, however, Q returned to shuffling along in the wake of Bond’s confident footsteps.  

“No one’s here,” Bond noted, as he lead the way into just another darkened room, so far as Q could tell.  It took a few weary, pained blinks for Q to look around and realize that he was looking at the smaller of Eigengrau’s two medical facilities.  It appeared to have been abandoned in a rush -- papers scattered across the surfaces along with assorted medical implements, forceps, syringes, bandages, and the like, while cupboard doors hung wide like gaping maws -- and Q shivered as he tried to imagine the fear that must be felt by people all over Eigengrau.  

After all, not everyone had their own personal Hound taking an active interest in their well-being.  

As if reading his thoughts, James commented as he began looking through the general mess of open cupboards and overturned tray-tables, “Anyone with a lick of sense will be heading right now for the guards’ quarters - the survival odds will be best there.  Some idiots will try to return to their own quarters, though, which is just as likely to be a bloodbath.”  007 spoke dispassionately, but when his face was in profile, Q could see the  slight frown there. .  “Hopefully their doors will be made of tougher stuff than yours was back there, Quartermaster.”

Unable to even think about standing anymore, Q sank into a nearby chair, only to be chivvied up by James and pushed into a side-room.  Q was vaguely aware of complaining about this, but his arguments stopped when he was nudged into an actual sofa.  “Medical treats employees in this clinic more than they do the agents - so the amenities are nicer,” James explained with a wry smile, then disappeared again.  He returned a moment later with an armload of supplies, some of which he deposited in an unceremonious pile on Q’s lap.  The boffin was momentarily confused, stupidly staring down at heavy, squarish packages for a moment and barely noticing as James gently relieved Q of his satchel.  At least the agent put it down gently, against the nearest leg of the sofa.  “Heat-packs, Q,” Bond said when it was clear Q’s brain was too befuddled to catch on without assistance.  “I’ve already activated them, so you might spread them around a little instead of just burning a hole in your crotch with all five.”

Q managed to work up enough effort to glare, but then shakily got his right arm working, taking the hand-sized packs - which were indeed beginning to warm - and tucking them around himself.  They were in what was clearly meant to be a private room, so James dragged a blanket off the bed, tossing it over Q’s lap to seal in the growing heat.  

A container of pills came next, though the label was impossible to read until suddenly the emergency back-up lights came on.  007 immediately tensed, becoming so alert that the air around him seemed to vibrate, and he pressed a hand down on Q’s good shoulder.  “Stay,” he said, so serious that Q wasn’t even going to attempt to argue.  The agent disappeared for only a few moments, and was significantly calmer when he returned.  “Looks like our dubiously benevolent benefactor has decided that utter chaos is best with a little mood-lighting - it appears that the emergency lights are on everywhere.  Fat lot of good it’ll do.”

The lights were indeed very dim - though less dim than the light that filtered through the windows - and Q still had to squint at the bottle before realizing that he was looking at strong painkillers.  He dry-swallowed one before James came back with a flimsy plastic cup filled to the brim with water.  “You might want to take two,” he suggested, nodding to the pills as if commenting on the weather, continuing in the same absolutely bland tone, “because I’m going to be sewing your shoulder up, and even with a local, it’s going to hurt like a bitch later.”

Q made a little choking noise, starting to scoff at 007 before he realized that the man wasn’t just messing with him.  “You’re serious?” he said, voice small, wrapping shaking fingers around the cup.  

“You got shot, right?” James guessed.  When Q closed his eyes against the memory but nonetheless nodded, James confirmed, “Then you’re going to need stitches.  So take your shirt off, and be thankful that I was able to find you before you got more bullet holes put in you.”

“How did you find me?” Q had to ask.  His brain felt fuzzy, the pain and the shock making it feel like someone had infused him with molasses, and the only perk to the sensation was that he no longer had the energy or the focus to get particularly panicked about anything.  Anxiety didn’t even register as 007 gripped the hem of his jumper and began drawing it upwards, when Q apparently didn’t move fast enough.  Q winced and let out a thin keen of pain as he was forced to move all manner of body parts that were in pain.  

“Sorry, Q, just take it easy,” James hushed him, somewhat more patiently than before as he managed to strip Q from the waist up.  It made Q think briefly, fuzzily, that this was probably a skill that helped with Bond’s reputation as a womanizer: he was clearly quite adept at removing other people’s clothing.  “I might have been in the area.  I don’t trust C as far as I can throw him.”

“So you already know that C is behind this?  Wait - what?”  None of this was making particular sense to the muzzy-headed Quartermaster, and to make matters worse, now that Q was barechested, he could see quite clearly - even in the dim lighting - how beaten up he was.  “Shit.”  

“Even if I didn’t recognize his voice from seeing him around Eigengrau for the past two days, I’d have known,” James admitted, studiously opening up a package that revealed a sterilized syringe, “because I followed one of his men, a lanky bastard who came in with the last batch of guards.  He just…”  007 wrinkled his nose, clearly a bit frustrated, “There was something about him that didn’t smell right.  Like blood in the air.”

“So you…?”  Q was trying to follow along, if only to distract himself as James drew up a shot of what was presumably - hopefully - a local anesthetic.  “So you were suspicious of this character, and connected him to C…?”

“They met up not far from Q-branch,” James shrugged and nodded.  Most of his attention was on his work, rather than his narrative, which was probably for the best.  “I didn’t realize that you were still in Q-branch until I heard that last bit on the intercom, though.”

As James turned now to Q’s shoulder, setting the syringe carefully aside and instead finding an antiseptic wipe to clean the wound up a little - fresh blood having joined the crusted redness after all the moving around they’d done - Q beetled his brows at James’s relaxed countenance.  “They never actually said my name.”

Blue eyes briefly flicked up from Q’s wound, meeting Q’s gaze for just a millisecond before looking down again.  Q was beginning to accept that 007’s motives were too convoluted for him to follow, especially when the man insisted on being so unreadable.  “I made an educated guess,” Bond brushed it off with a small smile, “Who else would be in an otherwise empty Q-branch at that hour?  What were you doing?”

Q fidgeted at the sting of the antiseptic because the pain medication had still in no way kicked in, and he just wanted to escape the discomfort.  He stopped, however, with a little catch of breath as James’s free hand came up and settled around the base of his throat.  It didn’t squeeze, or otherwise threaten Q in any way, but it firmly held Q in place with warm fingers and thumb spread across his throat and collarbones.  Officially distracted from the pain of the wipe Bond continued to apply with his other hand, Q answered in a thin voice, “I was trying to set a plan in motion to get Sherlock out.”

“Well, it looks like someone beat you to it, and did one better,” James grunted, smile getting more wry, “Now everyone is out, your brother included, probably.”

“The irony does not escape me.”

Bond seemed satisfied with his cleaning job, retreating and also removing his belaying hand from Q’s throat; Q dared to look over, and by craning his neck could just see the ugly looking gash where the bullet had scored him.  When James picked up the syringe, Q became handshy again, and it became necessary to replace the hand across the hollow of his throat, a gesture that already felt strangely intimate and familiar.  Q squeezed his eyes shut and whined as the needle pumped cold fluid into his torn skin, making the pain temporarily increase before slowly but blessedly taking it all away.  It felt so nice that Q started shaking in earnest, eyes tearing up, but thankfully James gave him a moment or two, setting up what he needed.  The eventual sewing process passed by in a bit of a stress-induced blur.  Q came back to himself with James snipping off the last line of thread, the blanket now hooked up over Q’s right shoulder so that as much of him was covered as possible while still giving James space to work.

“The irony of this doesn’t escape me, either,” Q said carefully, gesturing between the two of them.  

“Hmm?” James looked up, then caught on, mouth twitching.  “I bet you’ve never been so happy to be in the good graces of a certified assassin-spy,” he teased.

“I’m still not sure how that happened.”

“It was easy,” James volleyed back drolly, turning his attention to Q’s left wrist, where the skin on the back of it was angry and red - burnt, and already blistering in places - from grabbing at the blowtorch.  “You lured me in with secrets I couldn’t resist and kept my attention by treating me like a human being.”

The way Bond said it, he seemed to be joking around, but hearing those words…  Q couldn’t take them lightly.  James made it sound like Q treating him like a person was sort of a joke, but it wasn’t, and it was painful to see a man so easily dismiss himself as being worthy of fair treatment.  And if Q weren’t so swamped by his own problems, he’d have demanded they have a conversation about that.  As it was, he hissed and bit back little protests as James none-too-gently slathered Q’s burn with cream and then wrapped it in medical gauze.  “There.  You’re as patched up as I can make you,” James declared, although Q jumped as Bond’s fingers intruded on his personal space again to prod his aching ribs, “Although there’s not much I can do for that.  I hope all this was worth it to hang around Q-branch after hours.”

“It was,” Q huffed moodily, dragging the blanket the rest of the way over himself until he was covered modestly to the neck - and almost instantly much warmer.  

“Really?”  James arched a disbelieving eyebrow and sat down across from Q, on the bed.  “Your rescue of your brother became a moot point when C declared independence for every high-Pass person here, and you got beat to hell and nearly killed.  Forgive me if that doesn’t sound worth anything.”

“For your information-” Q started to sass back, then cut himself off so sharply that he almost bit his tongue.  He realized quite suddenly that his major accomplishment directly affected 007, and in a way that might tip the power imbalance even further.  

Unfortunately, James had already proven to be pretty keen when it came to Q hiding things, even if the suddenly abrogated sentence wasn’t a dead giveaway.  His gaze darkened instantly with suspicion, eyes seeming to go a sudden cobalt color.  “What were you about to say, Q?” he demanded with quiet severity.  This was a man who’d had to look out for his own self-interest for years now, if not his whole life, with much of the world working against him - so he was conditioned to go on the defensive dangerously quickly.  

Realizing just how much his continued survival depended upon James Bond right now was a sobering concept, and it was what got Q’s tongue to reluctantly loosen.  “Before escaping Q-branch and C’s mob, I was able to gain possession of the key used to remove agents’ collars,” Q admitted bluntly, watching as 007’s blue eyes widened.  Clutching the blanket closer and wishing for more heat-packs even though he already had a whole nest of them, Q was quick to add, “That doesn’t mean I can just let you free right this instant!  C infected all the hardware with malware, so I don’t have the computer access I need, and even if I did, it takes M’s passcodes to activate.”

“Then why did you risk your life to take it?” Bond demanded.

“Because,” Q said, wetting his lips, beginning to talk of things that he’d only mentally speculated so far, “if C gets ahold of them, he’ll do one of two things - either he’ll remove the collar of every high-Pass agent who joins him-”

“Pretty good incentive,” James grunted, but folded his arms obstinately nonetheless.  

“Yes, especially since they’re using a signal jammer of sorts to make sure the collars are useless, but the second they turn that machine off, you’re once again wearing a death-sentence,” Q concurred, then deflated a little.  When he spoke again it was contritely.  “Sorry, that was tactless.”

Bond shrugged dismissively.  “But also true.  Keep going.  What else might C do, besides freeing his favorites and summarily killing everyone else?”

“He could also free no one,” Q emphasized pointedly.  When James’s eyes narrowed, wary but keen as razors, Q began to elaborate on pure supposition that was beginning to make entirely too much sense, “Removing those collars is tedious.  The key must be plugged into a computer, a program opened, and the specific agent keyed in with a code - and while I’m not sure how many people know the agents' codes, I imagine it’s not everyone.  Then, to make it even more complicated, you also need M’s code, which I guarantee no one else knows.  When both codes have been entered, that only opens that particular agent’s collar.  Then you have to start the process all over again for each agent.”

007’s eyes had grown unfocused, and it was clear that he was thinking rapidly.  Still, it was surprising when he took up the narrative so quickly and intuitively, “And if C feels confident enough to give all of us agents three days to run around murdering people, then he’s clearly not worried about a time-crunch at the end.” Bond’s eyes focused back on Q, guessing, “You think that he’s not planning on wasting all that time with the collars.”

“I think that his promise of freedom is a lie, and to ensure his control, he’s going to destroy all of the keys - and probably kill M, too, for good measure,” Q stated grimly, then shivered and burrowed deeper into the blanket, starting to feel numb and sleepy in a drugged sort of way - no doubt the painkillers finally at work.  “Either way,” Q grumbled against the edge of the blanket, “it serves my purposes to keep at least one key out of C’s hands.”

“Because you don’t want to see him freeing psychopaths willy-nilly?” James suggested wryly.

Q stubbornly added, eyes closing, “And because I don’t want him destroying that chance of freedom altogether.  Both extremes are distasteful to me.”

For a moment there was silence, and Q was too tired and stressed to open his eyes.  After a stretch, however, James said softly and only a little bit teasingly, “You’re a marvel, Q.”

“I don’t feel like a marvel.”  Q managed to prise his eyes open, although they were beginning to feel grimy and gritty, not to mention leaden.  “A marvel would be able to figure a way out of this.”

“You’re setting the bar a little high, Q.  For now, just be glad that you’re in one piece, more or less.”

Q ignored him.  He refused to fall asleep until he’d at least done something useful.  “M’s the lynchpin.  If C wants to use the key to unlock those collars you Hounds wear, then he’ll need to capture M.  If not, he’ll need to kill him as quickly as possible.”

Bond sighed, clearly resigning himself to the fact that Q wasn’t going to let this go - which was smart of him, because even though Q was on his last legs of strength and sanity, he was clearly stubborn as hell.  He’d never let a problem go, not until it was conquered, like a bone gnawed through by a terrier’s teeth.  Still sitting slouched on the edge of the hospital bed, James replied resignedly, “I know the way to M’s quarters and to his office, but unless he’s bloody stupid he won’t be either of those places anymore - and that means he’ll be nearly impossible to find.  C made a good move when he destroyed our communications options.  In a facility this big, we may as well all be on a hundred different little islands, all alone, without them.”

“Not entirely,” Q suddenly mused, bringing one hand free of the blanket to rub thoughtfully at his chin, ending up chewing lightly on a fingernail as he pondered.  “Not all forms of communication are cut off,” he elaborated belatedly, warming to his topic, “The intercom is still active, to my knowledge - C used it, after all, even when everything else was shut down.  I might have to manually hack into it, but I know I can do that...”  Q trailed off with a wracking shiver and a jaw-popping yawn.  

James, who couldn’t have missed either action, stated firmly, “Tomorrow.  You’re done for tonight.”

“But-”

“You’re a genius, Q,” Bond cut him off, tone blunt and eyes fixed on Q with almost unsettling frankness, “but you’re not indestructible.  Take it from someone trained to look for human weakness - you look like something the cat dragged in, and even if I weren't afraid you’d collapse the second you stood up, I’d be worried that your weakness would draw all the wrong kinds of attention.”  When Q opened his mouth to protest again, James lifted a hand, stating more sharply, “I won’t question your knowledge if you don't question mine.  Out there-”  James pointed at the doorway, and presumably the entirety of Eigengrau beyond, presently kept out because James had jammed shut the doors to the small clinic.  “-It’s open-season on people like you.  You’re not at the top of the food-chain anymore, I am.”  Q drew back, afraid for a moment, looking in James’s eyes and seeing the emotionless blue of a feral cat’s eyes: calm, capable, merciless.  But James soon went on, “I’ll trust you to be the brains if you’ll let me be the brawn.”

“You…  You really want to ally with me?” Q asked in disbelief.  For the first time he began to consider if he really was in shock, and if symptoms of shock included temporary insanity, or at least auditory hallucinations.  One way or another, the situation didn’t change as James kept talking.  

“I believe you when you say C is up to something.  Call me paranoid, but I think he seems more the type to screw us over and keep the upper hand rather than to just let a bunch of Hounds go free out of the goodness of his heart.”  

“But still…  Just… Why?”

“Well, for starters…”  James reached up and hooked a finger through the loop of his collar - presently harmless but still very present.  “...I don’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting this off on my own, but with you, I’ve got much better chances.  Besides that…”  Now 007 grinned, and Q found himself immediately uneasy at the roguish expression.  James continued in an entirely too careless tone, “...It’s going to get bloody cold pretty soon in this part of the building, and if I leave you now, you might very well freeze.  Having another body nearby will keep us both warmer.”

~^~

The pieces had all started to fall into place as Sherlock listened to the ranting voice over the intercom system.  John had already left for his own quarters for the evening, but the regular guards had been there to hear Sherlock cry out triumphantly as his deductions were proven correct - there was a traitor within Eigengrau’s walls, quite a few traitors, in fact.  The guards misinterpreted Sherlock’s excitement, thinking that he was crowing because his jailers had been overthrown, and came to his cell to yell at him and bang threateningly at the bars.  Still unused to people threatening this sort of violence against his person, even after two months, Sherlock had snapped his mouth shut and drawn back to the rear of his cell.  

That didn’t mean he was wrong, however.  Sherlock had been a hound on a scent, and when everyone had dragged him away from his tracking, his quarry had come bursting out of the shadows of its own accord.

The locks in Holding were manual, mechanical ones, so while the guards were clearly disturbed by the situation and bothered by their sudden inability to communicate with their fellows, they didn’t reach the point of full-on panic. Sherlock’s cell was only a little way down the corridor from where most of the area's guards were gathered, muttering and speculating anxiously, so he also heard when one of the doors to Holding opened with a whine of old hinges – at which point the guards set up a tremendous racket.  For a moment, Sherlock felt a fist of fear close around his heart, imagining a million kinds of danger that could have somehow gained access to his little pocket of Eigengrau.

All those fears were swept away, however, when John Watson’s roar cut through the chaos, commanding and furious, “Stand down!  Put your fucking guns away before I holster them all up your arses – and someone give me a hand here!”

Sherlock immediately crowded up to the bars again, trying to see as much as he could.  It wasn’t much, but if he pressed his face right up against the chilled metal and strained his eyes to look slantwise down the hallway, he could just see the entranceway.  There were people stumbling, tripping, and dragging one another through, many of them stricken with telltale smears of red that spoke of barely survived violence.  Sherlock caught flickers of John amidst it all, and could certainly hear his voice as he took control of the chaotic situation.  “Everything’s gone to hell out there,” John stated almost wrathfully, responding to the guards' demands for answers.  As a Handler, he technically outranked them, even though his position had been no more officially approved than had Sherlock’s position as a Hound  – but even if one disregarded rank, John’s awareness of events outside Holding gave him a position of power that had everyone looking to him, that much was clear even from where Sherlock was.  “Some maniac knocked out all the power, all communications, and even battery-run computers are on the fritz,” John informed them.

“So who are these people?” one of the guards asked of the people John had dragged along with him.

“People caught in the crossfire,” John said succinctly, gravely, “I was heading here when I found them under attack from a high-Pass agent – 017, I think.  They’d managed to barricade a door.”

“But not before she killed five people in the common room,” gasped a woman that Sherlock couldn’t see, undoubtedly one of the victims.  There were little sobs to be heard like echoes of her distraught words.

“I brought them here with me because I figured they’d be safer,” John said.

Sherlock couldn’t keep quiet anymore.  Feeling a little thrill that always came with exercising his skills, he made sure that his voice was calm and would carry, then called out, “John has a point.  In all of Eigengrau, this section of the facility is the least updated.  Everywhere else is electronic, if I recall correctly – and I always do – so I wouldn’t be surprised if nearly ninety-percent of the doors in Eigengrau are incapable of being secured in any way.”

What heads Sherlock could see had all turned toward him, and while some people were still whimpering in pain, Sherlock was able to hear one of the guards eloquently respond after a heavy silence, “Fuck.”

“Here, put pressure on that,” Sherlock heard John, somewhere out of sight, order gently.  Sherlock took in that information and realized with surprised approval that John had not only spirited these people away from danger, but was also seeing to their injuries now.  Soon, however, the sandy-haired man in question was trotting up to Sherlock’s cell with a serious, no-nonsense sort of expression on his face.  “Sherlock, what do you know?” he demanded, “Because I guarantee that you know something – you’ve been going on and on about a traitor since the moment I met you, and now it seems you’ve been proven right.  Happy?”

Ignoring John’s caustic tone because clearly the man was upset, Sherlock replied distractedly, “Ecstatic,” before engaging the gears of his mind and steepling his fingers pensively.  He tapped them rhythmically against his chin as he started to speak, now that he had a decent audience, “It takes someone well-connected to do even a fraction of what this individual has done – and that someone is technologically gifted, unless he had Root do all the work.  She’s skilled with electronics, I presume? And that was Root we heard on the intercom, female Hound with the Handler named Fusco, yes?”

John seemed a bit off-put by Sherlock’s efficient yet fervent tone, and blinked twice, rapidly, before hesitantly answering both questions, “Yes, and yes…”

Sherlock kept right on going, having already known those answers; asking for confirmation had been more of a tool intended to check that his audience was listening, really.  “One way or another, this mastermind has managed to cripple an entire organization in mere minutes – and he clearly has more than one ally.  You heard the offer for the Hounds to meet him at the helicopter pad, no?”  This time not waiting for a response, picking up speed, Sherlock went on, “An offer like that only makes sense if he has a pilot in his back pocket – and considering the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of the pilot Connor White-”

“How does he know about that?” one of the guards further down the hall – clearly eavesdropping even as she tended to wounded – called.

“I told him,” John replied wincingly.  He added in a quieter grumble that was probably not audible beyond himself and Sherlock, full of jaded defeat, “Because he was going out of his mind with boredom.”

“Yes, thank you for that,” Sherlock said, meaning it, before diving back into his mind again and starting to pace energetically, “So – back to White.  Like the deaths I was following before my untimely arrest, White’s death was suspiciously well-planned and well-timed and opened up a critical position on Eigengrau’s staff.  I imagine that there are people to vouch for the long-term pilots, but what about the new one, hmm?”  Sherlock had paced away but now spun around to face John again, whose eyes showed that he was starting to catch on, and didn’t like the picture being painted very much.  “How many murders have been committed, John, that could conceivably make  way for the hiring of more malleable employees?  All of whom would have to have been hired for Eigengrau within the past…”  Sherlock cast back in his head, thinking about the murder scenes he’d investigating, putting together a timeline.  “…Half a year, at least, although one must account for the regular shift-changes.  There would be no point in placing an operative in Eigengrau only to have them be rotated out before the big day.”

“What are you saying, Sherlock?” John pressed, coming closer to the bars.  By this point his expression said that he almost didn’t want to know, but Sherlock respected that the man was asking anyway.

“I’m saying that whomever is in charge of this coup is intimately aware of how Eigengrau operates, but is only tangentially connected to the hiring process,” Sherlock rattled off, “If the man we heard on the intercom was able to hire people directly, he wouldn’t have had to murder anyone.  Nonetheless, he’s managed to amass enough allies to not only have access to a pilot, and to leave Eigengrau with his allies, but to also kill the previous pilot while framing someone else for it.  He clearly had people with him when he was on the intercom, when he ordered that poor sod to be chased down, and he’s already got Agent 009 on his side, to say nothing about the other men and women he’s in the process of amassing.”

“High-pass agents, you mean.”

Sherlock hummed assent without any particular inflection.  It was just a fact.

“Shit,” John breathed, putting one hand on his hip and dragging the other back through his hair, tugging at the short strands.  There was a heavy, grim sort of quiet everywhere, and Sherlock stepped forward to peer down the hall again, realizing belatedly that everyone had been listening – and were cowed by what they’d heard.  Sherlock felt a flicker of unexpected regret, suddenly seeing the power his words could hold.

John was still talking, although he had the sense – and the voice – not to let his words carry as much as Sherlock’s had.  “A lot of innocent people are going to die.”

“A lot of people, innocent or not, are going to die.  From what you’ve told me of the other high-Pass agents, they can be rather indiscriminate in their violence,” Sherlock made an attempt to quiet and gentle his voice, too, following his would-be-Handler’s example.  “Didn’t you tell me that 004 tried to kill 007 just within the past week?”

John made a little noise that might have been a chuckle or a little choke of breath; either way, it wasn’t really all that happy a sound.  He still had one hand buried in his hair, his eyes unfocused and looking up at the ceiling as if it had answers.  “Yeah, that happened,” he agreed, then looked at Sherlock with an unexpected attempt at lightness in his brown eyes, “I suppose it’s too much to hope that they’ll all kill each other off first?”

Sherlock cracked a slantwise smile.  “I won’t tell you the statistical likelihood of that happening,” he replied warmly, because he had to commend the smaller man for finding something light in this dark situation, even if it felt like gallows’ humor, “But technically, it is a possibility.  Anything is.”

“Well, that’s encouraging.”  This time, John definitely chuffed out a breathy little laugh, glancing back down the hall but apparently judging by what he saw that everything was under control.  Then, however, his expression became distant and thoughtful, both hands dropping to his sides slowly and brows drawing together.

Insatiable curiosity had always been Sherlock’s Achilles’ heel, and he found himself gripping the bars, wishing he could walk through them, as if greater proximity could allow him to see the very thoughts in the other man’s head more clearly.  “What is it, John?”

Most people that Sherlock had met at Eigengrau weren’t interested in entertaining his questions, but instead of getting cagey or testy, John began speaking immediately, “The only thing I don't understand is…  Whoever is behind all of this is clearly a psychopath – but if so, why didn’t the Sybil System catch him before all of this happened in the first place?  You’re saying this was organized from the outside, but how could a person like that still be on the outside?”

By the time John finished speaking, he’d turned back to face Sherlock, and the middle Holmes was looking down at his feet.  He didn’t feel… guilty, per se, but there was definitely something about himself that he’d not told John, because it included his brothers, too.  He knew that it wasn’t so impossible at all for someone with a dangerous mind to still be roaming free.  Up until now, though, he’d had the hubris to think that no one besides the Holmes brothers could be so lucky as to stand in Sybil’s blindspot.  “…I might have an answer for that,” he answered grudgingly, the pitch of his voice weighed down by an edge of guilt.

Chapter Text

~^~

Ianto Jones’s life had always been exactly as interesting as he’d wanted it to be.  As a child in Cardiff, he’d been perfectly mediocre, capable of surprising people either with sudden feats of success or failure, all more or less by choice.  He was never the person in the spotlight when he was with friends, but likewise found a certain safety – and power – in being ignored, and found out that he liked working from the shadows of other people.  Those in charge of things were always under scrutiny, but Ianto could choose to either become involved or fade into the background as he wished.  He was told by a teacher once, in his formative years, that he had a quiet demeanor and a face that begged to be forgotten, and instead of being enraged by that, he’d accepted it as his mantle and enjoyed the perks.

With his quietness and forgettability  – but also with a decent amount of genius behind it; Ianto wasn’t stupid – Ianto had graduated into the working world of adults, and had proceeded to climb the corporate ladder in the quietest way possible.  He judged and read people, seeing quickly what bosses wanted.  If he thought the idea of a promotion sounded worth his while, he’d give those bosses what they wanted – or, if it seemed more trouble than it was worth, he’d simply let himself fade into the background, watching and celebrating as co-workers all around him were promoted to places of incompetence.

Despite all of this, Ianto didn’t make friends easily.  Acquaintances, yes – friends, no.  It was one thing to play to the whims of an employer, like figuring out what numbers to put into a math equation to get the best result, but it was quite another to simply be oneself and wait to see if someone liked you.  That was why Ianto was so surprised and honestly awed when he met Lisa Hallet, and she’d actually wanted to date him.  It wasn’t until then that Ianto realized how structured his life was, how linear, how mathematically he approached everything in his day – even the act of getting his coworkers coffee was a complete equation designed to make people happy or calm or talkative or productive.  With Lisa though (who was gregarious and spontaneous and everything that Ianto Jones most certainly was not), Ianto found himself… actually letting go a little.

When cancer had taken her life just two years later, after a grueling, slow decline of health that had left both her and Ianto gaunt and haggard, Ianto found that he didn’t really know how to have fun like that without someone else leading him.

That had been four years ago.  Anyone who had known Ianto before Lisa would think him little-changed: he was polite and sweet, incredibly helpful no matter how busy he was, and yet so inconspicuous and unremarkable that it was possible to forget that he was in a room until he appeared with a carafe of freshly-made coffee.  He climbed the corporate ladder almost by accident, always staying in the shadows, and making close acquaintances but rarely ever friends.

Which had made it quite easy for him to accept the job at Eigengrau as the secretary for M, the man in charge.  And so the cycle repeated, with Ianto tangentially connected to high-Pass agents and worldwide espionage and political battlefields that could potentially affect millions.  The only real change was that Gareth Mallory was ten times as intuitive as Ianto’s previous bosses, realizing on the first day that Ianto was there that this was more than a mild-mannered, mindless secretary.

“This coffee is very good,” M had said, when Ianto had brought some in.  Ianto had a knack for knowing what people needed and giving it to them before they could even think to ask, but he’d waited a bit in this case – because he figured that a man who ran a facility like Eigengrau would be a bit suspicious of a brand-new employee bringing him unsolicited liquids.  M had taken another appreciative sip, then sat back, and instead of dismissing Ianto had pointed to the chair across from his desk, “Now, I want you to sit, and tell me exactly how – and why – you figured out precisely how I like my coffee within twenty-four hours of arriving here.”

That had been the start of a somewhat closer relationship than Ianto usually had with his bosses.  Instead of being efficiently aloof, with Ianto moving mountains in the background without ever catching M’s (or anyone else’s) eye, Ianto found his work watched keenly and acknowledged – and before long, openly appreciated.  By the time Ianto had worked at Eigengrau for a month, he was tentatively sure that he was friends with Gareth Mallory, and was very sure that M didn’t miss a single thing that Ianto usually did behind the scenes.

Ianto had to wonder if perhaps he hadn’t become friends with Mallory, he might not be in this position right now, risking his neck and running through Eigengrau just one step ahead of what was probably certain death.

Panting and puffing for air, nearly missing the turn and skidding as he took the sharp left, Ianto began to wish that he were more athletic.  Running errands for M wasn’t exactly the most consistent form of exercise, and the stitch developing in his side was like a knife between Ianto’s ribs.  Of course, he was well aware that the men behind him – be they high-Pass agents or traitors newly come out of the woodwork – could put a literal knife between his ribs, and that kept the young man going.  So far, they hadn’t gotten close enough to see him, but apparently not everyone had been lured away into hunting Mallory.

The knowledge that Mallory was playing bait right now made something angry and helpless twist in Ianto’s chest.  That pushed him to run faster, too, because if M could do that, then the least Ianto could do was play his part, too.  Most of the people behind him probably weren’t even chasing Ianto directly, but simply racing to M’s office, after the same prize Ianto was: one of the keys that could truly free every killer in Eigengrau.

Ianto swerved into the next turn and stopped at M’s office door mostly by running into it, his momentum too great to do anything else.  He went to touch the keypad, to let himself in with codes he probably wasn’t supposed to have but did anyway (he was reasonably sure that M knew it but hadn’t ever commented), but then recalled there there was no power.  Everything was unlocked.  With trepidation and nerves making his throat tight and his heart hammer, Ianto put a hand on the doorknob, feeling it turn easily beneath his hand.  Part of him expected people to already be inside, so he sighed gustily in relief as he peeked in to find the place empty and apparently untouched.  Staggering now as the relief seemed to sink down into his legs, Ianto rounded M’s desk to find the sturdy little lockbox.  Since M hadn’t even bothered to give Ianto the combination when they’d parted ways, he apparently was aware that his secretary knew that number, too.  Inside were some important documents, but for the most part, M kept everything in his head – making M’s head even more important, but also making Ianto’s job easier, because he only had a few things that he needed to hide for safekeeping.

He’d just closed the lockbox and stood up with papers in one hand and collar-key in the other when someone else barreled into the room.

For a long second, they just stared at one another, both wide-eyed with adrenaline and surprise.  It took a second for Ianto to recognize 004’s Handler, Severine.  Unsure if she’d recognize him as quickly in return, and aware that she had a gun strapped to one curving hip, Ianto immediately raised his hands – showing them full, but not with anything dangerous – and quickly yelped, “Ianto Jones!  I’m Ianto Jones, M’s secretary.  Don’t shoot!”  When that bought him at least a few seconds in which the woman did nothing but stare at him, Ianto finished in a mad rush, “I came here to make sure that no one got their hands on these.”  He moved his hands a bit, and watched as the woman’s heavily kohled eyes flicked to the sheaf of papers and then the electronic, thumbdrive-shaped key.

She recognized the latter.  “The key for the collars,” she said in her softly-accented, smoky voice, sounding a bit breathless.

Slowly, Ianto lowered his hands, breathing easier as he realized he wasn’t about to be shot for stealing.  “It would be very dangerous for this to fall into the wrong hands, so M sent me to get it.”

“Where’s M?” Severine asked.

At first, Ianto felt a flicker of suspicion towards her – after all, who was to say who was friend and who was foe? – but there was such fear in her eyes that he doubted she was a part of this coup.  Honestly, she looked as afraid as he did, and she was armed.  “I don’t honestly know,” Ianto said with a shrug, “We split up, and not a bloody phone works in this whole place now.”  He stopped talking and tensed as he heard distant noises; danger was catching up with them.

Severine had noticed, too, her face paling but her lips also pursing into a tight, determined line.  “Come.  We have to move.”  She gestured for him to follow as she peeked out the door and declared it clear, for now.  “I came this way on the off-chance that M would be here, but what you carry is just as important,” she said gravely.

Ianto wanted to say something selfless and gallant, about how she didn’t have to do that, or she should just save herself, but all that came out was, “Thank you,” because he was glad to not be alone.

At least the emergency lights had come on, giving the halls a sickly, jaundiced sort of light, beating back the worst of the shadows as Severine began to lead them down the halls at a swiftly increasing pace.  Her legs were long and sleek, and soon Ianto was puffing again, trying to keep up.  They kept hearing sounds – gunshots, shouting, screaming, laughing – ricocheting down the halls to them, like sounds heard inside a maze.  It was almost impossible to get a picture of what was happening everywhere, and Ianto found himself looking around and flinching almost constantly, afraid that one of those sounds would suddenly appear from right next to them.  Ianto had been to a haunted house once as a child, and now the memory returned to him vividly and disturbingly, even as he gulped at the realization that all the ghosts here… were very much real.

They made it quite some ways before Ianto tripped.  It felt like he’d been running for hours, although in total, he imagined that only about thirty minutes had passed – still, that was more running that he’d probably done since high school track and field.  When he gracelessly fell, the papers went flying, but he kept a death-grip on the little collar-key.  Severine immediately turned and came back to him, wordlessly picking up the papers and tucking them up under her shirt.  Ianto caught a flash of tanned skin across her belly, but only for a second before she had the documents up against her skin and then her shirt covering it all.  It was a genius hiding place, really, insofar as it was nearly impossible to see the new layer of paper she wore around her stomach.  When she tucked her shirt quickly into her pants, the hiding place was complete, and then she helped Ianto to his feet.  “Come on.  We’ve left M’s office behind, but we aren’t safe,” she said, and he saw that fear again in her eyes.  The more he thought of it, the more he thought she always seemed afraid – which perhaps made her the smartest person in Eigengrau.  “You should hide that, too.”  The Handler gave a significant nod towards Ianto’s hand, where the key was indenting his palm from the strength of his grip.

Ianto felt himself begin to freeze up from fear, because telling him to hide something implied that there was a need to – that someone would be looking.

Severine met his eyes, saw the fear, and merely gave a sad little nod.  ‘I understand,’ the look said, and then she began tugging and pushing until they were both moving again, Severine now running with her gun drawn in one hand.

They made it as far as the section of Eigengrau dedicated to the mundane task of accounting, entering a room of desks and drawers and papers, before they were shot at.  

Severine was reacting, Ianto swore, before the shot was even heard.  Maybe she saw something; maybe her instincts had just been honed to that fine of a point.  Either way, she grabbed Ianto’s shirt with one hand, throwing him down behind a desk while she shot with her other hand, her aim suffering for it.  Ianto still saw their attackers withdraw suddenly back outside the room where they’d come from, everyone shouting and swearing – except for Severine, who was eerily quiet.  She ducked behind another desk for cover, her eyes clearly scanning for another exit, but before either she or Ianto could make a move, the other gunmen returned.  Even working in Eigengrau for weeks hadn’t accustomed Ianto to the gunshots, not like this, and he was ashamed by how quickly he ducked down against the floor, curled up like an egg with his hands over his ears.  He spared glances up at Severine when he could, but her eyes were wild and desperate, and he knew it was bad just from that.

Suddenly she looked at him, some of her long dark hair escaping its ponytail and sticking to the sweat upon her cheek.  Her eyes were narrowed and fierce as she shouted at him, “Go!  There’s a door, just behind that division.”  She jerked her head back over her shoulder, where a temporary well rose up higher than either of them, but not all the way to the ceiling.  “I can just see it from where I am.”

“What about-?”

“Don’t ask about me” she ordered, “Just go, and don’t waste time-!”  Before she could finish, the sound of another gunshot cracked through the air, and Severine jerked and cried out.  Blood blossomed from her shoulder, an impossible shot up until now – but when Ianto and Severine turned their heads, they saw that they’d been flanked without noticing.

Teeth bared and panting with pain, Severine still lifted her gun in both hands, arms shuddering.  Nonetheless, her first shot winged the man who’d hit her, just as he himself tried to dive back into cover.  “GO, JONES!” she shrieked at him.

This time, her words were like a slap to the face, and his legs snapped into motion purely on autopilot.  He found himself racing towards Severine, then past her, feeling her slender hand grab his shirt only to propel him onwards.  Then she was twisting around to refocus on their initial shooters, laying down cover-fire that was deafening.  Ianto heard her reload once; quickly, efficiently.  He was past the divider, a door indeed coming into view-

The door opened, and C stood right in front of him, the shadows behind him filled with people.  Ianto had only seen the man in pictures, and he was hardly an intimidating man in person, but just the knowledge that this was the man behind this entire nightmare was enough to put pure terror in Ianto’s chest.  He skidded to a halt and looked desperately back the way he’d come.

He found himself looking at Severine, who was sitting with her back still against the desk, a bullet-hole right between her half-closed eyes.

“Save some fun for the next three days, everyone!” C’s voice rose up over the fading racket, as did his clapping as he started bringing his hands together in a steady, eerily slow rhythm.  

Ianto felt like a rabbit in a snare, trapped by what encircled him.  He fully expected to be shot even as he spun around, taking note of gunman from all sides, coming out of their hiding places.  Someone walked up to Severine, nudging her callously with a toe, and suddenly Ianto felt courage spring up from somewhere.  He straightened, and bellowed, “Now you just fucking leave her alone!”

“Wow,” C whistled, and everyone turned to him.  Ianto felt uncertain and off-balance, taking in this spare little man who was even now smiling ruefully and rotating a finger in his ear as if emptying it out.  “You’ve got a set of lungs on you.”  Ianto curled his hands into fists and tried to stand his ground without trembling.  Out of the corner of his eye, he at least saw that no one else was bothering Severine’s corpse, which was the least that she deserved after she’d helped Ianto get this far.  In fact, the only reason Ianto was alive even now was probably due to her, although how much longer he’d last now that she was gone was anyone’s guess.  He wasn’t armed, and he wasn’t a trained fighter, and he was woefully outnumbered.

And that was before he recognized a high-Pass agent stepping out from behind C’s other men.

It wasn’t Root, which was a surprise; she’d clearly been with C at the time of his little speech on the intercom.  Instead, it was Agent 001, Jack Harkness, who looked shocked as he caught sight of Ianto of all people standing there in the thick of trouble.  Any Hound at all was capable of identifying Ianto as M’s right-hand-man, but out of all of them, Jack had the most dirt on Ianto, namely because he’d been sleeping with him…

“So, who might you be?” C said, smile showing all of his teeth and putting a too-bright glint in his eyes.  It was hard to meet his gaze – like staring into the abyss, and knowing that it was most definitely staring back.

“Jones,” he stuttered back, glued to those eyes, but managed to recover enough to gulp loudly and squeak, “Ian Jones.  I…”  Ianto knew for a fact that he was a terrible liar; that was one of the reasons he’d never really wanted a high-powered job.  Working in the shadows of powerful people required a lot less dishonesty than being a powerful person.  Nonetheless, he was aware of the need to lie right now, so did his best, whispering with very real fear in his voice, “I work here.”

Perhaps it was the fact that that technically wasn’t a lie, but no one questioned him.  Unfortunately, the assumption that Ianto Jones was just ‘Ian Jones from Accounting’ was also quite disinteresting, so suddenly C’s eyes got reptilian and cold, and rolled from Ianto’s face to instead look past him as if he were nothing but an inanimate obstacle.  “Well, isn’t that dreadfully boring.  And here I was hoping for some fun.”  He waved a hand dismissively, and Ianto’s heart froze in his chest as the rogue Director-General said carelessly, “Carry on, boys and girls.  This is what I get for stopping the party, I suppose.”

Ianto swayed, feeling his world rocketing swiftly out of his control as he stared in horror at this man who doled out life and death so lackadaisically – and clearly valued the former not at all.  The Welshman was aware, to the marrow of his bones, that he was about to feel what a bullet was like when it tore through vital organs, when suddenly Harkness stepped forward and raised a polite hand for attention.  “Actually, I want to keep him.”

Everyone turned and looked, surprised and perplexed, but when C turned around, there was at least some sincere intrigue lighting his fine-featured face.  In fact, a little leer pulled knowingly at his mouth.  “Now this is unexpected.  Any particular reason you think an accountant would be a useful addition to our little gang?”

Harkness was looking right at Ianto, but the man’s devastatingly handsome face was an enigma; Ianto couldn’t see past the mask-like smile pasted in place, or the coolly assessing blue-grey eyes.  “Actually, I was thinking more of having him as a pet.  How the hell should I know what good an accountant is for?” Jack volleyed back.

Now everyone started chuckling, and Ianto looked uneasily around him, the sound like the low growl of hungry wolves.

“Plus, you hear that accent?” Jack continued to state his case, as charismatic as Ianto remembered, but a lot colder, “Sexy as hell.  Of course I want that.  What else is my newfound freedom for?”

“You’re not free yet,” C reminded, a sliver of ice in his voice, too.

Jack’s smile never wavered, but perhaps it did freeze in place for a second as he and C locked eyes.  “I figure there’s no reason to die of boredom up until then,” he returned with an icicle tone of his own.

For a moment, the two matched gazes.  Harkness was bigger and stronger, an athletic man in his prime with all the deadly training that came with being a high-Pass agent for as long as he had.  It was unsettling to be reminded so harshly that Jack, beneath the smiles and flirtatious banter (and sweet words, and gentle touches, when he was with Ianto in private), was still a Hound.  He’d killed people, and his morals didn’t work like normal people’s morals did.  He was, in a nutshell, a highly functional monster.

Ianto just hadn’t seen the monster until now.

Everyone was jeering and laughing now, and Ianto’s cheeks had gone red simply at the dozen gazes he could now see running over him.  Self-conscious and deeply uncomfortable, he shifted his weight as if to hide, only to realize that there was still nowhere to go.  Panicked, he looked back to Jack, but the agent was still smiling that chilling smile at C.  Ianto realized with horror that he didn’t recognize those eyes anymore, and that realization hurt like a blow to the solar plexus.

Finally, C’s small smirk spread to a beatific grin, and he spread his arms to declare, “Let it never be said that I’m not a giving man.  I suppose it’s none of my business what you do with the peons of this place.”  Giggling, C turned around to keep walking the way he’d been going, but Ianto could hear him giggling madly, “A pet?  What will everyone think of next…?  I should have thought of that.”

As quickly as that, everyone turned and started moving again like one big pack.  “Devinshire!  Go rendezvous with Moran,” C called back in a suddenly commanding roar.

Jack appeared like a big shadow at Ianto’s side, his grip on the Welshman’s arm bruisingly tight.  “Can I go with him?” the agent asked as if he were asking if he could join friends for a trip to the park.

C looked back over his shoulder, eyes almost xyresically keen, but all he said was, “Just be sure you make yourself useful.”

Ianto wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected the faint undercurrent of threat in that voice.  If Jack heard it, he ignored it, shrugging and replying jubilantly, “I’m always useful!  Why’d you think I hooked up with you guys?”

A few chuckles met the playful comment, and Jack was swallowed up by the ranks of those men breaking off from the main group – and thanks to his hold on Ianto’s arm, the ‘accountant’ was dragged along with him.  Fear clamping like a vice around his chest, Ianto started to struggle, only to be yanked forward – he’d never realized that Jack was so strong.  “Come on, Jones,” Jack coaxed, catching Ianto’s eye, but Ianto couldn’t tell what he was supposed to read from that gaze.  He was too busy recollecting the way Jack’s eyes had been as flat as glass when he’d talked about keeping Ianto as a pet just because he had a sexy voice.  Just because he wanted to enjoy himself while gallivanting around with a group of murderers while waiting to be freed from Eigengrau.

Another tug ensured that Ianto had to walk in step with Harkness, closer than the man’s own darkly cast shadow.  “If you don’t keep up,” the man joked in a tone that sounded as idle as a spring day, “I’ll have to carry you, and you’ll have even more people staring at your ass than you have already.”

The comment was not appreciated, and Ianto had the urge to glare – because Harkness was always on the verge of sexual harassment even on a good day – but instead he suppressed it, sincerely afraid that one wrong look would get him killed… or worse.  Jack knew exactly who he was, and while he didn’t know why Jack had withheld that information, he definitely knew that Harkness held all the cards right now, and could destroy Ianto with barely any effort at all.

~^~

Q did not like this plan.

Q did not see any way out of this plan.

007’s proposal to share a bed seemed born not only out of logic, but perhaps out of some convoluted need to solidify their position as allies, and as much as Q wanted to be both warm and protected, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be within arms’ reach of a high-Pass agent while he slept.

“I’ll do it, but only on two conditions,” Q demanded in a brittle voice, still huddled deep in the blanket on the sofa, shivering as the heat-packs grew less and less effective at holding back the chill.  It wasn’t winter yet, but Eigengrau was not known for its good weather, and without the heating system up and running, the building was soon going to get unbearably cold from the outside in.  This branch of Medical was near an outer wall.

It didn’t help that James was looking unbearably amused by all of this, as if making another person deeply uncomfortable was a rare treat for him – or perhaps a game.  Still perched on the edge of the bed, he looked almost ridiculously inviting, with long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, and his brawny arms crossed over his chest.  Even though he wore a thick denim jacket, his athletic build was easy to see, which didn’t help because it just made him seem all the more dangerous.  “Fine.  Name them.” James made it clear that he’d face any challenge.

Q was hoping to call his bluff.  “First, you find me a shirt without blood all over it,” he said a bit crossly, looking at the floor where his own top layers were all blood-stained and in a heap.

“Easily done, if you don’t mind scrubs.”

“I don’t mind anything that will keep me from running around half-naked,” Q said honestly.  “I’m not much to look at even when I don’t have stitches and massive bruising.”  Not wanting to hear 007’s witty comment on that, Q wriggled his undamaged right arm free to poke out of the blanket, and lifted two fingers to continue, “And secondly, the only way I’m going to get any sleep when I’m that close to you is if you let me sleep with my hand around your throat.”

Q awarded himself an imaginary point as his demand gained the desired effect: James tensed up in surprise and that infernal smile fell away.  Caution was written all over the agent’s expression, and blue eyes flicked over Q’s face as if trying to read between the lines.  Q just sat where he was, still aching, tired, and highly stressed, but now feeling as though he’d at least given his ally/enemy pause.

“That’s your second demand?” James deadpanned.

Holding his ground, Q nodded.  “Yup.”

A large part of Q expected 007 to back down, which would leave Q with heating issues, true, but would probably help his mental stability a lot in the long run.  He was fairly certain that if he was wrangled into sleeping with a high-Pass agent, he’d lose his ever-loving mind-

“Fine.”  Q stared, thunderstruck, as James stood up and nodded in acceptance.  “Let me find you a shirt.”  James walked over, and Q didn’t realize that he was just sitting and staring with jaw agape until the high-Pass agent reached out and put a finger under Q’s chin, gently exerting upward pressure until Q snapped his mouth shut with a blush.  James’s grin was incorrigible.  “What, didn’t think I’d see the logic in your demands?” the agent challenged quietly.

Q couldn’t find anything to say.  Today had fried his brain.  He merely shook his head, wordlessly stupefied by this entire situation.

Looking amused and smug, 007 strolled out of the room, calling back before he began his hunt for clothing, “If you want to run, now’s your chance, but I don’t like your odds of surviving for long without my help.”

As much as Q wanted to argue with that, he knew it was true.  Sagging back under his blanket again, Q sighed and stared in bewilderment as where Bond had been a minute ago.  ‘How the hell did this become my life?’ he asked himself in all seriousness.

Bond was as good as his word, returning with a nurse’s scrub top, its color indistinguishable in the dim lighting.  The agent also returned with an armload of extra blankets and more heat-packs, which was good, because the temperature kept dropping as night grew deeper, and Q’s heat-packs were losing their warmth.  Q pulled on the shirt wincingly while James made up the bed with all the blankets, and activated the heat-packs to toss into the bed like the finishing touch of some strange nest.  By the time 007 turned around again, Q was standing uncertainly and a bit unsteadily, injured arm wrapped around his lower ribs and his other arm curled around it defensively.  “Take your shoes off, but keep them by the side of the bed,” James advised in a tone that said he knew what he was doing, “I blocked all the doorways pretty well, and the cold will convince a lot of people to just find warmer places to loiter – but if we need to move, I want you to be able to do it fast.”  James was following his own advice, Q noticed, circling to the other side of the bed and toeing off his shoes but keeping them close.  He also took his purloined gun (and ammo, Q noted) and set it on the nearby tray-table.  Then, surprisingly, James skinned off his denim jacket, so he was wearing just a black turtleneck pullover underneath.  He tossed the jacket across the bed, making Q jump as it thumped onto the blankets in front of him.  “Pull it on.  You’ll need help with body-heat more than I will,” James said, words factual but smile perhaps a bit wry.

Q decided not to argue, but instead pulled the jacket to him, still feeling the warmth of its wearer in the material.  As he drew it on, he could smell gun oil and musky cologne, and the faint smell of simply well lived-in clothes.  It made him feel unexpectedly closer to 007 than he had expected, moreso somehow than the prospect of sharing a bed with him.

“The bed’s ready whenever you are, princess,” James drawled wryly as Q stalled with the coat.  When the Quartermaster looked up from easing his injured arm into the sleeve, he saw 007 already under the covers, technically occupying only half the bed, but already seeming to take up all the space and then some.  Q nearly chickened out then, but the gnawing cold and his own soul-deep fatigue had him moving without his brain’s consent.

Shivering perhaps from cold and perhaps from silent, unadulterated terror, Q pulled back the layers of blankets and gingerly got in.  He brushed against heat-packs, his socked toes in particular appreciating the radiant pockets of warmth, but soon he was well and truly in 007’s personal space – it was like cozying up next to a leviathan, a monster of lore that he’d known was terrifying in theory, but only now was facing in practice.  He found himself breathing too fast again, already lying down but with his body seizing up and eyes staring blindly at the hollow of Bond’s throat.

It was reflex – a survival instinct buried deep in Q’s hindbrain from wilder times, and perhaps it was this same instinct that had gotten him to make his demand in the first place.  Just as he felt himself tipping into a panic attack, Q recalled his second condition, and felt the muscles of his arm moving on autopilot.  He was lying on his right, uninjured side, and his left arm hurt, but it didn’t hurt enough to stop Q from reaching forward and wrapping his fingers around 007’s throat.  He didn’t mean to squeeze, but he was so terrified that he couldn’t help it, and bore down a bit with his fingertips, feeling soft cloth and firm skin and the outline of the collar against the side of his hand.  The most shocking thing was that James didn’t try to stop him.  True, the agent noticeably tensed – Q could feel the tendons of his neck drawing taut like cables, and could even feel the rush of his indrawn breath – but considering that he could have attacked, it was a remarkably tame reaction.  Q accepted it with almost giddy relief.

“Comfortable, Quartermaster?” James asked with exaggerated politeness a moment later, once Q’s hand relaxed again.

“I’ve got multiple stitches, second-degree burns, had the shit kicked out of me, and while the drugs might be helping with the pain,” Q retorted with just a teensy bit of hysteria in his voice, “they haven’t done a bloody thing to get me to forget that I’m basically living in a horror movie.”

“Sleep will be good for that,” 007 assured.

Q dared to look up at him, seeing quietly watchful blue eyes very near his, seemingly untroubled by any of this.  “Will I wake up to find out that this is just a terrible nightmare?” he asked, only half joking.

James sighed and rolled his eyes instead of answering, but he also moved unexpectedly.  Q held his breath, a spark of adrenaline making his heart rabbit, and he once again clenched his fingers around 007’s throat.  It was quickly becoming apparent that Q perhaps didn’t have enough strength in his hand to be a real threat this way, but it seemed to convince James to move slower – telegraphing his movements this time, he slowly shifted closer, ending with an arm over Q’s side.  A leg soon followed, eased over Q’s hips and making the younger man shudder more at the touch than because of cold this time.  007 used his grip to gently ease Q closer, but every movement was as exceedingly careful as it was unstoppable.  Q barely even squeaked as the weight of Bond’s arm settled near bruised ribs – because even then, Bond adjusted obediently, apparently mindful of the slight threat of Q’s hand.

Q didn’t know what to think.  On the one hand, 007 had a documented history of killing, and had proven time and again on missions that he could kill without hesitation before or remorse after, and he’d even killed his own Handlers.  On the other hand, Q would have died earlier or frozen half to death, but instead was patched up, bundled under blankets with a very warm body to ensure he stayed toasty, and had 007’s promise of protection.  He couldn’t tell which side of 007 was real and was having an equally hard time reconciling the two.

“Just go to sleep, Q,” 007 rumbled into the darkness between the sheets.  Q’s palm tingled with the vibrations of the man’s vocal chords, and the boffin was quietly floored by this freely given vulnerability - this throat beneath his hands.  “Give that mad brain of yours a rest.  We’ll need it in the morning.”

Finally too tired and worn out to argue, Q took the order at face value, and almost instantly tumbled into a heavy and dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Day 1 of the Siege of Eigengrau

~^~

If anyone were smart enough to ask the right question, Hannibal would have said that he had always been a predator – but Eigengrau had made him a monster.  Predators killed for food, out of necessity, or when they were crossed.  Generally speaking, in that last instance, the people who crossed Hannibal represented members of society who were best removed from the gene pool anyway, so he was really doing humanity a favor by ending those lives.  It was exceedingly rare that Hannibal ever killed actually pleasant people, and in either case, he made good use of them – whether the carcass it came from was a good person or a bad one, Hannibal could always find an exceptional cut or two.  A good meal was its own reward after a successful hunt.   

The Sybil System did not agree, and neither did anyone in Eigengrau.  Even now, though, Hannibal didn’t consider himself a cannibal, because that implied eating one’s equal, something that he’d never consider doing and most certainly had never done.  It was simply a fact, however, that Eigengrau had given him a lot more reasons to want to kill people, and when the man on the intercom had spoken of animals in zoos, Hannibal understood.  A tiger in the wild was a beautiful thing, and while it would no doubt eat a human from time to time, its predations were generally considered acceptable – caged up and fed only day-old cuts of second-rate beef, however, even the most noble of tiger would begin to consider opportunities to become a man-eater.

Hannibal generally only ate people who threatened to ruin his livelihood or who offended him, and in Eigengrau, that was very nearly everyone.  It was a miracle that he didn’t kill more.

The helicopter pilot, however, wasn’t his handiwork.  He was curious as to why someone would want to pin their murder on an already convicted man, but mostly he was offended that anyone could be so stupid and blind as to think him responsible for such shoddy work.  When Hannibal had talked his way into the scene of the crime, he’d been able to tell from a distance, in seconds, that whoever had done this hadn’t even wielded a professional butcher-knife before, much less a scalpel as Hannibal had.  For sure, the actual killer knew his way around a knife, but not in any way that showed a respect and knowledge for the meat he was dealing with.  It was absurd that anyone could think this Hannibal’s work.

Yet everyone did.

Except one man named Will Graham.

Since Hannibal had had little else to do while he was locked up, he’d asked a lot of questions about the dark-haired young man at the crime scene.  Hannibal was always on his best behavior even when he was secretly plotting the death of everyone in Eigengrau, so it wasn’t long before he coaxed his guards into chatting with him and giving him the information that he wanted.  It was surprisingly easy, despite Will apparently being new, because it seemed that nearly everybody disliked the man.  Most of this dislike came from the single encounter at the scene of Captain Connor White’s murder, which Hannibal found quite ironic, because his own impressions had been so different.  Hannibal had arrived at the scene just as Will was getting warmed up, it seemed, but while Hannibal had found Will’s clear, brutal description of events to be intriguing and almost breathtaking, everyone else seemed to have found it deeply disturbing.

Hannibal had said little, but watched attentively with an expression that he knew encouraged speaking, while his three guards discussed Will Graham.

“They brought him in here as some top-notch profiler from the States, but if you ask me, they should’ve just collared him at the gate.  The guy’s mental.”

“I’ve talked to one of the men he transferred in with.  All of them are pretty convinced that he’s high-Pass, but just hasn’t been caught yet.”

“Does that happen?”

“People not getting caught?  Dunno.  But I have to agree – even if the Sybil System hasn’t ordered his arrest, there’s something wrong in that brain of his.  No one describes the methods of a murderer as if they are the murderer, at least not that naturally.”

“Yeah, I mean, shit – where did he even get some of those details?  I was half convinced myself that we’d be arresting him.  Why didn’t we?”

“I believe,” Hannibal finally reentered the conversation, secretly amused as everyone jumped and look at him almost guiltily – they’d dismissed his presence simply because he was silent and behind bars, “the reason Mr. Graham was not taken into custody was because everyone else agreed that they’d already caught the person responsible.”

There were uncomfortable mumbles of agreement, because the three guards were aware of that, but didn’t know how to say so with Hannibal right in front of them.  Even with bars in between them, they were cowards, and behind his polite expression, Hannibal was sneering at them in quiet disgust.

These were the men who thought they had the right to keep him collared?

Now there was a man promising to get the collar off, but Hannibal was still less interested in that than he was in Will Graham.  He’d never seen anything like him, and Hannibal had seen many things in his lifetime – enough so that he found most of humanity dull and boring.  When he’d paused in the doorway to the crime-scene, however, and seen Will, his curiosity had been piqued.  The young man was not particularly threatening, physically.  His eyes were large and sensitive, dark irises to match his dark, messily curled hair, and Hannibal had a lot of muscle weight on him, not to mention a bit of height.  It had been Will’s voice, though: so confident that the air rang with it, he’d spoken of a kill that would have made most people squeamish.  He’d been unhesitant, and so obviously at home within his skin that it had actually been a shock to Hannibal to see the real Will emerge after the nearest guardsmen had physically pulled Will back to himself.

That had been when Hannibal had gone from merely curious to deeply intrigued. The real Will Graham was quiet, shy, and almost pathologically avoidant of eye-contact in a way that made Hannibal begin to suspect that Will might be somewhere on the autism spectrum.  For all that, however, the dark-haired young man was clearly still very competent, even if his confidence seemed to have shattered when he came back to himself.

And then Will had finally looked at him, into his eyes, and Hannibal had gone from intrigued to ravenously enamored.  Hannibal was incredibly perceptive, almost supernaturally so, some people told him, but never had he found someone else able to match that – yet he’d seen when Will stepped out of one killer’s mind and just barely dipped his toe into another’s.  Into the bloody ocean that was Hannibal.

It had been like rejoining two ends of a severed artery, to say that last word – “Artless” – and know that Will was going to say it with him.

Hannibal wanted to know what kind of mind could do that: could look at a crime scene and absorb it so totally as to inhabit the skin of the killer for a little while, and then just as quickly do the same again, to another man, to someone who was not used to being understood.  Hannibal had successfully hidden what he was for decades, even outsmarting the Sibyl System for awhile before the machine and its trillion eyes bested him – yet Will Graham had understood him in seconds.  That, more than Will’s valiant attempt to stand up for Hannibal’s innocence, had him hooked, and even the promise of freedom wasn’t worth more than that.

Hannibal was, by the time of his release, aware of precisely where Will Graham’s unit slept.  It wasn’t terribly far away, and under normal circumstances would be a rather uninspiring chase – the new circumstances, however, in which all of Eigengrau had been thrown into a state of primitive chaos – made things significantly more interesting.  In making his way towards Will’s quarters, Hannibal saw no fewer  than four skirmishes, although he was only forced to get involved in one.  Banal fights were wastes of his time, so he only fought back to keep himself alive until he could disentangle himself, leaving one new corpse behind and only a few new bruises on himself.

When Will’s quarters were empty, Hannibal wasn’t surprised, but it was a place to start.  He took a moment to inspect the various bunks, gleaning bits and pieces of information about each boring person who had slept there, before quickly zeroing in on what had to be Will Graham’s bunk.  A computer had been left behind, and while it froze up and then shut down not long after Hannibal opened it, he gleaned quite a lot before that.  Will Graham had been studying the high-Pass agents.  All of them.  But Hannibal’s file had been the one presently sitting open on the screen the moment it had lit up.  It was… strangely flattering.

That had been late last night.  Now, Hannibal could sense morning rolling in despite the thick walls between himself and the outside world.  He could sense it in the anticipant shivering of the air, as they approached that ‘last cold,’ the hours of morning where temperatures dropped without warning as if trying to dig in their claws before true dawn drove them out.  Hannibal wasn’t tired yet, and he still had some hunting to do.  

~^~

Will could understand that they were in a dangerous situation, but the paranoia had to stop.  “This is literally the third time that you’ve shot at nothing,” he gritted out, his frustration towards his cohort overriding his usual reticence.

Five sets of eyes turned to him with varying levels of annoyance that he’d criticize them, and surprise that he’d spoken at all.

“You do realize that we’re basically in a funhouse full of killers now, right?” McKenna snapped, and Will didn’t have to look in his eyes to read the threat in his tone and posture.  Will looked away, regretting his words already.  “Would you rather I just sit back and watch when a Hound does come around the corner to try and kill us all?”

Despite his intentions to shut his trap, Will found himself replying irritably, “No, but I would rather you not accidentally shoot an innocent person just because you got spooked.  There are a lot more low-Pass than high-Pass people in this building.”

Everyone had stopped walking now.  When the madman’s voice had first sounded over the intercom, everyone had mobilized – different cohorts were sent in different directions to try and maintain order, or protect the unarmed employees.  Will strongly suspected that his cohort, following one of McKenna’s close friends, had taken a wrong turn a few halls back, meaning they were now lost.  Still, they’d kept moving instead of backtracking, until now as they all swiveled around to glare at Will.

Something mean glinted in McKenna’s eyes.  “Well, you know what I think – I think that there’s at least one more high-Pass bastard than anyone realizes.”

Will’s eyebrows drew together, and he briefly made eye-contact with McKenna to show just how sincerely he didn’t follow where this was going.  “What?”

“You,” McKenna willingly emphasized, swiping his gun up briefly like a pointing utensil, making Will’s heart leap momentarily into his throat, “I’m talking about you, Graham.”  The gun went back down again, at least.

Surprisingly, one of the other guardsmen spoke up for Will, eyes flicking uneasily between the pair, “Hey, just leave ’im be, McKenna, this isn’t the time to be picking fights.”

Sadly, McKenna was having none of it, eyes still zeroed in on Will like the sight on a sniper-rifle.  “I’m not picking a fight, I’m pointing out a threat.  And we are out here to eliminate threats, aren’t we?”

Will began to get sincerely uneasy at that point.  Up until now, McKenna and his ilk had gossiped pretty heavily behind his back, but never to his face, and now he could sense a crackling tension around the man in front of him like the tingling in the air right before a lightning strike.  McKenna wasn’t just blustering; he was on the verge of becoming a very real danger.  Will forced himself to meet McKenna’s eyes a little, stating firmly, like he would have with one of his dogs back home if they were misbehaving, “You know what I think?  I think that stressful, life-threatening situations are the most common cause of sudden increases in Psychopasses – listen to yourself, McKenna.”

Things began to devolve.  Someone else spoke up: “No, I’m with McKenna.  Was anyone else there when Graham was pokin’ around that dead chopper pilot?  I saw it and, Graham…”  The man’s eyes turned to Will, who stiffened even as the eyes on him darkened.  “…You’re not normal.  You’re messed up.  You were defending Hannibal Lecter.”

“All I was doing was my job,” Will defended, getting frustrated.  He didn’t deal with people well, partially because he’d spent so much of his life avoiding close human interaction; as a result, it was hard to maintain a grasp on manners and social niceties when his patience wore down.  “Agent 003 might have committed loads of other murders, but not that one.”

“Then who did?” McKenna challenged.

Flustered and caught off-guard, Will stumbled, looking away again, “I-I don’t know.  Someone with a military background but no medical training, probably Black Ops, or whatever the British equivalent is.  They wanted it to look like Hannibal’s work-”

“What do you think, boys?” McKenna interrupted, eyeing Will but clearly talking to everyone else.  Will’s words stumbled to a halt, and McKenna went on, “If this is a frame-job, then what are the odds we’re looking at the copycat right now?”  This time, even the man who’d stood up for Will was silent; the mood was turning uglier by the second.

“I didn’t do it!” Will finally just snapped back, then reined in his anger and tried for logic, breathing deeply, “Whoever killed Captain White was taller than me anyway.”

“But how do you even know that?” someone else protested.

And another: “How did you know any of that shit you said?”

Feeling overwhelmed, Will backed up, but the rest of his cohort followed.  Somewhere amidst the questions and accusations being volleyed at him, someone shoved Will, and he nearly lost his balance.  Very real fear flared brighter in his hindbrain, and he swallowed, actively resisting the urge now to reach for his gun – but then McKenna punched him, and good intentions went right out the window.  Will was being turned on by his own cohort, the people who were supposed to be his allies and have his back.  The irony of that was so bitter that it was like an actual taste in Will’s mouth – but no, that was blood.  His lip had sliced open against his teeth, and now his mouth tasted like copper, and there was more to come, because everyone was advancing now.  Will could tell by their faces that some of them simply thought they were doing what they had to in order to survive; some believed they were doing the right thing; the rest, like McKenna, just wanted to kill the stranger, kill the odd one out, the one they didn’t understand and therefore feared…

At the same time that Will clumsily blocked another punch, he realized that his empathy was intensifying, as if the adrenaline was feeding it.  He didn’t want to understand these men, though – he already knew that regardless of their reasoning and impulses, they were going to try and beat him to death, or outright shoot him if they paused long enough to consider it.  McKenna had switched his rifle over to one hand, freeing up the other to punch Will - but now he had it in a two-handed grip again, and only hesitancy was keeping him from raising it.  ‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of Will’s head said, and it took him a moment to realize that the voice wasn’t his, but an echo of a criminal he’d investigated two months ago.  She’d been a rare creature: a female serial killer, and her targets had been rapists.  She’d seen them all as cowards, and had humiliated them before castrating then killing them.  A black belt and a powerfully built woman, she’d definitely shown her targets what it meant to attack someone who would fight back.  Will had found it easy to empathize with her and like her at the time, despite her murderous nature, and it was easy to pull up a bit of her mind again.  He swayed away from another punch, recalling the easy torsion of her back as she… he… they… had toyed with cornered serial rapists, letting them fight a bit before utterly destroying them.

Will found himself beginning to smile, a lopsided pull of his mouth that wasn’t his.

More shades began to surface, the first like plant shoots through a sidewalk, splitting it wider with each inch that pushed through.  Will felt again the killer of Captain White: the easy confidence, the cold detachment, and the perfectly balanced tread that it had taken to sneak up on a man without being noticed.  Will dodged another attack, swerving and twisting lightly on the balls of his feet, then executed a sharp rabbit-punch with unerring accuracy.  It struck the elbow of the man who’d just missed him, and when there was a sickening crunch and a scream, Will felt nothing, because Will was barely Will anymore.

The Minnesota Cutter had been an underground fighter before orchestrating his own fights, with lethal ends: Will weathered the butt of a rifle against his torso by clenching his stomach muscles and turning to deaden the blow because he’d done this before.  The Minnesota Cutter had done this before.

The Southward Sniper had always felt like weapons were an extension of his body, and Will felt his heartbeat and his breathing fall into an instant, familiar rhythm just as he reached his hands – the Sniper’s hand – to his holster, drawing the weapon without hesitation because he’d been shot in the head in the line of duty, and his emotions hadn’t worked the same since.  Will Graham had too many emotions, but the Sniper had none, and Will shot his furthest enemy right through the eye.  The Sniper didn’t know what to do with enemies close up, but Will had personalities to spare.

The Alexei Bomber usually stuck to explosives, but had killed her own mother up close by striking out against her throat, a wild, blind, angry attack that Will had relived a dozen times just to get closer to her, to learn about her.  Now he did it again, reliving the action in real time and screaming as she had, although he was briefly startled by the deeper timbre of his own voice – and the fact that his victim was a man with buzzed-short hair.  The result was the same, with the victim collapsing, gurgling around a crushed windpipe.

In the name of catching killers, Will had stepped into the minds of scores of dangerous men and women – and since coming to Eigengrau, he’d studied the minds of still more.  Now the door opened the other way.  They walked into him, and Will took the knowledge of whatever killer he needed in order to survive.  By the time Will’s cohort realized that they’d have to use more than good old fashioned fists to deal with Will Graham, it was already too late.  They’d shoved the good, compassionate Will down deep, and had forced all of Will’s demons out into the open.   

~^~

From the shadows of an adjoining hallway, Hannibal stared in awe as if he were watching the birth of a new sun.  He’d seen the way Will Graham had stepped into the shoes of Captain White’s killer, cohabiting with that killer for awhile like a medium sharing space with a ghost for a time – but that had apparently been but a shadow of Will’s skills.  Hannibal had suspected that there was more to Will Graham than met the eye, but he honestly hadn’t dared to hope for a creature such as this.

Hannibal had seen Will fighting his way back to himself, at the crime scene days ago.  He’d seen the way the two states of being clashed: the amoral killer with the very moral Will Graham.  Hannibal had also come upon this little tableau as the group was in the midst of arguing, and he’d seen Will trying for a peaceable solution.  It had nearly made Hannibal laugh – you couldn’t reason with beasts once they’d become scared.

You could only kill them then, before they caused you harm.

Watching dispassionately, amused by how ironic it was that these men feared Will when there was an Eigengrau inmate just meters away, Hannibal began to lose interest in Will.  His reactions were pedestrian, if laudable in a naïve sort of way.  Any other good person would react like this, if pressed – and Will would probably die like any other good person, and Hannibal wasn’t sure whether it would be worth the effort to save him.  He was still very curious about the little quirks of Will’s mind, so maybe he would…

Then the first punch was thrown, and Hannibal began to see that Will Graham’s skills went beyond the mere taste he’d given everyone at the Cooper White crime scene.

It wasn’t subtle, the transition; Hannibal could see it clearly.  Will’s entire body-language changed, from the set of his feet that spoke of sudden, steady balance to the angle of his head and shoulders that radiated angry contempt.  It took a few more movements for Hannibal to be sure, and by then he was starting to smile, marveling at the way Will began to walk differently, body held like a boxer.  Will Graham had been an easy target to hit, but this new version of him was far more elusive and suddenly eager to fight.

The next blow to get past Will’s defenses transformed him again.  And again.  Quietly amazed now, Hannibal watched with analytical eyes and was able to detect (with reasonable certainty) nearly a dozen different identities taking turns in the single man before him.  Each carried different skills – or different kinds of ruthlessness.  Hannibal smirked almost fondly as someone managed to wing the dark-haired young man with a bullet, and suddenly Will was swearing in French, before getting back up again as sinuously as a snake.  It was hard to say which impressed Hannibal more: the suddenly fluid, fearless way in which Will moved in that moment, or his perfect accent.

It clearly wasn’t a refined science, Hannibal noted next.  He’d have been immensely surprised if Will had any control over what was happening.  In fact, soon the lines began to blur between one borrowed persona and the next, and while it continued to give Will an edge, the lack of refinement cost him.  Hannibal frowned and tilted his head in regret, watching as the tables began to turn inevitably against Will.  The odds had been against him from the start, of course – five against one rarely went in favor of the one, outside of vainglorious Hollywood movies.  That being said, Will had already reduced that number by three, so Hannibal decided to wait it out.  If he got involved now, it would taint the results, and he wanted to see what the infamous Will Graham would do when pushed to the limits.

Will had lost his gun, but he’d also spent time methodically disarming opponents, or fighting in quarters too close for rifles to be useful.  There was still one armed man left, a fellow who this whole time had been yelling panicked obscenities that took some effort for Hannibal to tune out.  Now, the man brought his rifle to bear again, clearly intending to finish what he’d started with the bullet to Will’s right shoulder – a shot that had probably been meant to keep Will, who appeared to be right-handed, from shooting anyone, but then Will had become suddenly left-handed, which had amused and impressed Hannibal greatly.  Will was on the floor with the other remaining guardsman, grappling, and Will was like an adder.  Had it been Hannibal holding the rifle, he’d have shot then – the risk of collateral damage would have been worth the gain of taking out a dangerous entity.  The rifleman clearly wasn’t as pragmatic as Hannibal, however, and shouted to his companion instead, at which point Will’s expression suddenly went flat and cold.  Hannibal felt a thrill in his veins, something he usually only felt while killing, as he recognized a new killer taking up residence in Will’s mind.  Will freed up just one fist and snapped it out, sending his knuckles crushing into his opponent’s throat.  It was all done with the kind of precision that Will on his own probably didn’t have.  

This was the correct use of a mind; this was the pinnacle of both empathy and efficiency.  It was raw and unpolished, yes, but Hannibal could see within there the truest diamond he had ever imagined, and it was breathtaking when Will kicked out – shoving his choking wrestling partner away – and then spun almost without looking.  He leapt off the floor and right into the path of the rifle as if it meant nothing to him.

It was a move that even the predator in Hannibal could respect.  Predators knew that even the smallest injury could render them unable to hunt, sentencing them to a slow death by starvation.  However, Hannibal was a thinking predator – more than instincts and hungers – and he knew the value of being willing to take measures more extreme than one’s opponent could stomach.  It was the man who was willing to dance with Death who would ultimately survive the experience.

Will danced now, and fortune favored his boldness as the rifle went off over his shoulder this time, just as Will lurched up and shoved the weapon higher, tackling the gun’s owner as he did so.  When they landed, Will positioned his hands in a way that Hannibal knew very well, and without looking away or even blinking, snapped the other man’s neck.

It was a swift killing method that Hannibal had used many a time, like a lioness burying her teeth in the spinal cord of a zebra to avoid being kicked to death.  Will was smaller and not as physically strong as Hannibal, of course, so the break was sloppier, but still effective.  By the time the job was done and Will was kneeling atop a corpse, the profiler was panting, all but gasping for air – understandable, considering he’d just killed five people in under fifteen minutes.

Will was bleeding from the nose, the shoulder, the mouth, and had taken blows that had opened up small but messy cuts on his right cheekbone and eyebrow.  He had blood on him from one man that he’d shot at close range, right before being disarmed himself.  In short, he was a mess, but to Hannibal he looked glorious.  He was a wolf rising from a good kill after a long hunt, blood staining his white fur a jeweled red.  Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, it looked like Will’s many ‘borrowed’ personalities were losing their grip, and Hannibal began walking forward at about the time Will began looking around himself in confusion.  Will’s eyes, previously so alien and cold and manic by turns, became soft and sensitive again, the brows above them furrowing.

Unaware of Hannibal as yet, Will stumbled to his feet, then nearly tripped and fell back down again.  Graceless now, he staggered, beginning to shake so hard that it looked like his bones were all rebelling in their joints.  Sweat had plastered his shirt to his chest beneath his Eigengrau-issued jacket, and he was panting open-mouthed.  Hannibal coolly diagnosed a panic attack, or a minor fit of some sort, as Will’s eyes jerked all around him but seemed unable to focus on anything.  The dark-haired man made a little choked noise, looking suddenly small, lost, and fragile.  

Unafraid that Will would do anything at this point – so long as Hannibal played by the rules and made it clear that he didn’t pose a threat, it seemed unlikely that the violence would start again – Hannibal approached.  Will’s head belatedly jerked towards him, bewilderment still written all over his face, but when he tensed up, Hannibal merely stopped and lifted his hands harmlessly.  Modulating his voice to its most soothing register, the larger man crooned, “It’s okay, Will.  Everything is all right.”

Will swallowed convulsively, still shaking so hard that he had to shift his feet every few seconds or risk tipping over from the force of every shudder.  He looked around himself, and showed that at least some modicum of coherence existed as he wheezed, “N-N-No, it’s not.”  Words failing him, Will reverted to just shaking his head, body language radiating denial and shock as he wrapped quivering arms around himself.  They were bloodied, too, from split knuckles.

“Yes, it is, Will,” Hannibal gently insisted, and was secretly thrilled when the younger man let him get close enough to touch.  Will was almost too exhausted to shy away, and perhaps that was why he accepted the large, broad hands on his upper arms without protest.  Hannibal cocked his head and inspected the bullet-wound even as Will sucked in a hissing breath of pain, eyes finally releasing tears to join the blood on his cheeks.  Taking the liberty of gripping Will more firmly in his right hand and pushing his bloodied jacket off his shoulder with the other, Hannibal continued in the same calming voice, “You’re alive, and for the moment in no danger.”  The bullet would have to be removed.

Will was beyond arguing at this point, his shaking only growing worse until Hannibal judged that it was possibly a mild seizure, triggered by whatever Will’s brain had just done.  Of course, if Will had been in his right mind – a curious term, for a man whose mind could mirror the minds of others – he no doubt would have realized that he was being handled by one of the most prolific cannibals in recent history.  Hannibal felt very much like he had once as a child, when a falcon had flown into his window.  The creature had not been dead, but while it was stunned, Hannibal had had the singular honor of being able to touch and explore a magnificent creature that would have otherwise never allowed him to get close.

Will was his falcon, at least for now.  Promising to treat his damaged ‘falcon’ with the same amount of reverent respect, Hannibal guided Will’s head in until it rested against his neck, knowing that darkness and warmth was a primitive source of comfort that nearly all creatures shared.  “You did well,” he continued to soothe, even as he felt a choked sob being released against the rim of his collar, a wet and animal sound.  Hannibal let Will gasp and shake, but kept an unbreakable grip on the back of Will’s precious head and around behind his back, to dissuade him from flying away.  “You did what anyone would do when faced with a threat to your life.  The only difference is that you had the capacity to do it better than others.”  Hannibal gave in to the urge to rub his cheek against Will’s hair, and was rewarded by the smaller body curling into him – a reflex, the response of something unaccustomed to bodily comfort.  Hannibal smiled because it was an easy need to manipulate, and he didn’t mind increasing the physical contact, rubbing his left hand up and down Will’s trembling back.  “No one could blame you for protecting yourself with the means at your disposal.  You can rest now, Will.  You deserve to rest.”  Already he could feel Will’s strength ebbing.  It was unsurprising; even without the physical strain of fighting off multiple opponents like this, Hannibal strongly suspected that Will’s brain had gone through acrobatics that even it was unaccustomed to.  Will was all but sagging into him now, and Hannibal took some of his weight with ease.

As Will Graham came apart in his arms like a toy torn open at the seams, Hannibal simply stood and held him patiently, marveling at how all of the humiliation and stagnation of Eigengrau had brought him to this.

Had brought Will Graham to him.

~^~

Chapter Text

When Q woke up, it was like every inch of him ached, and he whined high in his throat.  In a semiconscious attempt to escape the pain, he pressed closer to the warmth in front of him because that heat seemed to soothe away the worst of it.  Q wanted to be cocooned in that warmth, and when he settled again, still making intermittent pained noises, he very nearly was.  He felt firm shapes close in around him, but nothing triggered warning bells in his brain, so he didn’t awaken any further.  In fact, for an indeterminable stretch of time that could have been seconds or hours, the Quartermaster settled more deeply into slumber, feeling like a lizard perched on a sunny rock – only that summer warmth was tangled all around him, which made it even better.

The pleasant lassitude was broken by 007’s voice cutting through it, bringing Q instantly to total wakefulness, “We’ll have to get moving eventually, Q, because as much as I like where we are now, Mallory may need some assistance sooner rather than later.”

With mortifying clarity, Q realized that he was still in bed with a convicted killer, pressed obscenely close to him from head to toe.  Bond still had his right leg thrown over Q’s hip, but somewhere in the night Q had pushed his own knee more purposefully between Bond’s, hooking his calf around James’s.  It seemed very unlikely that 007 minded in the slightest, especially since Q could feel that he was half-hard – but, then again, so was Q, his body particularly traitorous in the morning despite the terrors of the night before.  Q made an undignified noise of shock and fear, and would have probably fallen right out of bed had not the arm around his middle tightened.  “Steady there, Q.”  At the same time that the Quartermaster registered the warm hand splayed like a star-shaped brand across the middle of his spine, he realized that his own left hand was still miraculously hooked around Bond’s throat.  On reflex, Q squeezed, and was more than a bit surprised when Bond gave a strained sigh against his palm but then stopped moving.  It was a lot like Q had pressed a ‘pause’ button on a video clip, and it did a lot to calm him down.

“Planning to let me go anytime soon?” Bond rumbled after a moment.  He had his head tipped back a bit, Q noticed as he finally lifted his own head out from under the blankets.  The air beyond it was chilly, but 007’s eyes were merely cool.  Blue eyes blinked once, watchful, before 007 went on in the same careful tone, as if Q were some skittish creature, “Or are we going to stay like this all day?”  Something just a bit more wicked glinted in Bond’s gaze even if the rest of his face remained unchanged, and then Q suddenly gasped as the agent’s body rocked just a little against his – a purposeful bit of friction that went a long way, even as Bond added more huskily, “Not that I’m totally opposed to that.”

Brain officially addled, Q called James something unfavorable and pressed harder with his hand – not so much squeezing this time, just pushing, winning him a disgruntled sort of noise as the heel of Q’s hand depressed Bond’s windpipe and forced him to back off a little.  Surprisingly, the man gave in.  It was weird and unexpected to see Bond actually respond to Q’s touch even though it was already pretty clear that the Quartermaster’s grip was in no way life-threatening.  Q was in no way life-threatening, at all, yet 007 rolled back and let Q retreat clumsily off the bed unimpeded.

Q immediately clutched at his ribs, his other hand bracing painfully on the bed.  “Shit,” he gasped shallowly, the pain hitting him like a freight train and stealing the wind from him.  He barely noticed the easy movements of 007 swinging his legs over the other side of the bed, getting up with catlike grace.  “I think this hurts worse now than it did yesterday,” he said with something between shock and petty betrayal in his voice.  It was only at this point that he realized his glasses were gone – which was probably for the best, because he’d fallen asleep with them on, and would have bent them completely out of shape by now.  He just hoped they weren’t lost somewhere in the bedsheets.

Still bent over, breathing shallowly through the throbbing aches in his torso and shoulder, Q didn’t have it in him to be anxious when he heard 007 circled around to him, placing a hand on his good shoulder as if to steady him.  He also, as if reading Q’s thoughts, produced a pair of neatly folded, completely undamaged glasses.  Q slipped them on gratefully but clumsily.  “Muscle aches will do that when you spend hours not moving,” 007 opined neutrally, “and when the painkillers wear off.  I take it you want more?”

“Painkillers?  Yes,” Q immediately replied, almost desperate, “God, yes.”  He was surprised and grateful in equal measure when 007 immediately trotted off, presumably to do just that.  It was only then that Q realized he was still wearing the agent’s jacket, the material still holding all the warmth of the bed – and now the smell of both their bodies, a realization that made Q’s lower stomach muscles tighten a bit.  His morning wood tried to make a reappearance, but all Q had to do was stubbornly recall the events of yesterday, and his body sobered up again.

007 returned, shaking a familiar bottle of pills in his hand.  He tossed it, and somehow Q managed to catch it in his left hand without fumbling.  His right arm didn’t seem to want to work at all, but he realized that that had more to do with his own aversion to pain than any actual paralysis.  007 had to ruin it, of course, by stepping closer and commanding in that entitled way of his, “Let me look at your shoulder.  My sewing skills aren’t half bad, but I’m no nurse.”

“And it’ll be inconvenient for you if you have a half-crippled Quartermaster as an ally?” Q retorted wryly, taking one of the painkillers and consciously fighting the urge to back up for every step forward 007 took.  He managed it, and even held admirably still as tanned, scarred hands took hold of the jacket’s lapels.

“It’ll be inconvenient,” James corrected, pushing the jacket off Q’s shoulders and then pulling aside the neck of Q’s scrub-top, “if you develop gangrene and suddenly I have a one-armed Quartermaster as an ally.  Although, to be fair-”  He shrugged, and must have liked what he saw, because he let Q’s shirt slide back into place.  “-I value you more for your brains than your brawn.”

Bond had taken hold of the jacket again, and Q stood still and allowed 007 to draw it up over his shoulders again.  “You’ll want my hands, both of them,” Q reminded.

Immediately, it was clear that was the wrong thing to say as 007 grinned shamelessly and – still holding the coat lapels to keep Q close – crooned, “Good with your hands, are you, Quartermaster?”

Q slapped him.  It was a pretty good swing, too, rocking Bond’s head to one side and leaving Q’s palm stinging.  More that a bit startled at himself for doing that, Q stared at his hand for a moment even as James worked his jaw, tipped his head consideringly, and decided without rancor, “I deserved that.”

“Damn right you did,” Q muttered, shaky.

Despite his bravado, he was very relieved when James let him go, although when Q made to take off the jacket and give it back – an uncomfortable proposition, not only because of the pervasive cold but because that meant moving his shoulder – James waved him off, “I run hotter than you.  Keep it.”

It was hard to fathom how James worked when a slap to the face actually seemed to mellow him out.

“So, what’s the plan then?” Q asked as he gingerly zipped up the coat, keeping his left arm close to his body.  James had declared that his wound hadn’t gone septic overnight, but it still hurt like hell, and the painkillers hadn’t begun to kick in yet.

“Up to you,” James said equably.  To Q’s surprise, the man turned back to him with an expectant, intelligent look, not unlike the attention of a well-bred hunting dog before an owner.  “You were the one with a plan last night, and while I still don’t know how it’ll work, I’m willing to see what you have in mind.”  When Q continued to look suspicious and befuddled, James raised an eyebrow significantly, and said to Q in a voice that was only slightly patronizing, “I meant it when I said you were the brains and I was the brawn, Q.  I’m not an idiot, but I’m also not the one who had their finger on the heartbeat of Eigengrau’s technological systems until yesterday.”

It was surprisingly pleasant to be appreciated for his brains under these circumstances, and Q had to admit that he hadn’t expected that.  He’d had entirely too many high-Pass agents try to intimidate him physically, and it would have been entirely too easy for 007 to bully Q into compliance.  Feeling a bit more on an even footing, even if he was still aware that 007 could probably snap his neck in a heartbeat, Q sat down on the edge of the bed and began thinking out loud, “I think that I can tap into the intercom system.  There are multiple locations around Eigengrau where one can connect to it, and while C probably took measures to lock everyone else out by himself, I’m pretty sure I can bypass it.”

“No need to be modest.”  James’s smile was small but definite.

“Fine.  I can definitely bypass it,” Q puffed himself up a little bit, and was inexplicably pleased when his boasting did nothing but make the agent smirk a bit wider, amused but also apparently pleased.  “We might need to find the nearest guard station.  All of them are equipped to connect to the island-wide comm-system.”

“I can get you there,” James nodded.

Q narrowed his eyes and dared to say, “I still don’t see what you’re getting out of this.”

“I already got to spend a night with a svelte young boffin,” was the easy answer.

“And you got slapped,” Q pointed out with a roll of eyes.

“It tends to happen,” James shrugged, and Q decided to leave it at that.  There was clearly no getting answers out of 007 if the man didn’t want to explain himself.  Q would just have to accept that he had the man’s help, even if the alliance made literally no sense.

Shaking his head and wrenching his thoughts back to the task at hand, Q went on, “Once I’ve got control of the intercoms, the only problem is that we don’t know where M is.”

“Which is why we’re using the intercom,” James said, as if Q were terminally slow.

“Yes,” Q huffed, pushing his fringe back from his glasses in a mindless gesture, “but that means everyone will hear whatever I say – and by everyone, I mean C and his many cronies.  It’s a bit hard to say, ‘Hello, M, would you mind meeting us in your office so we can make sure you’re all right?’ when the people trying to kill M will also hear those plans.”

“Talk in code then,” James gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“I don’t know any code, Bond,” Q sighed, resigning himself to this plan failing before it was even begun.  A pity, as it had seemed like a fabulous plan last night.  “At least, not any verbal codes that M would know, too.  Both parties have to know the same type of code for it to work, or it’ll be like you speaking to me in Russian.”

A smile has slowly been spreading across 007’s face as Q talked.  It wasn’t quite as worrisome as some of his earlier smiles, but it still made Q tense unconsciously.  “I might be able to help with that,” 007 said after just long enough to make Q nervous.

Pretty sure that James wasn’t referring to Q’s inability to speak Russian, Q hazarded slowly, “Dare I ask?”

Snorting at Q’s reticence, James went ahead and laid his metaphorical cards out on the table, even as he began to move about and collect things from the room around them, “I don’t know any codes or languages Mallory would know that C and his men wouldn’t, but there is a code spoken by some of the high-Pass agents.  Use that code, and at least we’ll have more sets of eyes out hunting for Mallory.”

“Other agents?” Q asked, uncertain.  He was uneasy working with just one high-Pass agent – adding another made him supremely anxious.  “Bond, remember, C has at least one Hound working for him already – 009.”

“But I bet he doesn’t have any more,” 007 said keenly, and Q had to follow his voice because the man had left their room and was now raiding Medical in general, “Not from the old guard at least.”

“Old guard?”

“The smaller numbers - 001, 002, etcetera,” 007 clarified, investigating a set of locked glass drawers and then picking up the nearest blunt-force implement he could find and breaking the glass.  Q wrinkled his nose fastidiously at the destruction of property – and thievery, as James began to scavenge within the cabinet – but then admitted that it was necessary.  James kept talking as he deftly dodged pieces of broken glass, “They rarely put more than one Hound together on a mission, but sometimes it’s necessary.  When they do that, they always put the low numbers – the older agents – together.”

“I thought you lot had a habit of murdering each other when put in close quarters,” Q said suspiciously.  “I’ve heard stories about you and Agent Hart in particular.”

Bond admitted, “It’s a bit counterintuitive, really.”  He found something he seemed to have been looking for in particular, and smiled triumphantly, pausing in his narrative before continuing factually, “The newer agents are like cubs.  Send them out hunting with full-grown monsters like us, and we’ll either run them into the ground or kill them outright.”  James shrugged.  “It’s in our nature.  Ergo, the older agents – the Old Guard – get teamed together even if we honestly can’t stand each other most of the time.”  Glancing over his shoulder, James met Q’s eyes and said unapologetically, “Hart is a pompous old arse.”

“I’m sure he’d say the same about you.”

“Actually, he says that I’m a classless bastard.  But it’s all fair in love and war, as the saying goes – so on missions, we at least respect each other’s skills enough to get the job done,” James explained in that peculiar sort of logic that probably only made perfect sense if you were a Hound.  Q was able to more or less follow, though, especially as 007 boiled it down, “Liking each other and respecting one another as equals are two different things.”

“So the older agents… have developed a coded language?  For working together?” Q hazarded, growing interested.  The painkillers were starting to kick in, and while his arm and left side still throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the razor edge of the pain had dulled.  The Quartermaster, left arm still folded carefully in front of him, followed James around the infirmary.

James nodded, even as he found another packaged syringe, which made Q a bit nervous – especially because James opened it while he talked.  “Trevelyan, Hart, and Reese certainly know it.  It’s hard to tell with Harkness, and I honestly can’t recall the last time Hannibal was paired up with anyone who would have thought to teach him.  Shaw…”  James paused to consider, as he drew up a shot of something.  Q took what he hoped was a subtle step back.  “Reese might have taught her.”

“What about Silva?”

“Not sure.  We’ve never really taken a census of who knows and who doesn’t, but the reason I’m sure Root doesn’t is that she’s new,” James assured.  “She’s only gone on a few missions so far, all solo.”

“Okay,” Q accepted that, rubbing his thumbnail over his lower lip as he looked down at his socked feet – realizing he had left his shoes in the other room - and thought.  “And you’re sure C won’t have any of those agents on his side yet?”

“I don’t doubt that the newer agents are flocking to him like pigeons to stale bread, but we old agents don’t like to make snap decisions.”  Turning to Q now with a full syringe in one hand and the other lifted in a careless gesture, James added airily, “Plus, we’re paranoid as fuck.  Now, stop edging away like a cat at the veterinarian and come here.  This’ll make sure you don’t get an infection.”

“I’m not a cat,” Q grumbled, but had to fight very hard not to scurry away as 007 approached with his usual, stalking stride.

There was something effortlessly intimidating about the man – all the time.  He moved like something hungry, and Q was unfortunate enough to be able to notice.  Boxed up against a receptionist’s counter, Q found himself hunching his good shoulder and unconsciously making a smaller target of himself until 007 sighed gustily and chided, “I’ve got to give this relatively near the wound, Q, and it’s not going to get any easier with you avoiding it like this.”

His ego a bit stung – because James was talking to him very much like he was a child – Q finally found it in himself to hold still out of pure stubbornness.  He still avoided 007’s eyes, though, because he didn’t want Bond to see that he was afraid.  He was always afraid when they were this close together, within easy arm’s reach.  “Your bedside manner is terrible,” Q had enough moxie to gripe.

In response, Bond placed his left hand over the left side of Q’s jaw, skillfully pushing the boffin’s head to one side and baring the left side of his neck in one easy motion.  Q made a noise of surprised pain as the needle immediately bit into the available skin, but Bond caged him in, taking only a half-step more forward so that he was pinning Q in place by sheer proximity.  “And you’re a terrible patient,” James returned, before finishing the job and tossing the needle away negligently.  When Q lifted a hand to touch the point of pain, James kept Q's hand away, instead pulling out a cotton-ball and tape from his trouser-pocket, no doubt filched for this exact purpose.

Q got up the gumption to look at 007, so that he was glaring at the man when the task was finally finished, and blue eyes deigned to look back.  When Bond noticed the quietly murderous expression, his eyebrows briefly winged upwards, proof that Q could be at least a little bit intimidating in small doses.  “Had to be done, Q,” James said in his defense as he backed away, but it sounded suspiciously like he was trying not to chuckle.  “I’m going to do whatever I need to in order to keep you alive, even if you don’t like it.”

The reminder that this was for his own good health sobered Q a little, or at least cooled his ire, and he decided to save the glower for later.  Lord knew he’d find another opportunity to use it, if 007 stayed true to form.  “Fine then,” Q dropped the topic with poor grace, “Let’s just focus on the task at hand then, shall we?”

“By all means.”  Bond’s smile was annoyingly indulgent, but at least he went back to scavenging and let Q be again.

“So, by your estimate, we’ll at least be able to… ask for assistance… from perhaps three, maybe up to eight, high-Pass agents?”

“Yes.”

“James, how do we know these agents aren’t just going to want to kill M on sight?” Q pointed out.  When Bond turned from his foraging to look at Q, the boffin gave another uncomfortable one-shouldered shrug, elaborating candidly, “I’m shocked enough that you’re working with me – what makes you think any of those agents you just named will want to help the man basically in charge of enslaving them here?”

No one had used the word ‘enslaving’ in Eigengrau yet, yet least not within Q’s range of hearing, but that’s what it was, in Q’s mind.  These agents had been stripped of their human rights, locked up, and ordered about without having any say in what they were told to do.  They were collared like animals and could be put down like animals, too, without having any say in that either.  Q, feeling as helpless and uncomfortable with the whole system as he had been from the start, just stood and waiting to see what James would say.

The man’s eyes, surprisingly, were calm and understanding.  In fact, he dipped his head in a little nod, as if respecting Q’s observation, and Q didn’t know what to think about that.  Easing his powerful frame down into an exam-room chair that had been rolled out into the hallway by someone in a hurry, 007 explained with unexpected patience, “Most agents will see the simple logic of it.  We can’t get these collars off if M is dead, and none of the old guard will trust C to keep Mallory alive when killing him is so much easier.  It works in your favor that all high-Pass agents are distrustful, and the experienced ones even more so.”  Bond let that sink in, then went on logically, “Besides that, Mallory is the devil we know.  C is making grand promises, but he’s only been here two days, and some of us haven’t even seen him.  Trust isn’t built that quickly.  I don’t know whether he realizes how little weight his words carry, at least to agents who have been around long enough to become jaded with the system in Eigengrau.”

“So…” Q hazarded, thinking he was catching on, “Despite old hatreds, Mallory is the lesser of two evils?”

“Precisely.  We’re a lot more logical, and a lot less impulsive, than you might think.”

“I’m starting to realize that,” Q allowed, and this time the spark of surprise in Bond’s eyes was very real.  He hadn’t expected the compliment.  Deciding that James had made a good case, and that there was really no better option available, Q sighed, “All right then, I suppose we’re about to start a game of ‘capture the flag,’ with M as the flag.”

“It sounds rather fun when you put it that way,” James observed, tongue-in-cheek.

Q merely snorted and shook his head at the agent’s sporadic antics, and tried to stay on task.  “I might need some tools.  I doubt that there’s an electrical kit around here, but by chance could you find…?”  Q began to get into the larcenous spirit of things, scavenging in Bond’s footsteps and putting together items that could be of use in the near future.

~^~

James was surprised by how resilient the Quartermaster was.

He was surprised by a lot of things about the Quartermaster.

It was obvious that Q was still in pain, the painkillers not relieving it one-hundred-percent – it showed in the way Q held his body, walking so that he moved his left arm and torso as little as possible.  Despite that, however, he insisted on carrying his satchel.  James was aware of the little tablet in it by this point, but now they’d added a whole slew of other items, from bottled water to an array of delicate surgical tools that Q insisted would be useful if he had to physically tap into the intercom’s wiring systems.  The bag wasn’t precisely light anymore, but when James had asked whether Q really wanted to carry it, the boffin had said stoically, “If one of us has to be bogged down, it may as well be the one who’s not armed in the first place.  Honestly, I’d rather you be able to move unimpeded if someone decides they want to pick a fight.”

It was refreshing to be around someone so logic-driven.  Honestly, it was refreshing to be around someone who didn’t treat high-Pass agents like himself as sub-human.  When Bond had nodded to accept Q’s words, the dip of his head had perhaps held a measure of respect in it, before they’d started walking again.

They hadn’t run into any trouble so far – nothing that James couldn’t avoid, anyhow.  It was still early, and no doubt the pervasive power-outage was messing with a lot of people’s internal clocks, convincing them it was still nighttime because it was still dark.  James himself had been disoriented this morning, when he’d awoken suddenly from sleep for some reason.  Having been on countless missions in all manner of timezones, Bond’s internal clock was as flexible as a snake, so when he lifted his head away from Q’s soft, wavy hair, the agent had had to look around for a clock.  It had read 5:05 am, and it took a bit longer to accept that no danger had awoken him – just Q, fingers softly stroking the skin of James’s throat as the boffin fidgeted sleepily.  James could have pushed Q’s hand away at any time during the night, but instead he lay there for long, silent minutes, just counting the beat of his own pulse against a foreign hand.

Ultimately, it wasn’t a bad price to pay.  The hand at James’s throat was far more compassionate than the death he usually wore around his neck, and unlike the collar, Q paid dividends: a little threat in return for the comfort of another body beside him all night long.  Despite the rumors, Bond was nearly as sexually omnivorous as Harkness, and even if he wasn’t, the simple company would have still felt good.

As they neared their destination, James commanded quietly, “Stay behind me, Q,” and was pleasantly surprised when the boffin listened.  Q actually wasn’t unarmed, as he’d claimed earlier, but the scalpel that Bond had found for Q was definitely a lot less useful than the gun Bond still carried – a fact that the boffin was wisely aware of.

Even as he fell into step at Bond’s heels, however, Q pointed out in a voice as quiet as James’s had been, “You know, if the guard station is manned, then you may not want to be the first thing they see.”

“I’m aware of that,” James replied neutrally, but kept moving at the fore of their group.  He had his stolen gun in hand not only because he lacked a holster for it, but because he expected to need it at any moment.

For a moment, Q was silent, but then he said with surprisingly keen insight, “You don’t think there will be anyone there, do you?”

Bond paused, if only to look over his shoulder at his companion.  Q was still afraid of him, that much was clear (Bond would be more surprised if Q wasn’t), but right now he was meeting 007’s eyes frankly, and with a level of sober understanding that had Bond dipping his head in approval again.  “No, I don’t.  Not alive, anyway,” he answered, and watched as Q’s mouth got pinched at the corners.  He otherwise kept a stiff upper lip about it, though, which was impressive for a young man who had probably never been in a situation even half this dangerous before.

Just in case he was wrong about the guards, 007 slowed down as they approached the guard station.  He could feel Q drawing up behind him, close enough that they brushed up against one another when they stopped at the last bend in the hallway.  Q was smart enough to stay back, however, as 007 leaned cautiously around the corner.  The high-Pass agent stretched an arm back anyway, less to ensure Q’s obedience and more just to feel the reassuring presence of the younger man’s body against his fingertips.

“I don’t see anyone,” James said, but still brought his gun to bear.

He was surprised when Q reached forward to touch his elbow, and when he looked back, the Quartermaster had one eyebrow raised in mild question, and a water-bottle in one hand.  007 wasn’t entirely sure what Q was getting at until Q crouched down at Bond’s knee (still out of the line of sight for anyone possibly waiting down the hall) and sent the plastic bottle rolling down the hall.  The sounds of cheap plastic on linoleum and confined water sloshing immediately filled the silence, and 007 smiled appreciatively at the little decoy.  When there was still no noise or response, both Q and Bond breathed little sighs of relief.  Q even sagged against 007’s leg.  “Hopefully that’s a reliable sign that no one is about,” Q stated decisively, “because I for one am already quite sick of being shot at.”  Q tried to get up again and immediately bit his lip against a groan, body protesting.  Having seen the extensive bruising on Q’s torso from yesterday, 007 could well imagine that something as simple as unbending his torso and standing had to hurt.

Bond leaned down unprompted and gripped Q’s good arm, drawing him upwards.  “Well, as you pointed out, any remaining guards would have been far more likely to shoot at me than you.”

“Yes, but I’m with you,” Q pointed out, steady on his feet again, “and in the dark, if a farmer were to see two dogs near his animals, he’s not likely to wait and find out if one of them is a domestic dog – he’ll shoot them both as wolves, just to be safe.”

“Good point,” James admitted.  On that sobering note, he nonetheless started forward, and Q once again fell in step behind him.  By the time they drew level with the waterbottle, James was fairly certain that he knew what they’d find in the guard station, but he nonetheless moved on ahead as Q paused to pick up the container and tuck it away again.  That meant that James was the first one to actually step through the ajar door, where usually there’d be a mass of guardsmen watching security feeds, preparing to head out and deal with various minor disturbance, or just shooting the breeze.

Instead, he found corpses.  

~^~

Chapter Text

“Q,” Bond backed out of the room, hearing the Quartermaster’s steps behind him.  He halted the boffin with a firm hand against his chest, which Q noted with a look of surprise and concern flashing across his expressive face.  Death didn’t bother Bond much at all these days, but he wasn’t so unsympathetic as to forget that normal people tended to have a problem with it.  So when Q met his eyes, full of questions, James said lowly, “We’re not the first people to get here.”

“What…?”

“They’re dead.”  The bluntness was unavoidable, and James watched carefully as Q’s eyes widened and his entire body froze for a moment.  Wary of how Q would react, James therefore felt a rush of relief when that was all Q did – no shouting, yelling, or suddenly getting sick, although Q did look a bit shaky.

Q’s eyes flicked past Bond, although he still didn’t have a good view.  His lips pursed for a moment, but when he spoke, it was in a laudably steady, determined voice, “We still have to go in there.  Is there…”  The only sign that this was really getting to Q was the way he had to pause mid-sentence, close his eyes, and take a deep breath to gather himself before continuing, “Is there any reason we can’t continue as planned?”

‘You’re tougher than you look,’ Bond observed within the confines of his head, eyes sweeping Q’s skinny frame from head to toe and marveling at the dichotomy: Q was not physically impressive, but obviously had strength in other ways.  “Probably not.  It’s possible that whoever did the killing also damaged the tech, but I’ll have to check to know.”  Bond paused and added candidly, “I don’t want to leave you alone out here like bait on a hook while I investigate.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll follow you,” Q promised bravely, and James took his word for it.  If Q saw the carnage and decided to back out, James would just have to grab him.

James had never been inside any of Eigengrau’s guard stations before this.  He’d seen them from outside the door, or through bulletproof glass, but for obvious reasons high-Pass agents weren’t allowed to just gallivant in and out of secured areas like that.  If an agent caused trouble, they were simply marched to a cell and left to cool their heels there for awhile.  Now, looking behind the scenes for the first time, Bond found the guard station to be smaller than expected, broken up into numerous rooms like its own miniature household.

A household with bodies on the floor.

Behind him, James heard Q make a little choking noise, and looked back to check on him.  The boffin’s eyes were looking a bit wild around the edges, and he’d stopped next to the first corpse that 007 had stepped over.  James knew that it was not uncommon for normal people to vomit at the sight of dead bodies, and waited with cocked head for Q to do the same.  “It was probably a high-Pass agent who did this,” James said to fill the ugly quiet, “although I can’t say for sure.”

“And we’re asking agents like that for help?” Q rasped in evident disbelief and a bit of rising hysteria in his voice.  He was starting to shake, staring fixedly at the corpse, which was lying on the floor with an obviously broken neck.

Bond didn’t answer for a long moment.  It was hard to explain the complicated intricacies of Hound politics – how they all followed a code, but it was a code built upon unique morals and principles, and was flexible for every situation.  An agent who killed guards like this could just as easily be convinced to protect the head of Eigengrau, simply dependent upon the circumstances, and how the question was asked.  Knowing he didn’t have time to convince Q of all that, James took a different route, noting, “I’m helping you.”

Q’s eyes flashed up to him, and it was hard to tell whether it was anger or pain in his eyes, or just more fear.  James took the opportunity to further his point before his companion could mount an argument, “I see more reasons for helping you than killing you, and while murdering Mallory in his sleep has a certain appeal, I’m not stupid enough to think that it’s a good plan – not after what you’ve told me.”  Q was wavering; he was clearly still distraught, and possibly on the verge of bolting, but he was listening.  It was possible that he’d get over this.  “After the other agents know what I know, they’ll respond the same way.”

“How can you be sure?” Q challenged, gripping the strap of his satchel tightly in both hands, even though that had to make the burns on his left wrist twinge.

“Because the agents we’re going to be talking to are all men and women that I’ve worked with for years,” James answered.

“You’ve tried to kill at least one of them, I’ve heard.”

“I’ve actually tried to kill just about all of them except Alec,” James admitted with just the faintest shadow of guilt – or, at least, as much guilt as a cat felt when it was caught atop the dinner table after being told not to.  “And even Reese has taken a swing at me before.”

“That is not encouraging,” Q groaned, lifting one hand to press the heels against the side of his head – as if against an impending headache, or else as a precursor to covering an ear so he wouldn't have to listen to 007 anymore.  He'd have lifted both hands if not for his injury.  “I can’t believe how dysfunctional you all are.”

“You get used to it,” James shrugged, then finally deemed it safe to approach without sending his companion into a panic.  James had to give Q some credit: despite being totally new at this, the boffin was handling things rather well.  In fact, when James got close enough to grip Q’s upper right arm, all the Quartermaster did was sigh resignedly and stop trying to push his palm through his temple.  “Come on.  The sooner we find the intercom and get that message out, the sooner we can leave this place.”

“I’d rather leave Eigengrau altogether.”

“What a coincidence – so would I,” James rebutted drolly, which instead of earning him a gimlet look like he’d expected, earned him a little chuff of breath that might almost have been a laugh.  It made 007 inordinately proud of himself.

~^~

Q had to ask James to drag the bodies out of the surveillance room.  There had clearly been a fight in there, and while it looked like the technology – including the intercom system – was mostly undamaged, there were two dead guards, a man and a woman, sprawled across the floor.  While he was dealing with all of this pretty well so far, Q knew he couldn’t handle working in a room with two sets of dead eyes staring at him, so with shame burning hot on his cheeks, he asked the high-Pass agent to move them.  Fortunately, for all that 007 could clearly be an unrepentant arse – a disobedient unrepentant arse – he did as Q asked without hesitation or question.  In fact, his expression didn’t even look judgmental as he put his strength to use in dragging stiffening bodies from the room.

Logically, Q knew that the corpses were just outside the door, but it allowed him just enough peace of mind to turn his attention to his task.  Main power was still out, but he and James had found torches and batteries, and Q had the smallest torch on him.  It coincidentally appeared to have the strongest light, and he wedged it in his teeth now, freeing up his hands as he began to work.  James seemed to appreciate working in semi-darkness, a fact which made Q shiver a bit, because it reminded him that most dangerous things preferred to lurk in the dark.

“Can you get it to work?”  James’s voice from the doorway startled Q, and he nearly dropped his tools.

Spitting out the torch, Q reported, “There’s a bit of damage to the microphone here, but I think I can fix it.  I’m not sure yet how C managed to cut off power to basically everything but the intercom and emergency lights, but if need be, I think I can reroute power from the emergency lights.”  Q paused, considering, then added sheepishly, “Hopefully without electrocuting myself.”

“How long do you think that’ll take?”

It was admittedly rather nice when James was in ‘pragmatic mode’ – the more playful side of his personality was both frightening and maddening at the same time – because it was easy to see him as just another person, one who Q could trust to act sensibly if anything happened.  “Half an hour?  Maybe more?  I might get a lucky break, but as the intercom didn’t just magically come on when I pressed the button, I doubt it.”

Nodding in reluctant acceptance, James glanced around him and over his shoulder, looking restless and too big for the room.  Therefore, Q wasn’t surprised when the agent said, “I’ll leave you to it then.  I’m going to poke around a bit, see if I can find anything useful – a holster for this, for one thing.”  He lifted the gun still held naturally in his right hand, and Q tried not to eye it nervously.  ‘Pragmatic James’ was still dangerous.  For now, though, the man was focused on other things, and added, “I’ll be within earshot, though, so holler if you need anything – or if you hear anything.”  His eyes became deadly serious, and Q felt the unblinking weight of Bond’s blue eyes as if it were a hand reaching out to grip him.  “At the first sign that you might not be alone, I want you to shout, do you understand?”

“I understand,” Q replied softly in the face of 007’s ferocity.  It was only after James turned and left that Q realized he was strangely more comforted than he was intimidated.  James truly was serious about keeping him safe, if Q held up his end of the bargain and made sure C didn’t succeed in taking advantage of agents like 007.

There were a few more useful tools tucked in one of the drawers in the surveillance room, but mostly Q was working with subpar utensils in subpar light with limited electricity.  It was maddening enough to make Q growl around the torch that was back in his mouth, and he started to forget about the lingering ache in his shoulder and side – he’d also popped another pain-pill, and it was finally starting to kick in and push Q’s bodily discomforts to the back of his mind.  He began what was basically a triage of the entire system, finding out what had power and what didn’t (only sparking himself twice, not badly, but enough to make him yelp and thus attract James’s attention) and making it so that he had that electrical current where he wanted it.

He was just about to call James over to say that he thought he’d gotten it when a hand fell on his shoulder.  Q nearly jumped out of his skin, but when he twisted he saw that it was just James, looking tense and alert, and whispering, “Quiet, Q.  I want you to stay here, all right?”  The hand on Q’s shoulder was pressing down, and Q realized with a bolt of fear that when Bond said ‘here’ he meant ‘under the desk.’  Q soon found himself being guided to the floor, tucked out of sight with James clicking off Q’s torch but leaving it in his hands.  Bond’s hands were rough and warm on Q’s knuckles as they let the little light go, but James’s eyes were dark and intense even in the shadows as he leaned down and said quietly, “I think someone’s nearby, and I need you to be absolutely silent, all right?  Don’t come out until I tell you to.”

James started to straighten and leave, but Q caught him by the sleeve.  The boffin could sense the danger hidden beneath the glacial layer of calm in Bond’s voice – it was like a leviathan hidden underwater, massive and lethal.  “You have to come back,” Q whispered as firmly as he could, meeting those cobalt-shadowed eyes and making his point clear, “I can’t do this without you, remember?  I don’t know your code, and I need it.  I need you.”

Something complicated and surprised ghosted across Bond’s face, and for a moment he didn’t move, his arm lax in Q’s grip.  Then he gently tugged loose, but after a pause, pursed his lips and nodded.  He’d come back.

Hopefully.

‘This is what fawns in the grass feel like,’ Q thought detachedly as he hunched in the darkness.  Sitting curled up like this made him remember his bruised stomach-muscles despite the pain medication, and he shifted as quietly as possible to relieve the discomfort.  He’d dragged his satchel down with him, and now he reached a hand into it like a child touching a familiar toy for comfort – or, in Q’s case, multiple toys, as he felt the various tools and gadgets that he and Bond had picked up between Medical and the guard station.  One of those tools was his scalpel, and he was starting to wish that he’d also grabbed one of the guns from the dead guards.

~^~

Bond hadn’t exactly heard something, and he hadn’t exactly seen something, but he nonetheless had the deep and abiding sense that he and Q weren’t alone anymore.  The most worrisome part was, if James knew this but couldn’t pick up any tangible evidence, that meant there was either no intruder and he was paranoid – or else the newcomer was someone of James’s caliber, and therefore hiding themselves almost perfectly.

James had found a shoulder-holster on one of the downed guards, that after stripping it off the guard and readjusting its straps, it was a good fit for him.  It seemed he was destined not to use it, however, as he walked with his gun out before him, loaded and ready in his hands.  In the time it had taken to dart back and hide Q for the time being, James had lost track of the danger he was sensing, and felt blind in a way that had nothing to do with the lighting situation.

James didn’t even see the shape until he was halfway through the door, and a heavy blow connected with his arm, hard enough to dislodge the gun from his grip and nearly dislocated his elbow.

Not a lot of people could hit hard enough to disarm a high-Pass agent like Bond.  All of the Old Guard, as James called them, were trained to the point where they’d possibly keep hold of a weapon even in death, but this attacker had known that.  James immediately twisted to face his opponent, right arm numb to his fingertips, and was only mildly surprised to see Raoul Silva standing just to the side of the door, well hidden.

“You always lead with your gun, James,” the man chided, unrepentant and smiling his too-broad smile, “It makes you very predictable, at least to anyone brave enough to go for your gun.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” James growled, flexing his hand to get the feeling back, the stunned nerves sending painful sparks down his arm.  “Next time I’ll be sure to carry a knife in my other hand, and bayonet the presumptuous bastard.”

Silva’s laughter was full and rich, and he repeated the phrase ‘presumptuous bastard’ to himself as if it were perhaps a compliment he were trying on for size.  Bond and Silva had a tumultuous history – they’d worked together often, sometimes very well, sometimes very badly.  For the most part, James respected Silva as he did every other high-Pass agent; they were all snakes, and could be depended upon to act as such, James included.  Some breeds of snake enjoyed eating their own kind more than others, however, and Bond was also fully aware that Q was more of a sparrow than a snake.  Prime prey.  “What are you doing here, Silva?” James demanded, circling away to give himself some distance.  He could see that Silva was armed, but had chosen to punch James instead of shoot him – which was a good sign.  Silva’s eyes sharpened warningly, however, as James moved towards his own gun.  “Not lying in wait for fellow agents, surely?”

“I was actually just looking around for some fun,” Silva said glibly, pretending ease despite the dangerous tension of his body, “We have three days to ourselves, after all, before the door to freedom opens.”

“Do you really believe that freedom is the offer on the table?” James posed the question, even as he reached his weapon.  Instead of grabbing it, he dropped down to a low crouch, which put him within easy reach of his weapon without touching it yet.  He could tell by the way Silva canted his head consideringly that he could see the silent truce for what it was.

“I don’t really believe that anything is given for free,” Silva admitted, proving that James was right in his assumptions: the older, smarter Hounds were aware that this was an offer too good to be true.  Silva did add, “However, I’m reserving judgment.  I have three days to mull it over, after all, and I’ve always found that a bit of violence clears my head.”  The grin grew a bit broader, and while James could technically understand that point of view, he reminded himself of the young man in the other room – of Q and his morals, which 007 was presently tied to, for better or for worse.

After a thoughtful pause in which James weighed what he knew about Silva and his motives, James said, “I might have a better offer.”  He knew that he immediately had Silva’s attention.  “C – the man on the intercom – has offered to take any willing volunteers off Eigengrau with him, but I don’t think that he’ll free anyone.  I think he wants some powerful pawns.”

Silva’s nod was wary but not disbelieving.  “I had suspected as much myself, regretfully.  However, as with most people who grab tigers by their tails – the tiger often wins, and walks away with a full belly besides.”

“But what if you have to walk away with that collar, too?” James pulled out his trump card, pointing towards Silva’s neck and earning an immediate glower.  No high-Pass agent liked to be reminded of their collars.  Being ordered around they could stand; being used as weapons for the British government they could stand; but being collared like dangerous pets cut them to the quick, and never got easier to bear.  “If C takes off your collar, then you’re right – he’s playing with fire and liable to get burned – but he has to know that.  What are the chances, do you think, that he’ll help everyone escape the island but then conveniently decide that the collars should stay?”

“Your pessimism is depressing, James.”

“Well, I’m hedging my bets,” Bond returned sensibly, still watching Silva very, very closely.  He was recalling Q’s last encounter with 004 – in all frankness, Silva saw most people as beneath his notice, like cockroaches.  Hannibal at least saw other humans as prey-animals, which was a small step up.  Silva, however, had clearly taken a shine to the Quartermaster, and Bond knew for a fact how dangerous that was.  It was common knowledge amongst the Hounds (and even amongst most of the Handlers) that Silva had likewise taken an immediate shine to his Handler, Severine, and even Bond had to admit that that had had disastrous results.  Having a high Psychopass didn’t necessarily make a person evil, in James’s opinion – not always.  Most of the time, it just made a person... extra pragmatic, and more able to justify actions in the absence of emotions or personal connections.  That meant that dark deeds could be done more easily without regret, but it also meant that high-Pass agents like Bond were able to feel badly about some things, after a fashion.  For example, he felt bad for Severine, and pitied her after all that Silva had done to her behind closed doors.  Like Q, she hadn’t been willing to use the collar against her agent, at least not at first, and while James appreciated gestures like that, Silva had taken advantage in every way, until James sincerely believed that Severine was too hurt and afraid to move against Silva.

James quietly wondered where she was now, and if Silva had killed her.

“What other horse are you betting your money on then, hmm?” Silva pressed, curiosity getting the better of him.  “You said you had a better offer.”

Considering Silva’s obvious early interest in Q, James knew that he had two options: either mention Q’s presence as a means to entice Silva in, or deny Q’s presence entirely.  Almost as soon as he posed the two options to himself, he felt himself snatch up the latter option, the urge to protect Q surprisingly strong – and the threat Silva posed surprisingly clear.  “I’ve got one of the keys that unlocks the collars,” James half-lied without blinking, “The only other thing we need to make it work is Mallory.”

“Ahhh, so you’ve found another path to freedom,” Silva said, his voice almost melodious as he marveled at what James was presenting, “But are you sure that you’re not just making a deal with a different devil, James?”

“Perhaps, but considering what you heard of our supposed benefactor on the intercom, what are the chances that he’ll play fairly with us?”  To James, the man had sounded nuttier than Root on a bad day, which was saying something.  

“Touché.  But what are the chances that dear old Mallory will do the same?” Silva volleyed back.

The answer was easy, and it rolled right off James’s tongue like quicksilver, “Mallory is on his own, and on the run – C has allies.  Who do you think will be easier to threaten and manipulate?”

The answer to that was easy, and Silva’s smile was like an oil-spill, dark and smooth and deadly to weaker forms of wildlife.  “I like how you think,” he commended with a small nod, dark, almond-shaped eyes never leaving 007’s face.

“Why, thank you.”

Unfortunately, the compliment came with strings – or, rather, with garroting wire: “…But I think there’s something you’re not telling me.  I think you’re holding something back.”  Silva paused even as James struggled to maintain his mask.  Bond felt that mask crack as Silva went on pointedly in a low purr, “I think, actually, that you’re holding someone back.  You see, after repaying these guards for the pains of my incarceration-”

That answered the question about who had done all of the killing here and why.

“-I hung around, because blood always attracts flies, and who do I see but my dear friend James?” The pleasantness and benevolence in Silva’s tone was slowly swallowed by something darker and more threatening, even as the smile turned fake and manufactured on 004’s face.  “And who do I see with him but the Quartermaster of MI6?”

Dammit.  This was getting more complicated than James wanted it to be.  He was aware of the risks every high-Pass agent of the Old Guard presented – each came with different dangers, different demons – but he’d been hoping that it would be a distant sort of threat.  M’s safety would rely upon the convincing nature of Q’s words, but the safety of Q himself would be much easier to ensure, because he’d never really enter the equation.  Since the message would be relayed in code, James would probably do the speaking, and therefore no one would have any real reason to focus their thoughts on Eigengrau’s Quartermaster – and physically, James and Q would remain aloof as well.  Now, though, all those plans were being shot down, and James’s mind was rapidly trying to formulate ways to deal with this.  He already knew that the easiest way out would be to admit that yes, he did have the Quartermaster, because he already knew that adding Q to the pot would sweeten the deal.

But James felt something possessive thrum in his chest, and he clenched his teeth around that answer.  007 was an amoral bastard in a lot of ways, but he had promised that he’d protect Q as his part of their strange little bargain, even if that meant protecting Q from another high-Pass agent.

“Come now, James, there’s no point in denying it,” Silva started wheedling as 007 thought, “I don’t know how you got your hands on that particularly sweet little morsel, but I saw that you have him.  So tell me: where is the clever boy?”

“Busy,” James stalled.

“Ah, nearby then,” Silva took out of that, much to 007’s frustration.  He wasn’t wrong, and James was hoping desperately that Q was still following orders and staying put, because now would be the worst time for him to wander out of hiding.  “Really, James, this reticence of yours is quite unbecoming.  Weren’t you ever taught to share as a child?”

“I was an only child.”

“No wonder you’re missing the finer points of etiquette, then,” Silva sighed regretfully, “Why don’t you call him out?  I assume that he’s a bigger part of this than you’re letting on – unless you’ve kept hold of him purely as a fucktoy?”

The memory of last night drifted pleasantly across James’s mind's-eye, but it hadn’t included anything close to sex.  The discussion of ‘sharing’ so close to the insinuation of fucking Q was also no coincidence, and James realized that he was holding more than just Q’s life in his hands.  A part of 007 recognized that detachedly, and saw a bargaining chip he hadn’t known that he’d had – another part of James was human enough to recognize that selling Q to win Silva’s favor was morally very wrong.

James stood slowly, picking up his gun as he straightened.  004 still had his weapon in hand, and it put them on exactly equal footing by the time 007 was fully upright again: both standing, guns in their right hands, held seemingly at ease by their sides.  “Don’t try to take more than I’m offering, Silva,” James said, voice smooth and polite like a sheath hiding a knife.

Silva’s smile was a knife of a more bared kind.  “Aren’t all deals open to negotiation?”

“To a certain point,” James admitted, then continued implacably, “You’ve gone beyond that point.”

“You’re protecting him,” Silva realized with something like bafflement, angling his head sharply as if James might make more sense from a better perspective.  When apparently that didn’t change things, he suddenly burst into laughter, loud and rolling like a rampant storm.  “Oh my, this is something I never anticipated!  The great and terrible 007-”  Silva began circling as he spoke, a shark scenting blood, James’s blood.  007 stepped to the other side to keep pace.  “-Infamous for killing the Handlers he didn’t like and fucking those he did – and sometimes doing both.”  Silva’s eyes glinted knowingly as they began to circle one another like binary stars.  “Now, here you are, playing the bodyguard for a mere wisp of a thing.”

“If he’s just a mere wisp of a thing, why are you so interested?”

“Because,” Silva growled past a smile, sounding primordial and ravenous for a moment, “he’s like my Severine: something that I can mold or break as I choose.  I assume that’s why you like him, too.  Tell me, James, does bending him in half beneath you make up for all of those lonely nights when you lay in bed, holding that collar about your throat and drowning in the impotent realization that it could kill you in seconds, and you’d never even be able to fight back?”

Fury roared up to fill the many cold rooms of 007’s mind.  The fear that Silva described was all too real – because all Hounds felt it, but never spoke of it out of respect for one another.  Now Silva was dragging it kicking and screaming into the room without a care in the world, and James finally let his gentlemanly mask fall completely away.  He glared at Silva with all the merciless, killing cold of a glacier, and raised his weapon in his hands.

Silva, with every indication that he’d been hoping for this, did the same.  He mused, “It’s going to be a treat to kill you, 007.  You see, I still haven’t forgiven you for interrupting my last talk with our Quartermaster, and I think that this is the perfect opportunity for me to have another chat with him.  Alone, this time.”

“Good luck with that,” James said, aiming and firing before Silva got a chance, not an ounce of hesitance in his hands.  The other man, having apparently expected more inane banter, startled and dodged.  He just barely avoided the bullet, but James saw blood on the other man’s ear even as he darted behind a vertical filing cabinet for cover.

Silva’s expression had devolved into one of bestial anger, like a demon peeling back its human skin.  “I’ll fuck him over your corpse!” he spat furiously.

“It would seem that the niceties are at an end then, yes?” James observed calmly, quietly firing off another round into the cabinet to test just how easily the metal gave way beneath a bullet.  This wasn’t how he’d hoped for this to end, but he’d deal with it, the same way that he’d dealt with having a death-sentence around his neck for so long.  As he found a desk to crouch behind, he could keenly feel the metal loop against his throat, and all he could think was that he much preferred Q’s hand – because if nothing else, he was very sure that Q’s hand had no intentions whatsoever of killing him.  

~^~

Chapter Text

Silva had been a Hound for longer than Bond had, and was a merciless killer once he got going – the fact that 007 had had the honor of drawing first blood was more attributable to good fortune than anything else, and the fact that Silva always had loved the sound of his own voice.  Now that the gunfight had started in earnest, however, the odds were more disturbingly even, and James grit his teeth and tried to ignore the very high odds of getting shot.  Conserving bullets, he stayed hidden where he was, only angling out of his position and getting off shots to keep Silva at bay.  The filing cabinet, sadly, was a lot tougher than it looked, but if he could keep 004 pinned behind it, then he’d have time to think of a better plan.

“Do you think your boy will come running to save you, James?” Silva catcalled from across the room, tone raucous and designed to draw blood – to draw Bond out.

Bond would not be baited.  He checked his clip quickly, sighing because even with the extra ammo in his pockets, there simply weren’t enough bullets for a problem like Raoul Silva.  “I doubt it,” he growled back, slamming the clip back home, “I heard you coming and told him to hide, and that if he came running out to be a hero, I’d shoot him myself.”  The last part was a lie, but James was talking loudly enough that he bloody hoped Q heard him.

Laughter filled the room, and 007 took a moment to truly consider how much he hated Silva’s laugh.  He was starting to wonder if he’d always disliked the man, or if his opinion had changed since allying with Q.  “You’re so charming, James.  No wonder he likes you.”

“Oh, I rather doubt he likes me.”  Only a fraction of 007’s attention was really on the conversation.  He twisted just enough so that he could shoot past the desk without making an easy target of himself.  He tried shooting past the cabinet, and was rewarded by Silva shouting in surprise at the ricochet.  James grinned.  “In fact, I think he’d be rather pleased if you crippled me a bit – he’d probably sleep better at night.”

Predictably, Silva took that opportunity to return lecherously, “Are you saying that you keep our dear Quartermaster up at night?”  Chances were high that the ricocheted bullet hadn’t done any damage, but it had apparently made Silva a bit more reckless, because he came out of hiding even as he spoke – unfortunately, the hail of bullets he sprayed James’s way kept 007 from taking advantage of that.  Hunching his shoulders up and flinching as wood splintered entirely too close to him, James growled at Silva’s constant insistence on innuendo.  Usually, 007 wouldn’t have minded… in fact, usually he’d be nearly as bad… but he was well aware that Q was probably within hearing range, and would be decidedly harder to work with if Silva’s insinuations made Q constantly afraid of James’s intentions towards him.

James wasn’t exactly on speaking terms with most morals, but he was a great fan of quid pro quo – and so far, Q had been a decent sort of fellow, so 007 figured that he could be a decent sort of fellow back.

Counting off bullets, James held his breath and sprang the moment he judged Silva would have to reload.  He heard Silva swearing reflexively in Portuguese, and nearly put a bullet through him as 004 pivoted out of the way just as James rounded his latest cover.  This time, it had been a pillar, and while Silva hadn’t had time to reload, it was James who was caught off-guard when the other Hound continued around the concrete barrier and appeared from the other side with a combat knife in hand.  It was Eigengrau-issued, probably from one of the guards, and Silva nearly put it in James’s back before 007 could turn.  Whoever coined the phrase ‘Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight’ had clearly never fought with a Hound, as Silva closed the distance between them and suddenly made ranged weapons useless.  Bond, too busy trying to avoid a literal backstabbing, was unable to bring his gun to bear by the time Silva was on him.  The two crashed into a desk and then onto the floor, James underneath with Silva’s snarling smile hanging above him like a manic crescent moon.  

Bond took one hand off his gun to catch Silva’s descending wrist, stopping the heavy blade from slamming home into his eye.  At the same time, Silva caught James’s gun-hand, pressing it to the floor so that 007’s last-minute shot went wild and lodged itself in the very desk he’d been hiding behind.  The poor piece of furniture was already riddled with gouges.  “So,” Silva grunted, weathering James’s attempts to heave him off, “it seems we’ve reached something of an impasse.  Are you sure that you don’t want to negotiate?”

“Make up your mind, Silva,” James grunted, unable to buck Silva off while he was simultaneously trying to keep the knife at bay, “Do you want to make deals with me, or get payback for me blacking your eye outside of Q-branch?”

Silva’s smile hadn’t wavered, but the vein standing out on his forehead and the tendons standing out on his neck and arms revealed how much he had to fight to maintain the stalemate.  Silva was a bit heavier than James, but that didn’t mean 007 was easy prey, and it was clearly taking all of Silva’s effort to contain him.  “In a perfect world, I’d get both.”

“Go fuck yourself,” James gritted back uncharitably, then bared his teeth and strained as Silva leaned a bit more of his body weight into his knife-hand.

“You know, Hannibal might have the right of it,” Silva managed to get out, voice a bit breathy now with effort.  In fact, Silva grunted under his breath as he managed to gain another inch, the knife-blade swaying and actually scratching James’s throat despite the blue-eyed man’s best efforts.  “Killing rude people sounds like a delightful plan, and you’re clearly not learning manners quickly.”

Feeling the single hot bead of blood rolling off his Adam’s apple, James used a surge of strength to push back, and won himself a bit of metaphorical breathing room.  His gun-hand was still pinned to the floor, but if he could just wriggle his hips a bit, maybe he could knee Silva hard enough to get him off… hopefully without getting his throat split open in the process.  “Careful when you go around mimicking Hannibal,” James ground out absently, most of his focus on the fight but his mouth still working on autopilot, “He eats people.”

“Insanity looks better on some than others,” Silva admitted as if it were a crying shame that Hannibal couldn’t just be a nice crazy person like Silva was.

It was at that point that James looked away from the too-close knife to snarl something uncharitable up at Silva’s face, and very nearly gave the game away with his expression.  It took a massive amount of effort to keep his face straight as he saw the slim figure looming up behind Silva, and likewise it wasn’t easy to suddenly jerk Silva’s knife-hand to the left while James twisted his body the other way – and quickly, too, because almost as soon as James saw him, Q attacked, landing on Silva’s back and driving something towards the larger man’s neck.

The tip of Silva’s knife slammed into the floor so hard it chipped the flooring, and Silva’s weight was suddenly like a mountain falling down because Q had added his own bulk to the situation.  True, Q wasn’t even in 007 and 004’s weight class, but Silva hadn’t been expecting the sudden and spirited attack from behind.  In fact, both Silva and Bond were so surprised that it took a moment for either of them to realize that Q – while not particularly intimidating or trained in fighting like they were – was armed.  Silva, after falling forward, reared back with a roar that turned to choking even as blood spurted from the side of his neck, where Q had buried the little surgical scalpel that 007 had scrounged up for him.

Even with the scalpel sticking out of his neck like a silver twig, Silva was strong, and Q was literally thrown as 004 reached around and grabbed him by the coat-collar and dragged him away.  The boffin had clearly tried to cling onto Silva, but his strength didn’t count for much when pitted against Silva’s sudden fit of pain and rage, and James watched as Q tumbled painfully and then skidded across the floor, fetching up against the bullet-riddled metal cabinet.  James immediately turned his attention back to the biggest problem, however, and did what he did best: he went for the throat.

Silva had dropped his knife in favor of clamping a hand around the scalpel, holding it in place and trying to trap his own blood within his skin.  Surgical scalpels didn’t have anything by way of hilts, however, meaning Silva had little or no traction when James’s hand came upwards in an open-handed slap that drove the blade in deeper like a hammer would a nail.

“You bastard,” Silva snarled, but his words were wet-sounding now, redness flecking his lips and nostrils as he breathed.  Panic was starting to make his eyes wild, burning out his anger, and he tried to retreat only to realize that 007 was still very armed – and backing away meant releasing his hold on James’s gun-hand.  James was like a wolf at the door, waiting with bared teeth, for exactly that to happen.  When Silva went for his own knife, however – which necessitated taking his hand off his own neck – 007 was just as quick to taking advantage of that, too, immediately snaking his left hand up again.

Silva had no choice but to catch James’s left wrist, slamming it down on the floor as he had the right.  That left both men panting and still again, Silva leaning over James, James essentially helpless with his hands pinned, but a self-assured smile playing frostily across his face.  Silva’s blood was dripping all over him, proof that this wasn’t a stalemate.  This was the clock ticking away as 004 bled out.

“You’re going to start feeling weak, and then I’m going to get loose,” James promised, low and calm, blue eyes as wicked as cold flames.  With nothing else but Silva’s labored breathing to break the quiet, it was eerie and terrifying to hear 007 keep speaking in that same steady, damning tone, “And you’ll thank any god you pray to when that happens, because at least that way you’ll have a chance of dying quickly.”  Some of Silva’s blood fell on James’s cheek, making the blue-eyed man grimace as it dripped down into his ear, but he still finished contemptuously, “Right now your only other option is bleeding out slowly like a stuck pig, because there’s no one in this whole damn building who would want to help you.”  James struggled a little, testing Silva’s hold, finding that it was weaker but not yet breakable.  “You've already alienated the most moral person in this room-”  Q, whom James didn’t have time to spare a glance for, but who must have heard at least something of Silva’s threats to goad him into intervening.  “-And you’ve given me every reason to kill you before you could take three steps out of this room.  You’re screwed, Silva.”

The man looked animal, hair in a pale disarray as he leaned over James and snarled down at him.  There was definite fear in his eyes, the look of a trapped animal, even as he glanced about the room for inspiration.  His knife was within reach, of course, but to grab it would mean letting go of one of 007’s hands, and that had already proven disastrous.

Then James rolled his head to the right, finding Q’s wild-eyed gaze where the boffin was now curled up against the filing cabinet – the Quartermaster didn’t look much the worse for wear, but was clearly overwhelmed.  James met his eyes unblinkingly, then said as if it were natural, “You could kill him, Q.”  With both Hounds busy with each other, and dead guards everywhere, a gun would be easy to acquire.  Bond, after a detached and thoughtful pause, added imperturbably, “You could kill me, too.”

Q just stared back at him in horror, but to James’s surprise, answered after only a second or two.  His voice was wrecked and shaky, but James understood it easily as Q gasped out quietly, “No, that’s your job.”

The agent’s smile was slow and fierce, and with that, he snapped his focus back up to Silva.

And hooked his legs around the other agent’s waist and flipped them.  The second James was on top, he wrested one arm free and grabbed the scalpel in Silva’s throat to yank it out in one bloody, slicing arc.  The spurts of red became a tide, and Silva choked and heaved and slowly went still.  It took only moments.

James got up smoothly.  Redness flecked his coated and coated his left hand, but his pullover was doing a decent job of hiding the rest of the mess.  He took the knife Silva had nearly killed him with and slipped it through his belt – he’d find a proper sheath later.  His gun went into the newly procured shoulder-holster, and he looked down briefly at the bloody stain on the knees of his trousers.  Of course, he added to the blood when he wiped off his hand.  That done, he turned to find Q.

The Quartermaster was still huddled in the same place, but with possibly even more horror in his hazel eyes.  They were fixed on James in obvious fear as the agent approached him, all their whites showing from behind Q’s glasses.  Despite that, the Quartermaster held still admirably well as the high-Pass agent closed the distance between them – it wasn’t until James was only a stride away that Q’s resolve broke, and he tried to make a dash for freedom.  Fortunately for 007 but unfortunately for Q, the boffin’s earlier injuries prevented him from making an easy escape.  Instead of getting up smoothly to his feet and running for the door, Q’s bruised muscles cramped and he ended up sinking back into a sitting position with a gasp and a hand clutched to his ribs.  It was possible, upon reflection, that he might have had a cracked bone or two there, worsened by the tumble he’d just taken at Silva’s hands.

“Just take it easy, Q,” Bond sighed laboriously, looking upwards for a moment as if for strength or patience before he closed the final distance to Q and leaned down to get a grip on the smaller man’s upper arms.  Predictably, despite James’s jaded command, Q struggled even as the high-Pass agent hauled him to his feet.

Once Q was vertical, grimacing in pain and also leaning on the cabinet for balance, however, the Quartermaster gave 007 a hard hit in the chest.  He looked like he would have slapped him again, but Bond’s chest was a closer target, at least so long as James had hold of him.  “You absolute arsehole!” Q seethed at him, and the anger was something of a surprise.  A good one, really, as 007 was more prepared to deal with an angry Q than a scared-shitless one.  Angry people didn’t turn catatonic and useless.  Q’s eyes opened to fix on Bond’s face with fury bright and hot in their hazel depths, and he actually leaned forward against James’s hands to shout, “That man was one of the people you were going to have me send after M!”

Ah, so that’s what Q was so hyped up about.  Sympathizing wasn’t something that anyone with a high Psychopass did naturally – it took effort, and now James looked away briefly, focusing and cataloguing Q’s views on the matter.  It took a few seconds, but afterwards he could see why this had the Quartermaster bothered.  He also had a counter for it, one that had been in his own thoughts all along, but apparently hadn’t occurred quite so naturally to the low-Pass Quartermaster.  “Q,” James gave him a very light shake, aware of the younger man’s injuries, “Everyone – good and bad – is already after M.  All we can do is give them all of the information and hope they see sense.”  Bond looked back over his shoulder, at Silva’s body, aware that his own expression was turning into a frigid glower.  “Silva didn’t.”

Q had stopped struggling, although his fisted hands were still resting against 007’s chest.  They’d probably move just as soon as they realized how much blood had soaked into the ink-black fabric, and was now starting to leach onto the outer edges of Q’s elegant hands.  Surprisingly, Q’s eyes had followed James’s, and instead of staring at the fresh corpse with a look of burgeoning horror, the Quartermaster’s eyes were growing fierce and hard with something between determination and righteous anger.  It was a good look, and James found himself watching Q’s face with increased interest even as he held onto him.

“In that case,” Q said slowly, but in an implacable tone that 007 hadn’t heard before, “I don’t need to speak in code.”  Those bespectacled eyes flashed back to meet James’s blue eyes, daring him to argue.

And 007, always happy to oblige, did.  “Everyone will know what you’re saying, Q – and a lot of them will know who is saying it, too.  I was going to do the talking to avoid that.”

“I wouldn’t even know what you said if you did that,” Q hissed, and the distrust flared up behind his eyes, hurt and ugly.  James winced just a bit, but figured he deserved that.  Unexpectedly, though, Q quieted and returned to a more impersonal kind of stubbornness, “And I don’t care who hears me.  The more people the better, actually, and C can just go choke on that.  Hopefully if I cast a wide enough net, some sensible people will get caught in it.”

James raised one eyebrow, knowing that he was wading into trouble, but also knowing that he’d been standing in it for awhile now.  He asked tonelessly, “And I take it I’m not included in that list?”

“You’re the one who didn’t seem worried about 004 until he started shooting at you,” Q retorted frigidly by way of answering, then jerked away.  Bond let him go.  Q, with a slight limp now – perhaps from his abrupt tumble off Silva’s shoulders – but with a ramrod straight spine, stalked back out of the room.  James, after a beat, followed him silently back to the comms room, both wary and curious as to what the wrathful Quartermaster would do next.  All James had seen of Q had indicated that the young man followed a strong moral compass, but at the same time, 007 had never seen the boffin quite this angry before.

Q sat down in front of a microphone, and apparently he’d gotten it to work, because he flicked it on without preamble, and there was a slight whine of feedback that said it was working.  While Q purposefully didn’t look back at him, 007 figured that the dark-haired young man was aware of the agent now leaning undemandingly in the doorway.  Said agent did nothing to interfere as Q cleared his throat, and then his voice was ringing throughout all of Eigengrau.

~^~

Mallory was just stopping to catch his breath, checking how many bullets he had left, when a brief squeal and then a voice through the intercom had him jerking his head up.  At first, he opened his mouth to curse, expecting C’s damnably chipper voice, but the words died of shock in his throat as he recognized his Quartermaster’s prim tones instead: “If I could have everyone’s attention, please, or at least the attention of all the high-Pass agents.”

Mallory wasn’t included in that list, but he was definitely listening.  “What the hell are you doing, Q?” he asked under his breath.

~^~

Deep in the heart of Eigengrau, where the building was thankfully better at holding onto warmth, Harry Hart was pondering the puzzle that was Eggsy Unwin.  He was still a bit shocked and impressed by how stubbornly Eggsy refused to snitch on people, but after learning that Eggsy’s silence had been bought with threats to his mother and baby sister, the story had unfolded grudgingly, like a dam slowly cracking and splitting open.  Harry had met Eggsy’s mother, after her husband – Eggsy’s father – had died.  Harry hadn’t been able to give her much comfort then, or to tell her exactly what her husband had done to get himself killed, but he’d shown his gratitude by giving her his thanks, a pendant, and a promise of a favor to whoever wore that pendant with its little inscription on the back: ‘Oxfords Not Brogues.’

Now, after a long night of slowly prying Eggsy’s history into the open – a father he couldn’t remember, a mother who was now a full-blown alcoholic, her boyfriend who was abusive, and a baby sister who would probably have died of neglect ages ago had it not been for Eggsy – Harry and Eggsy sat together against the bathroom wall.  Eggsy was restrained again, because Harry couldn’t trust him not to do something brash to keep his sister safe.  After all, C had promised to kill her if Eggsy didn’t secure them a helicopter to leave Eigengrau.  Even with that metaphorical sword of Damocles hanging over his head, however, the emotional onslaught of telling his story to someone had left Eggsy sapped, and now he was out like a light, unashamedly leaning his full body-weight on Harry’s shoulder.  The older man didn’t even mind.  He kept looking down at the pendant lying clearly visible on the boy’s chest, that promise of a favor clinging to it like an aura only Harry could see.

Harry wasn’t accustomed to having emotions inform his decisions.  He wasn’t much used to emotions at all, besides the occasional annoyance at a mission going poorly, or someone around him being an idiot.  Now, though, he looked at the line of worry that was still between Eggsy’s brows even in sleep, and felt a whole nest of emotions coiled in his chest.

Both men snapped to full alertness as the intercom suddenly came on, the first words cutting through even Eggsy’s emotionally exhausted sleep.

“…I’m sure that you all heard the announcement late yesterday evening, regarding the promise of freedom for all the agents of Eigengrau – that was from our very own Director-General, by the way.  Your would-be benefactor, C, is actually part of the corporate power behind this facility, in case anyone was interested to know.  And so am I, I will admit.  Before you jump on board with that stunning proposal, however, let me give you a bit of insider information.”

~^~

“Q’s lost his mind,” H breathed in quiet horror, for the first time dropping the professional ‘Mr.’ before the Quartermaster’s title.  He was huddled in one of the living quarters – not his own, which had been overrun by enemy operatives and rogue Hounds the night before, but one of the high-Pass living quarters.  John Reese’s, to be exact.

008 stood watchfully at the door like a guard-dog, brows beetling as the speaker on the intercom continued: “Firstly – your collars aren’t broken.  The signal is just jammed, and you should be aware that they’ll no doubt start working again the second you’re off the island.  I’m sure that C was going to tell you that eventually.”

Reese had already known all of that – H had told him, just as H told him everything.  That was why Agent 008 hadn’t the slightest inclination of leaving Harold and accepting C’s proposal, even as danger continued to breathe down both their necks.  Now, though, it seemed like this knowledge was being spread far and wide, so even agents without their own personal Q-brancher were having their eyes opened.

~^~

Hannibal had taken Will to the kitchens, because it was closer than any of the medical facilities, but had many of the same tools: antiseptic solutions, blades, even means of keeping a person warm.  Will Graham was the most fascinating thing that Hannibal had seen in years, possibly in all of his life, but was fading fast as shock took over.  Therefore, Hannibal only gave a fraction of his attention to the intercom that continued whining above his head.

“…If C kills M, of course, then it’ll be a moot point, as M is presently the only one with the codes necessary to remove your collars entirely.  So if he’s been murdered already, then you’re all bloody screwed.  Considering the fact that C has encouraged you all to go on a three-day killing spree, I can only surmise that he’s hoping you do just that.  After all, it’s hardly his fault if he can’t set you free because one of you just happened to cut off the head of Eigengrau.  So, with that in mind, I’d recommend considering a new proposal: keep M alive.”

At this point, Hannibal really only cared about keeping two people alive: himself and the brilliant mind on the table before him.

~^~

Ianto felt like he was in a lions’ den – and the number of lions kept increasing.  Harkness hadn’t let go of his arm yet, and now he was surrounded by over a dozen men and women, all individuals who would gladly gut him if they realized he was actually the right-hand-man to M himself.  They’d all joined up under the quiet but stern command of a man called Sebastian Moran, whose grey eyes had a crystalline coldness to them that reminded Ianto of the glass eyes on taxidermied animals.  If there was humanity behind that gaze, he couldn’t see it.  Harkness wasn’t helping either.  His grip may as well have been made of iron, and every time Ianto tried to make a break for it, it tightened to bruising proportions – and all the while the agent would maintain a slantwise smile.  It looked as easy as breathing for him, to banter back and forth at the expense of the ‘accountant’ they’d caught.  In fact, it was without flinching that Harkness had explained away his new ‘pet’ to Moran when they’d all met up.  Moran hadn’t looked impressed, but hadn’t argued, and now Ianto was being let go for the first time all night.  They were in a rec-room, where water as well as spare clothes were readily available, and everyone was liberally raiding the place while Harkness pushed Ianto down to sit in a corner by a line of lockers.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Harkness said, and there was something in his eyes – just for a moment – that made Ianto think back to the man who’d pressed his shoulders gently to the bed and leaned their foreheads together, mixing lust and a simple, sweet affection.

Then it was gone, as someone shouted something lewd Harkness’s way, and 001 turned to grin and return the joke in kind.    

All of the joking ground to a halt, however, as the intercom started up.  Even Ianto forgot his fears for a moment as he listened, stunned, as the Quartermaster of Eigengrau began one of the boldest monologues that Ianto had ever heard.

“…And before one of you decide to hunt Mallory down and force him to let you free, I’d like to remind you that removing a collar actually takes three things – M, a special electronic key, and a working computer.  C, of course, has crashed all the computers.  It’s like he doesn’t want you un-collared at all, isn’t it?  So even if you have M, and he has a key on him, you’re still missing the last component.”

Moran was nearby, looking like a lean wolf after a long winter that had just gotten longer.  Ianto was looking at his growing frown, and therefore was watching the man’s mouth move as he succinctly muttered, “Shit.”

Ianto had a feeling that the room was about to get ugly, and he wrapped his arms around his knees and looked up just in time to see Harkness looking back at him, clear worry in his now-stormy-blue eyes.

~^~

John Watson hissed as one of the other guards wrapped up his knee.  They’d been going out in turns to bring in ‘refugees,’ people without combat training who were now stuck like mice in the snake-pit of Eigengrau.  Medical supplies were in great demand, but John had been a doctor during his military years, and was used to making do.  He was worried that his knee would take more than first-aid, though.  That last run to get people had gotten ugly, but the sudden voice over the intercom had been a perfect distraction to retreat under.

They were all back in Holding, where the doors had actual, non-electronic locks, and John glanced up to see Sherlock nearly frantic behind the door of his cell.  “John?  John!” he called.  He looked like nothing so much as a big lanky otter sliding back and forth in a too-small cage.  “John, who was the man speaking on the intercom system just now?”

Before John could open his mouth and reply, the speaking continued, grim and implacable: “…I, however, have one of those keys… and I’m the Quartermaster.  I know these systems inside and out, and out of everyone in this godforsaken place, I’m your best chance of getting a computer working, outside of the benevolent C, of course.”

“That’s Eigengrau’s new Quartermaster,” John shouted down to Sherlock, just in case that wasn’t completely self-evident by now.  Deciding that he was as patched up as he was going to get, John heaved himself to his feet and limped a few steps in Sherlock’s direction, adding as lightly as he could past a pained grimace, “He’s only been here a week or so, but he already sounds as full of himself as you.”

“That’s because he’s my brother,” Sherlock snapped back, and that was like a dash of cold water.  Even if the revelation hadn’t been utterly unexpected, Sherlock’s tone was like chipped ice, edged and cold and no-nonsense.  In the whole time that Sherlock had been here, John hadn’t seen the man get violent – petty, yes, and angry in a frustrated sort of way, but now there was real fury in the gesture as the lanky man slammed a fist against the bars and snarled, “What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”

John could only stand and stare.  He’d read Sherlock’s file and known that he wasn’t an only child, but he’d never seen pictures – to be fair, he’d also not seen the new Quartermaster.  It was almost too much to believe that Sherlock had a brother who was not only in a leadership position in Eigengrau, but right now speaking fearlessly to the people who were turning Eigengrau upside-down.  This was also the most furious expletive he’d ever heard Sherlock utter.

Finally, John just shrugged dazedly and said, “It sounds like he’s laying down the law,” just as the Quartermaster brought his argument to a resounding close.

~^~

Q hadn’t let his voice waver through the entire speech, even though the adrenalin in his system was starting to make his body shake.  But he had something to say, dammit, and he was going to say it with all he was worth, and make people listen.  Leaning close to the microphone and speaking in clear, concise tones, he went on, “…So, I want you to choose, but choose carefully – or don’t choose.  Just think.  If you happen to find Gareth Mallory, and you don’t know who to trust, then serve your own self-interest.  With M dead, you’re the one who suffers.  You don’t have to like him; you just have to accept that he’s a valuable asset if you keep him in one piece.  And true, maybe C will want him alive, too, even if he hasn’t said anything to that effect.  But if at this point you still want to try your luck with the Director-General, remember this…”  Q paused, gathered his courage, and finished like an axe falling, “I can free you just as much as he can… but I can also track you even if you lose those damn collars, because Smartblood is a lot harder to disable.  I should know.  I made it.  And I’d be deeply disappointed if any of you decide to take out your frustration on Gareth Mallory because of all this.”  And with that, Q hit the button to turn off the intercom again, sitting back and inhaling for what felt like the first time since he’d watched 007 calmly and cleanly slice open the entire side of Raoul Silva’s neck.

~^~

Chapter Text

007 was still behind Q; the Quartermaster knew it like a ship captain knew that a storm was brewing beyond the lip of the horizon.  Q didn’t turn around, but he felt the hairs on his nape stand on end just a few seconds before the older man spoke from the doorway, “Now they’re just going to want to take out their frustration on you, Q.”  Bond’s voice was steady and low, and utterly unreadable except perhaps for a low burr of temper just barely creeping into the words.

It made Q’s hands shake a bit more, and he hid it by clasping them together on his lap.  His exhale was likewise a bit shaky, and he worried that his voice wasn’t as iron-strong as it had been over the intercom as he tried to calmly reply, “And you?  Are you going to want to take out your frustration on me?”  Up until now he’d been running on momentum and shock, he realized, his ears and eyes still swimming with all that he’d heard and seen between Bond and Silva.  Only now did the boffin truly realize what he’d said, and the realization hollowed him out to his core.  He felt like he was going to be sick.

If James didn’t kill him first.

“I just heard you say that you’d hunt me down even if I did get free of this damned collar.  What do you think, Q?” was the icy reply.

“I didn’t…”  Q tried to get his words to form into something defensible, but the free-flowing speech that had struck him earlier was gone, and he stuttered, gulped, then gritted his teeth in frustration.  “I know I said-!  You don’t understand - I don’t have a choice!”

Knowing that the only advantage he was going to get was the element of surprise, and that he’d have to move fast to beat 007 to the punch, Q grabbed for the nearest thing – a keyboard, unplugged by Silva’s earlier carnage – and hurled it at James.  In the same movement, Q lurched to his feet, bracing himself this time for the fierce ache of bruised muscles cramping.  He saw surprise flash briefly across 007’s face as the blond-haired man swayed out of the way, the keyboard just missing him.  Q tried to use that tiny window of opportunity to streak through the doorway, but the simple fact was that 007 was too close, and the man recovered too fast.  An arm slithered around his middle as Q shot past, cinching tight in a way that made Q emit a breathless gasp of pain.  It was like being clotheslined, as his momentum was dragged to an abrupt halt by 007’s strength and weight.  Q tried to struggle, grabbing the arm about his bruised lower ribs, but then James’s other arm curled in around Q’s throat.  It was shocking how quickly his air was cut off in the crook of Bond’s arm, and Q gulped for breath even as he felt his struggles growing more feeble.

Distantly, through a fog of impending unconsciousness, Q was aware of James shifting his grip; the arm around Q’s middle moved, releasing for a moment only to come back in and this time trap Q’s arms under it.  Then the choke-hold loosened suddenly, but as Q sucked in the sweetest lungful of air he’d ever had, the arm was replaced by a hand.  It wasn’t suffocating,, but Q still felt a spike of useless terror as James’s strong left hand took up residence around his throat.  The grip was firm and sure, Bond’s hand big enough that the thumb and forefinger each stretched around to press against the delicate hollows behind either side of Q’s jawbone.  Between the grip pinning Q’s arms to his sides and the hold on his neck, Q knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

When Q braced for further violence, however, nothing came.  James just held him like that, as if letting it sink in that there was no escaping him.  Otherwise, the agent made no threats.  Q felt a lot like a cat being held by its scruff, realizing slowly that the only viable option left was to just go limp and stay still.  Fear made those options a bit less viable, but when Q growled and tried valiantly to wriggle free, he was immediately pulled in tight; his bruised ribs creaked under Bond’s strength, and his head was bent back nearly to Bond’s shoulder by the force of the hand snugged up under Q’s chin.  Panting shallowly and too quickly, Q gave up, his brain scrambling madly for other options that didn’t appear.  Even more maddening was that 007 hadn’t made a sound; he may as well have been a machine, or an impossibly tangible ghost, or just an emotionless force of nature.

It was only after Q stopped struggling that James leaned in close to Q’s ear – an easy task, as cozy as they were already.  “Let me give you a choice,” Bond rumbled, and it took a second for Q to connect the sentence to his earlier, frustrated statement.  This was not what Q had expected to hear, and it made him open his eyes and swivel them frantically to try and see James’s face.  The man’s expression was neutral, almost serene, but with something fierce lurking just beneath the surface.  “I know you have morals, Q,” James went on, weathering a halfhearted writhe on Q’s part that was  quickly stifled by just the faintest application of Bond’s strength, “and I know you can’t help but follow them.  It’s a part of who you are, just as my tendency towards violence is a part of me.”  Q whimpered, struggling a bit again, the reminder not doing anything to ease his mind.  He couldn’t get his arms loose, though, and 007 had completely control of his head, James’s hand holding him still like a halter on a skittish horse.

Despite the implication of danger, however, James still didn’t hurt him.  His grip was designed to dominate but not to damage.  “What I’m saying, Q, is that when I agreed to work with you, I didn’t expect anything different.”  Q was so startled to hear that that he went still, and when he stopped fighting, it was like being cradled in iron.  James was inescapable, but he wasn’t moving, wasn’t putting any effort into that violence that apparently came so easily to him.  “Now, can we talk like sensible people?”

“Will you…”  Q’s voice squeaked, so he cleared his throat and tried again, with marginally better results, “Will you let me go?”

“If you promise not to run off like a rabbit into a minefield.”

Unexpectedly, it was the wryly condescending tone of Bond’s last comment that had Q’s panic receding a little.  The Quartermaster even let out a little displeased huff before nodding hesitantly.  The feeling of the soft underside of his jaw brushing Bond’s hand was at once sensual and scary, and Q was still trying to figure out what to do with that sensation when 007’s hands obediently fell away.  The high-Pass agent stepped back and let Q turn around and get his bearings again, putting a bit of space between them.

For a long moment, Q waited for 007 to attack him, but instead an awkward silence stretched between them as the blue-eyed man simply leaned back against the nearest wall with a look of jaded patience on his face.  Bond had taken the time to wipe some of the blood off his face, but a rusty smear remained.  Finally, Q cleared his throat again – still amazed that his throat hadn’t been crushed – and hazarded, “You… already knew that I was going to… say what I did, on the intercom, didn’t you?”

“Not the exact words,” James admitted, powerful shoulders rising and falling, “But I was pretty sure you weren’t just going to let every Hound in Eigengrau walk free, and it’s not like I just forgot about the Smartblood you shot us all up with.”

Q winced, not liking the wording, but also realizing that to say anything else was to sugarcoat what he’d done.

“See – there, in your expression,” James suddenly raised a hand, pointing at Q’s face unexpectedly.  Blue eyes became interested and keen, even as Q grew confused.  “That’s why I didn’t just feed you to Silva, and why I’m not going to assassinate you now.”

“I don’t underst-?”

“You regret what’s been done to us,” James interrupted, finally making his point clear, and Q fell silent.  For a man who dealt in lies and secrets, 007 could be remarkably candid sometimes, and now was one of those times; he spoke slowly and with an immense lucidity usually only found in deathbed speeches, “I can see it on your face that you don’t like what you’ve done, despite everyone here saying that it’s all right.  I can see-”  And now James’s head tilted, hawk-like.  “-That you can be reasoned with.”

Suddenly Q wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.  “Now, wait a moment…”

“Tell me I’m wrong, Q,” Bond interrupted, folding his arms but angling his body forward a bit.  “Your morals say that letting us all walk free is wrong, but they also say that keeping us here like animals is wrong.  What if there was a way to satisfy your morals on both fronts?”  Those blue eyes were xyresic, so sharp that they cut Q to the quick, and pinned him in place like a butterfly to a pegboard.  “Would you do it?  Even if it meant going against the rules that everyone stands by?  What’s important to you, Q – following orders or doing what’s right?”

Q just stared at James for a long second, wondering why no one had warned him about this: they’d told him that James was crazy, that he was deadly, that he was unpredictable.  They hadn’t said that he was a debater and sharp as a tack to boot.  “You already know the answer to that,” Q finally said at a whisper, thinking of his brother, of Sherlock, and how he’d come all the way here just to break Sybil’s rules and save him.

In response, James just smiled – very faintly, just enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes – and nodded.

~^~

Eggsy and Agent 005 sat very still after the Quartermaster’s message ended.  Eggsy straightened up eventually from where he’d been slouched against the agent’s shoulder, surreptitiously smudging the corner of his mouth on his own shoulder, aware that he’d been asleep enough to drool… on Hart’s shoulder.  The man had surely noticed, but was being a nice enough bloke about it not to comment, even giving Eggsy a few moments to just sit in silence and think.

Eventually, Eggsy said, voice a bit raspy from sleep, “You want to know just how much of what he said is true, don’t you?”

“That would be ideal,” Hart said politely.  He was looking forward, still very put-together but with his glasses off now and one button on his shirt undone.  When he drew up one knee to clasp his hand around, he looked very nearly approachable, which jived with what Eggsy remembered of the night before.  There’d been a lot of yelling and fighting and eventually Eggsy screaming and sobbing a lot of things about his family – well, about his mum and baby sis.  If C had threatened his mum’s boyfriend, Dean, Eggsy wouldn’t have batted an eye.  While Dean could go die in a hole, though, Eggsy couldn’t let them hurt the rest of his little family, and he’d somehow ended up spilling all of that to Hart, who had listened surprisingly well for a psychopath.

Eggsy had talked himself into exhaustion and somehow managed to fall asleep before the conversation had turned to C’s plan, however, so now it seemed that it was inevitably turning that way.  Eggsy tested the damned silk tie that was around his wrists again, and grumbled grudgingly, “You take this fucking thing off, and we’ll talk.”

“A fair deal,” Hart gave in equably, and immediately turned, placing an almost fastidious hand on Eggsy’s shoulder to get him to lean forward.  Considering that most of the touches Eggsy was used to from older men were blows from Dean, the gentle touch stood out, and he focused on it despite himself.  One-handed, Hart unraveled the tie with surprising deftness, sitting back to coil it around his hand and look at Eggsy expectantly.  “Now, what do you have to say about the allegations we just heard?”

It felt good to move his arms again.  When he’d attacked Hart earlier, he’d gotten a good workout, but clearly he’d been asleep awhile; he barely remembered submitting to being tied up again, he’d been so exhausted, wrecked more on the inside than on the outside.  Now, Eggsy sighed gustily past his teeth, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his arms around.  “That Quartermaster bloke probably isn’t far wrong, but I don’t know all that much, I swear it,” he finally admitted, self-consciously watching the floor as he spoke and eased the kinks out of his upper body, “C had a job he needed me to do, but outside of that, they kept things pretty close to the vest, you know?”

“Can you tell me exactly what that job was that they needed you for?” Hart asked, still in that conscientiously polite tone that made Eggsy feel like he was an equal.  Like he was worth something.  It was a strange feeling, as even his coworkers here at Eigengrau had had a habit of talking down to him after hearing his accent.  It was weird but nice that Harry Hart wasn’t doing the same.

“It’s pretty obvious, innit?  They needed a pilot in their pocket.  C’s right hand man, Sebastian Moran, was supposed to cripple all the choppers but mine, and he’s probably killed the other pilots, too.”  Eggsy sighed and stretched his legs out, dropping his hands onto his thighs and looking straight ahead in defeat.  “Of course, I don’t think any of them planned on me being jumped by a Hound, so that plan’s probably shot to hell.  Unless you’re thinking of letting me go?”  He rolled his head Hart’s way.

There was a faint twitch at the corner of the agent’s mouth that might have been the birth of a smile, but then the agent was shaking his head.  “No.”  But, before Eggsy could get anxious, Hart added, “Not yet, anyway.  The Quartermaster made a compelling argument about foiling the Director-General’s plan, but I do care about what happens to your family.”

Eggsy’s eyebrows jumped up.  “You do?”

“Yes,” Hart said patiently, as if Eggsy were being silly.

“It’s because of this-”  Eggsy plucked the pendant off his chest, looking down even as he indicated it.  “-Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hart answered again, but then deigned to go on, drawing in a thoughtful breath while Eggsy settled in to listen.  The desire to do whatever was necessary to protect his baby sister warred with the exhaustion still tugging at him, and the desire to know more about this previously secretive part of his life – this pendant he’d had since childhood, with no explanation.  “I gave it to your mother originally, because…  Well, because your father died saving my life.  He was training to become a Kingsman, you see.”

“A Kingsman?”

“A group not unlike this, really,” Hart indicated Eigengrau in general with a little flick of a hand, the movement both dismissive and strangely elegant.  “Like Eigengrau, they sent out agents around the world to spy and do what needed to be done to protect Queen and Country.  We were disbanded when the Sybil System came online, however.”  In the emergency lighting, Hart’s faint frown had a jaundiced cast, making it seem even more unhappy as he went on, “Apparently our work attracted – or caused – individuals with high Psychopasses, so many of the Kingsman were given the option of joining Eigengrau as its Hounds, or being summarily incarcerated.  Most of us decided that those options sounded like one and the same, and tried to disappear instead.  Sadly, it can be difficult to hide from a machine with a trillion metaphorical eyes.”  Hart’s words finished on a clearly sour note, but he waved it off and added, “All that was after your father, however.  While he was still a candidate, we encountered a bomb, and he threw himself in the way of it to protect the rest of the team.  So, you see…”  The agent turned to look at Eggsy squarely now, and it was almost as hard to meet those frank eyes as it was to break away from them, once contact was made.  Hart’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried weight in it like an iceberg floating on the sea, “…I wasn’t able to repay your father, but I owe quite a debt to his name, which is what that pendant signifies.”

“So that’s…?”  Eggsy had to swallow, the pure magnitude of what was happening here starting to reach him: yes, he was being blackmailed into assisting in the breakout of over a score of dangerous people, but one of the most dangerous in that group was also basically saying that Eggsy had inherited a favor from him.  A life-debt.  “So that’s why you’re willing to help me rather than just, you know, kill me?” he hazarded.

Hart was definitely smiling now, a wry expression that included just the very corner of one side of his mouth.  Then the man reached into his pocket, saying magnanimously and perhaps with a touch of humor, “Yes, Eggsy.  I’ll even give you your knife back.”

Sticking his hand out hurriedly when he realized that the agent was actually serious, Eggsy felt marginally better once the familiar weight of his knife was nestled in his palm, the blade safely tucked away.  Still looking at the knife, struggling to identify all that he was feeling, Eggsy said roughly, “Hey, Hart?”

“Call me Harry.”

“Harry,” Eggsy acquiesced, tasting the first name shyly in his mouth, and finally looking up from under his eyebrows at the older man, “You’re not such a bad bloke, for a Hound.”

That earned him a snort, and the half-smile deepened just a fraction.  Eggsy felt unaccountably chuffed at the sight of the expression, because he had the sneaking suspicion that Hart – Harry – wasn’t the kind of just go around showing his feelings all the time.  When the agent replied, there was even a bit of amusement slipping into his posh voice, “Contrary to what all the stereotypes would have you believe, having a high Psychopass and being absolutely psychotic are not synonymous.  I’d like to think that I have at least a moderately functional moral compass, and even Hannibal respects good manners.”

“Hannibal?”

“The Cannibal.”

“Shit,” Eggsy swung his head around to stare forward again, wondering for the umpteenth time just what he’d gotten himself into.  Then, suddenly suspicious, he swiveled his eyes to look at Harry askance, asking very slowly, “Do you…?”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, and for a second, Harry looked confused, brows lowering.  Then realization lit the other man’s gaze up like a spark, and suddenly a bark of laughter destroyed the agent’s professional façade entirely.  It took him a moment, in fact, to get himself under control again, cutting off his laughter to occasional coughs of breath.  “Do I eat people?  No, Eggsy, I most certainly do not eat people.  I’ve killed people, yes, and I’m good at it, but I like to think that I’ve never done that without good cause.”  Sobering, Harry sighed, and he looked older around the eyes as he stared off into the distance and said quietly, “Everyone thinks that the Sybil System tracks down madmen, but I think, in reality, that what it does is simply identify very deadly people – but sometimes, deadly and dangerous are not the same thing.  Deadly people are capable of great evils, true, but as a Kingsman, all of my great evils were in the name of keeping my country and the people I cared about safe.”  Harry’s eyes dropped as he plucked unseen lint from the knees of his trousers, but he continued thoughtfully, “I imagine that the same could be said for many of the men and women here.”

Eggsy sat back, nodding as he digested that slowly.  Because it seemed like the right thing to do – quid pro quo – he started to speak, and by the slight twitch at his side, Harry was surprised at his topic choice almost immediately, “I knew that my da had some military training, even if I didn’t know much else, and Mum wouldn’t say much.  So I wanted to, you know, follow in his footsteps.  So I enlisted.”  He shrugged, looking off at the far wall of the loo, trying not to get too lost in the memories and trying not to notice the man beside him watching him, “I learned a lot of stuff – how to fly a helicopter, obviously – but then I started getting calls from Mum about how she had this new boyfriend-”

“Dean?” Harry guessed softly.

Sighing and nodding, Eggsy shifted his shoulders in a motion that was less of a shrug and more of a rolling motion like a dog trying to shake off dust.  He summed up quickly, stiffly, “He’s bad news, but Mum won’t see it, so I realized I had to come home and keep everyone safe.  So I left training.  Done a lot of stuff since then that I’m not proud of.”  There – now they were on more equal footing.  Harry Hart was a killer, but Eggsy Unwin wasn’t exactly clean as the driven snow either, even if he apparently hadn’t done anything bad enough to attract the Sybil System yet.

Long silences were beginning to characterize their conversation, and another followed as Eggsy stopped talking and just sat where he was tensely, beginning to get fidgety.  He didn’t want to get up and move, though, because as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he was desperate to hear more about if – or how – Harry planned to help him.

“Eggsy,” Harry said after the moment had stretched nearly to the point of intolerance, just as Eggsy was sucking in a breath to explode into speech himself.  The way the older man said his name was always so imperative somehow, and Eggsy found himself letting out his inhale in a rush, turning his head.  Harry opened his mouth and started to say something, then stopped with a vaguely consternated look and asked instead, “Is your name really ‘Eggsy’?”

That tricked a cheeky smile onto Eggsy’s face.  “Don’t knock it, bruv.  It’s more my name than ‘Oxford’ is.”

Harry accepted that with a faintly discontented frown that Eggsy abruptly wanted to chuckle at, but reined himself in.  The older man had started talking again, more seriously this time, turning so that his body-language showed that his complete focus was on Eggsy – which, needless to say, was kind of a novel experience.  Most of the time, Eggsy was either summarily dismissed as a lowlife back at home, or else he had Dean’s complete attention because the bastard was warming up to thrash him.  For a moment, in fact, Eggsy tensed up under Harry’s eyes, before he read the compassion in them and cautiously relaxed.  “Well then, Eggsy, what I wanted to say is that no one should have that much responsibility at your age.”  Before Eggsy could bristle again and say that he was doing just fine with that responsibility, despite his age, Harry continued in the same steady voice, “And I think that if your father were still alive, he’d be amazed by what you’ve accomplished.”

Eggsy abruptly felt unbalanced; he couldn’t get his footing, couldn’t figure out how to respond or even how to take in that last statement.  And the worst part was, Harry didn’t even seem to be making shit up – everything about him announced sincerity, and even now he was waiting and watching Eggsy patiently, as if prepared to answer all denials in that same calm tone.  It was… scary… to have someone really see him, and then find words that could hit so close to Eggsy’s heart.  The younger man had to look away, his eyes unaccountably hot.  He mumbled awkwardly, desperate to say something and dispel the weight of those words, “Not sure that’s a compliment, you know – after all, what I’ve accomplished so far is to get myself tangled up with terrorists, and I couldn’t even do that right.  I’m sure my da would be thrilled to know that I’ve endangered everyone I care about.”

“He’d be proud to know how steadfastly you are fighting for those people,” Harry asserted, but thankfully stopped pushing after that.  Which was good, because Eggsy was starting to realize with horror that the heat behind his eyes might be tears on their way.  In a most brisk tone, Harry went on, “You do, however, seem to be desperately in need of help.”

“Gee, thanks,” Eggsy drawled back, now fighting a lopsided smile.

He was pretty sure he heard Harry mutter “Cheeky pup” before continuing as if Eggsy hadn’t just backtalked him, “From what I’ve gathered of your present employer, and what I know about mad supervillains – which is much more than I’d care to admit – he seems the untrustworthy type.  It’s possible, Eggsy, that he’ll just kill you when this is over.”

Eggsy swallowed, then clenched his jaw, speaking past gritted teeth, “So long as he doesn’t hurt my mum and sis, I don’t care what the fuck he does with me.”  He kept his eyes ruthlessly down and focused on his own clenched fists, but was still aware that Harry was just sitting and staring at him.

It was only slowly, after another long pause, that Harry began speaking again, “Be that as it may, it’s safe to say that you can’t depend on C keeping to his deal.  On the other hand, what little I know of Eigengrau’s Quartermaster is that he’s a fair sort of fellow.  He’s new here – not jaded – and even has a pleasantly naïve outlook on high-Pass agents.”

“What do you mean?”  Eggsy himself hadn’t met the man, but he’d sounded pretty impressive over the intercoms.

Harry replied thoughtfully, “I rather think he sympathizes with us, or at least doesn’t regard us as soulless monsters.”  Canny eyes flicked to Eggsy.  “I think he might be the better horse to bet on, if you’ll pardon the colloquialism.”

“I’ll pardon whatever the hell you like, so long as it keeps my family safe,” Eggsy replied flatly, and finally the restlessness was too much.  He got up, dragging a hand back through his hair as his legs drove him to pace.  Only on his returning strides did he realize that Harry had stood, too, as silent as smoke.  Eggsy had a dizzying little moment where he realized that the agent had been quietly preparing for Eggsy to bolt, in which case Harry had already proven himself more than capable of running the younger man down.  For an older gentleman, Harry was one scary mother…  “So, what’s your plan?  It’s already pretty clear to me that the choices I’ve got right now are all shite.”

“Well, fortunately for us,” Harry mused out loud, posture relaxing infinitesimally when it was clear that Eggsy was sticking around, “we’ve got three days to decide.  Are you supposed to report to C before then?”

“Sort of.”  Eggsy fished around in his pockets and pulled out a phone.  Harry looked surprised, and then suddenly disgruntled, and Eggsy grinned and guessed with sudden insight, “After you took my knife, you didn’t even bother to frisk me, did you?  Shameful.”

“Shameful is how easily I disarmed you in the first place,” Harry sniffed back, then nodded imperiously to the phone.

The intent to change the topic was clear, and Eggsy acquiesced, even if he kept smirking.  “C shut down everything, and Eigengrau is real big on not letting outside electronics in, but Moran got me this one.  It still works, and I should probably check in soon to at least tell them that I’m not dead.”  He glowered down at the mobile in his hand, suddenly hating it.  “Technically, I was supposed to be at my chopper before the power went out, but someone interrupted.”

Harry looked utterly unrepentant.  “I take it C and his men will be moving that way now?”

Opening the phone, Eggsy saw two missed calls and half a dozen messages, and he wrinkled his nose in an even stronger frown while he answered distractedly, “Yeah.  Moran and I had already hid supplies there, and I was supposed to hold down the fort until they came.  Then we’d all wait until day three.”

“So it’s defensible?”

“Definitely.”  Eggsy looked up, beginning to get curious about where Harry was going with this.  “Cased the place myself.”  When Harry met his eyes with faint surprise, Eggsy’s expression became a bit more guilty, and he gave one shoulder an uneasy roll, “Dean runs with a bad crowd, and sometimes it was safer to run with ’em than against ’em, all right?”

“I wasn’t judging you, Eggsy,” Harry assured in that calm tone again, and further soothed the issue by quickly moving forward instead of dwelling on Eggsy’s less reputable skills and how he’d learned them, “I’m wondering if there’s perhaps a way we can control the situation without putting your family in danger, but also without giving C everything he wants.”

“What are you thinking?” Eggsy asked, eyes narrowing.

“I’m thinking that you should do exactly as you’re told,” Harry said unexpectedly, but his mouth was curling in that faint, cool smile again, and his eyes were like a sly old fox’s as he went on, “You should check in with C, tell him that things got a bit hectic but are under control, and then go to the helicopter pad.  And I think that you should take me with you.”

Chapter Text

~^~

The night before

~^~

Hannibal had been a surgeon once, fascinated by the ways in which the body could be fixed – and bent, and broken.  Eventually, however, the mysteries of the body had begun to grown mundane to him, so he’d switched to psychology.  The mind was infinitely more complex, he found – and moldable.  The human body could be so frangible, but the mind could be played with a lot longer before it began to snap.  Hannibal had by no means forgotten his surgical skills, however, and while he was academically worried that Will’s mind might indeed have snapped after what had just occurred, he kept his focus on the body.

It was easy to put together a makeshift bandage for Will’s shoulder, clearly the worst of his injuries.  The bullet was still lodged in his flesh, and the hole was bleeding steadily in a way that would definitely kill Will if left untreated.  The profiler had made a soft, animal whining sound when Hannibal had gently urged him to lean against the wall, but at least the dark-haired man had stayed there – all wide eyes and quivering limbs, like a terrified deer – as Hannibal efficiently stalked over to the nearest corpse and ripped the man’s shirt for bandage-cloth.  Will had writhed in pain and cried out more loudly when Hannibal swiftly but skillfully tied a compress to Will’s shoulder, under his jacket but over his shirt, though Hannibal had had to make himself deaf to the sounds of pain.  The important thing had been accomplished: the bleeding was stemmed.  “An inelegant fix,” Hannibal assured with some measure of apology in his hands and eyes as he cupped Will’s blood-flecked face in one hand and stroked his hair back with the other.  The dark curls tangled around his fingers.  “But it’ll do for now.  Come, Will.”

Will had barely been in any state to walk when they’d left the scene of Will’s killings – Will’s awakening.  He’d been nonverbal, and only responsive in the most basic ways, although fortunately that included following simple commands, such as Hannibal coaxing him to put one foot in front of the other and lean on the agent.  Hannibal had taken good care of his body over the years, keeping it fit and strong, and Will was a man of average size at best, meaning Hannibal was able to keep them moving with minimal assistance from Will himself.  Eventually, though, even Will’s instinctive obedience wasn’t enough to keep him moving.  Then, Hannibal had simply stopped, hushing the younger man softly, and bent down to hook a hand under Will’s knees.  He picked him up with a grunt of effort, marveling at the feeling of carrying a living body – he’d had more practice transporting fresh corpses.

Most living beings would have protested this sort of treatment strenuously, but Will had merely curled into Hannibal, still shaking as if he’d just been pulled out of a freezer and sweating like he was dying underneath a southern sun.  Sometimes his eyes were open, but Hannibal quickly recognized that there was no awareness in Will’s gaze – just a glassy gaze, empty of its mind.  It was ironic, really, considering just how many minds had been brought forth to peer out from those olive-green eyes.  It was also ironic and almost humbling how fragile Will felt now in his arms, after having seen how terrifyingly dangerous Will could become when it was needed.

It made Hannibal feel… strangely protective.  It was like a fierce fire starting up in his chest – probably the same fire that dragons felt when they found a jewel that outshone everything else in their whole hoard.

By dint of being a careful man, and a particularly healthy one, Hannibal had visited Medical infrequently, and therefore was largely unfamiliar with it.  The kitchens, on the other hand, were quite well known to him, and closer besides.  While most Hounds at Eigengrau focused on trying to win over their Handlers or sometimes the guards, it had always been far more important to Hannibal to be in the good graces of the cooks.  Being allowed to at least have a hand in preparing his own meals was possibly the one thing that made his stay at Eigengrau marginally bearable, so it was with great familiarity that he traced his way to the kitchens and backed through the doors.  It was empty inside, predictably (few people realized what an arsenal a kitchen could provide, and it wouldn’t be until later today that everyone began to realize that they had to eat), although the emergency lighting was sub-par.  Fortunately, Hannibal had worked in worse conditions… but usually only with corpses.

Will groaned as Hannibal set him down on a stainless steel table.  The older man was already going through his memories to recollect where everything he’d need was, and he spared only a moment to ensure that Will didn’t fall off the table in the meanwhile – a few steady strokes to Will’s forehead and softly murmured words of assurance did the trick.  Will subsided, still swallowing spasmodically as if he had a taste in his mouth he couldn’t get rid of.  Hannibal could constantly hear the faint noises of Will’s elbows and heels against the stainless steel as the man’s body continued its unhealthy shaking.  Fortunately, it didn’t take long for Hannibal to return with what he needed.

“Will, can you hear me?” he asked, mostly out of politeness.  He didn’t expect much of a response, and didn’t get one – Will was somewhere else, perhaps tucked deep within his own psyche, hiding from the wolves he’d called forth to fill his head.  Hannibal wondered if he could get Will to befriend those wolves, instead of fear them…  Putting that thought aside for the moment, Hannibal cupped Will’s head again, thumbing the smooth shell of his ear and then burying his fingers in damp, thick, black curls.  Hannibal had asked for a cooking brandy some weeks back, and was grateful that he had used only a small portion of what the cooks had graciously provided – because now he coaxed some of it into Will, needing him even more pliant than he was.

At first, Will coughed and rebelled against the idea of drinking the alcohol, showing that there was some fight in him yet.  His right arm didn’t seem to want to work properly, but his left one came up to grip Hannibal’s arm with surprising strength.  “Don’t fight me, Will,” Hannibal commanded flatly and calmly, persevering.  When he clenched his fingers in the hair at the back of Will’s head, that seemed to garner more of a response than words had, fortunately.  The Eigengrau profiler gasped and his grip faltered, and when next Hannibal pressed the bottle to his lips, Will swallowed.  

When Hannibal judged that Will had drunk enough for the alcohol to dull the pain, he put the cooking spirits aside and focused on the grimmer part of his task.  Cutting implements were sanitized – Hannibal always kept a clean kitchen, and when he was using someone else’s kitchen, he knew how to recreate that same level of surgical cleanliness – and Will’s jacket, then shirt, were cut swiftly away from his right arm and shoulder.  The bandage was likewise removed, all without hesitation or squeamishness, even as Will tossed his head uneasily.  Hannibal only spared a glance to watch Will’s response when the wound received its first prodding, checking for how much pain the younger man felt.  At the moment, Hannibal wasn’t entirely sure whether he cared or not how much he hurt Will – Agent 003 certainly never felt any remorse for causing anyone else pain – but he definitely cared whether pain made his patient difficult to handle.  Fortunately, besides the intermittent shivering and head movement, Will seemed very nearly unconscious, breath smelling strongly of Courvoisier.

Having determined that he could work unimpeded, Hannibal paused only for a moment more.  It felt… nice… to work on a living body for a change.  He still cut into living tissue from time to time, but the end result was always death, and that was not the case here.  Placing a hand to Will’s bare shoulder, redness smeared over a respectable musculature and pale skin, Hannibal felt a sense of reverence that he hadn’t in decades.

Will’s shoulder shivered beneath his hand, muscles tautening faintly, like the withers of an anxious horse, then relaxing.  Inviting.

Hannibal pressed the tip of the knife to Will’s skin to widen the wound and begin his hunt for the bullet.

~^~

Will was sleeping – really sleeping, not catatonic or in the throes of a fit.  Hannibal had gotten the gas cooker working (one of the few things still operational with the electricity off, after Hannibal found the matches to light the pilot), and the surrounding area was warming up slowly.  He’d found a stash of tablecloths rarely used, and had unfolded and laid them out as a pallet on the floor – just enough to insulate Will from the chilliness of the tile.  Will’s ruined coat and Hannibal's much more sophisticated jacket had gone over the profiler, and now Hannibal was sitting back in a metal folding chair and just watching.  If he stretched out a foot, the tip of his shoe could just touch Will’s left elbow.  Will’s right arm was secured across his chest in a sling, bandages made of teatowels hiding Hannibal’s good work.  Finding something to work as a needle had been harder than finding thread, but it had been a necessary inconvenience to keep the wound from gaping.

Hannibal rolled the retrieved bullet around in his hand and listened to Will breath, steady and slow.

The words from the intercom were coming back to him, now that he had the leisure time to mull them over.  At the time they’d seemed monumentally unimportant, but now that this eminently intriguing young American was stabilized, Hannibal was pondering what the Quartermaster had said.  Like all agents, Hannibal yearned for freedom again, but he wanted it on his own terms.  It was good to know that C’s offer, at least, had strings attached.  Hannibal would have to find his own way out then.

He wondered, idly, if Will would help him.  Even the most selfish people felt a basic sensation of obligation to repay a person for saving their life – and while Hannibal had only stood back and watched while Will fought for his life, Will didn’t know that.  And even so, Hannibal had stepped in when it counted.  Will had been bleeding, in shock, and essentially helpless when Hannibal had stepped in, and now the intriguing young man was cleaned of the worst of the blood, patched up with great skill given the circumstances, and slowly warming up.

Even if Will wasn’t in any condition to be useful when he woke up, Hannibal knew that he’d have to keep Will alive.  It was a fact that had sprung up like a pillar within his mind, as firm as granite.  It was as simple as this: in Will, Hannibal had seen something awe-inspiring, and the thought of losing the opportunity to understand it was unbearable.  Hannibal did a surprisingly large number of things in his life purely because he was curious to see what would happen, but never had he found his curiosity so fully entangled with a whole person.  He wasn’t just interested in seeing how Will would react to certain stimuli in certain situations – he was interested in all of him.

The question was: What was more important?  Escaping Eigengrau to hunt freely again… or following this new and brilliant star that had just appeared, even if it meant living in chains a bit longer?

Hannibal leaned forward, quietly brushing one last bead of blood from Will’s split lip as it escaped.  As the older man sat back, still thoughtful, he brought the droplet of redness to his mouth, sucking it off as if the copper taste might contain the answers he needed.  Oracles and gods alike divined their best answers from the blood of others, and as Hannibal sat in the dark, he considered all that C had said, and all that the Quartermaster had said, and all that he’d seen Will do in the heat of battle.

~^~

As Ianto had expected, things were really starting to get out of hand.  The leader of their group, Moran, was struggling to keep everyone from turning on each other – or him – and was only managing it because he was a truly fearsome individual when his ire was roused.  Moran was build tall and lean, but while he wasn’t the most powerful-looking man in the room, he had a calm deadliness to his eyes that had intensified with intent now that people were threatening him.  The first person to take a swing at Moran found out that there was no bluff in that look either: Moran moved with a speed that Ianto hadn’t even seen from most Hounds, and in just seconds the would-be mutineer was face-down on the floor with his arm hyperextended behind him.  Moran, teeth bared, looked everyone in the eye… and calmly dislocated the arm, not even twitching at the scream he elicited.  Moran’s lips settled back over his teeth again like an alpha wolf realizing that it was regaining the proper respect, but everyone was still itching for a fight.  The Quartermaster’s words had made them question everything, and Moran’s answers and reassurances weren’t satisfying them.

What made matters worse was that some of them were starting to eye Ianto, too.  No one was sure who the enemy was anymore, but they could still sense the most vulnerable person in the room.

With that in mind, it seemed like a stellar idea at the time to bolt for the door at the same second everyone started circling up around Moran again.  “Ian-!” he heard Jack bark in surprise behind him, and he wasn’t sure if Harkness was legitimately using the fake name or if it was just a coincidence that he cut off at the right time.  Either way, Ianto wasn’t waiting to find out, because he was a decent runner, and the way to the door was probably never going to be clear again-

He was tripped in the doorway, seeing the slender foot and ankle appear at the last second but unable to get his limbs coordinated in time to jump them.  Ianto was fast – but he was not always massively adroit.  Landing face-first on the floor, he barely managed to break his fall, and all the wind was knocked clean out of him.  Dazed, he didn’t even have it in him to groan for a few moments, and he only distantly heard footsteps walking up to him.  Fingers gripped his hair, and he choked out a little noise of winded discomfort.

Above him, Root spoke, “My, my, but everyone is jumpy today.”  Her voice was pleasant, but it still made Ianto’s attempts to breathe halt in his chest.  Fear made a spasming fist around his heart.  Root knew who he was, just like Harkness did, but while the latter hadn’t given him away, Ianto doubted that he’d be so lucky with Agent 009.  Her attention, however, appeared to be focused on the room behind him, and Ianto had a moment to consider how bad the lighting was, and that he’d faceplanted before he could see Root – and possibly before she could really see him in return.  “Are you guys not getting along?” she chided in motherly tones, even as her fingers traveled unexpectedly from Ianto’s hair down the side of his face, hooking like warm claws under his chin.  With that grip, she levered his head up painfully, and Ianto found the air to grunt as the strain on his neck swiftly became unbearable.  It was at that point, however, that he was able to look over and see that Root was squatting next to him with her head turned completely away.  She only had eyes for the room; she’d dismissed him as beneath her notice, and he’d never been so happy in his life to be nonthreatening.  Ianto couldn’t see far enough to figure out what else was happening, though, and Root leaned one knee forward on the back of his arm before he could push himself up to relieve the tension on his neck.

Seb – Moran – answered in a voice that did little to hide its irritation, “What are you doing here, Root?”

“That’s hardly any way to treat an ally,” Root purred chidingly, and Ianto imagined the reaction: everything behind him was dead quiet, and it was probably because Root was fucking scary, and she was subtly reminding everyone that she was on Moran’s side.  Many people kind of forgot that agents like Harkness – with his smiles and goofy banter – were lethally dangerous, but no one forgot that Root was.  She reminded them too often.  “But fine, if you must know, you were on my way.  I was trying to track down the Quartermaster, and I was able to pinpoint where he used the intercom.”

“If you know where he was last, then you’d better get going,” Harkness broke in unexpectedly, in that emotionlessly flat voice that made Ianto’s breath catch again.  When Harkness sounded calm was the time to get scared.  The man could laugh in the face of danger, yes, but when he was taking the situation seriously it meant that things were on a whole different threat-level with him.  He sounded like the kind of predator that stalked quietly in the shadows.  “You can bet he’s not going to stay put long, if he’s smart.”

Root tipped Ianto’s head back further, until there were tears in his eyes.  “Jack, so nice to see you having an opinion,” she said in a voice that indicated quite the opposite, and gave no indication whatsoever that she was slowly hyperextending the neck of her prey, “You should really stick to talking about just what you know.  Like sexual advice.”

“Good to know that I’m appreciated,” Jack joked back in typical Jack-style, although there was still something stiff and serrated in his voice.  Ianto tried not to whimper, knowing that the only way to possibly make this situation worse would be to draw attention to himself.  True, Root was entirely capable of snapping his neck without ever bothering to find out who he was, but if she realized that he was Ianto Jones, M’s secretary, she’d play with her food first.

While Ianto was becoming increasingly fond of the idea of a quick execution, heavier footsteps strode his way, and it wasn’t until he heard the voice that he realized it was Harkness.  “Here – let me take that.  This one’s mine, and people are always telling me not leave my things lying around.”

Jack must have been turning on the charm, or else Root really was in a bit of a hurry to get going again, because the next set of fingers that fisted in Ianto’s hair felt larger – and, ironically enough, more familiar.  Root let go even as Jack hauled Ianto up painfully by the hair, forcing Ianto to stumble forward even as he scrambled to gain his feet.  Only in hindsight did Ianto realize that that movement deftly dragged him away from Root, making sure he never turned to face her as he rose.  It was all extremely well choreographed, and Ianto got a better appreciation of the fact that Jack Harkness was actually a far more tactful, skilled individual than most gave him credit for.  The hand in his hair switched to his nape, unfortunately, before Ianto could completely catch his balance and straighten – meaning that Ianto ended up tripping to a halt at Jack’s side, facing away from Root, but with the hand on his nape forcing him to stay bent over with his arse to everyone.  ‘Humiliating’ was a pretty apt word for it, but Ianto couldn’t think of any good way to fight Harkness’s hold without also risking Root’s dangerous attention.  Plus, Jack’s big hand was like a vice, and suddenly Ianto felt a lot more sympathy for all of the Hounds with their collars.

Surprisingly, it was Moran who inadvertently saved the day, saying with boredom and impatience warring in his voice, “Harkness picked up a pet on the way here – leave him be.”

“It’s cute how you think you can give me orders,” Root replied, and it was pretty clear at that point that her attention had shifted.  Her voice sounded like sharp steel beneath thin silk.

“You know what’s not cute?” Moran shot back, clearly irked now, “You saying you know where the Quartermaster is, but wasting time here.  Or were you just making up stories for us?”

While the argument got more catty, Ianto felt a tug on his neck, and felt Jack’s other hand fall on his upper arm.  “Come on,” the agent whispered, and then he was turning and quietly hustling Ianto out of view.  They didn’t go back down the hall they’d entered by, but instead detoured into a small room that turned out to be a supply-closet.  Ianto immediately struggled, and this time was gratified to be turned loose – even if he couldn’t get very far.  Still, Ianto immediately retreated to the far end of the compact room, eyes darting around until he spied a likely weapon in the dimness.  It turned out to be a mop, but he still brandished it stubbornly.  

Jack, blocking the closed door, raised both hands unthreateningly.  “Easy there, Ianto.  Just calm down.”

“Or what?  You’ll threaten to fuck me raw?” Ianto shot back harshly, and just barely kept his voice down below a bellow.  He truly was capable of being very loud when he wanted to be, and Jack was already trying to frantically hush him.

“Dammit, Jones, do you want everyone hearing you?!”

All of the fear from the past hours turning to venom in his mouth, Ianto lowered his volume but still hissed back with low, rumbling precision, “They’ll just think you’re using me.  Your bloody pet.”  When Jack, expression embarrassed and pained, took a step forward and kept making placating gestures, Ianto snapped, “No!  You stay right where you are!”

“Ianto, stop it.  You know me-”

“No, I don’t!  You’re with them, Jack, and you’ve taken me hostage, for Christ-sake.”

Jack’s expression was getting more and more awkwardly strained, but he tried to take another step forward again, only to have Ianto nearly nail him with the mop.  “It’s not what it seems like, okay?” Harkness tried weakly as he dodged, glancing nervously at the door but then focusing back on Ianto when the other man took another swing at him with the mop.  “Dammit-!  Look, Ianto, I was doing what I had to do!” he finally snarled with a bit less embarrassment and a bit more frustration in his voice.

If Jack was frustrated, then that still didn’t put him anywhere near to understanding Ianto – because the Welshman was bloody fucking furious.  And scared.  And confused.  “You dragged me through that whole pack of bastards like some kind of prize-winning bitch – and I’m going to have bruises on my arms!”  Ianto had meant his voice to be full of anger, but somehow his fear was getting through.  It must have been showing more on his face, too, because Jack dropped his hands and looked shocked – and regretful.  That only made it worse, and Ianto found the mop vibrating in his hands, suddenly unsteady.  The Welshman backed up without consciously telling his legs to move, until his body was hugging the shadows, seeking the comfort of walls at his back.  “What’s worse, I keep having to hear everyone talking about me like I’m a cheap whore who’s going to get it any minute – and that’s when I’m not fucking terrified that someone will find out who I really am.”

“No one knows your real identity-” Jack tried.

“You do,” Ianto squeaked, embarrassed by how his voice rose and cracked, but at this point there really was no more hiding his fear.  He was as petrified and lost as a baby bird fallen out of the nest too early – he had no proper feathers with which to fly away, and while he technically had beak and claws, they were hardly weapons to boast about when compared to the predators he was now in the thick of.    

For a moment there was silence except for Ianto breathing too quickly and too loudly, and then Jack’s soft, slow sigh as something deeply sad came over his expression.  Harkness had two settings, Ianto had realized: either he was an open book, his face a font of a million emotions, or he was as unreadable as a statue.  He’d been largely unreadable ever since Ianto had been captured, and Ianto had begun to fear that that was Harkness’s normal face – that everything else was a fancy mask to hide the monster underneath.  Now, though, Jack’s sympathy and apology were so clear to read even in the dimness that Ianto found his reserve melting.  He made a little whine in his throat, suddenly wanting nothing more than for Jack to just gather him in and hug the breath out of him.  “Jack,” he said, very soft and pleading, “please tell me this is going to be all right.”

Pain swept across Jack’s face, visceral and deep.  Very solemnly – but very sincerely – he stated, “It’s going to be okay, Ianto.  You’re going to be okay.”  When Ianto just squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and shook his head, his mind still too pumped full of adrenaline to accept that, Jack went on more fervently, “I know what you heard, and I know what I had to say, but none of that was real, Ianto.  Do you hear me?”  He stepped closer, and this time when Ianto swung the mop at him, it was half-hearted, and Jack caught the makeshift stave easily in one hand.  Then he pushed it aside and stepped even closer, until Ianto was crowded against the wall and Jack’s broad chest and shoulders were filling his vision.  He wasn’t sure whether they made him feel safe or terrified at this moment.

Face in absolute shadow but voice low and painfully familiar – and gentle as a caress – Jack finished, “I won’t let anyone hurt you.  Not anyone.”  Strength was filling his voice, so that even though the volume remained unchanged, it was like hearing the protective rumbles of a mother bear for her cub as Jack went on, “Those jackasses can say whatever they like, but if anyone had tried to lay a hand on you, I’d have snapped it off at the shoulder, no hesitation.”  By this point, Ianto knew that he was hearing the truth, because this was undeniably Jack Harkness: this was all of the merciless lethality that had got him thrown into Eigengrau, the callousness that gave him a dangerously high Psychopass – but this was also the caring warmth that had gentled Ianto through a climax, and then stayed with him even when they were done fooling around and were just lazing around in bed.  There was no need to try and figure out if this was the ‘real’ Harkness or not, or if he was hiding behind a façade, because Ianto was seeing all of him now.

They were chest to chest, both breathing a little bit fast.  Ianto was still terrified out of his mind, and frustrated by his own inability to get over that terror, but he was having a harder and harder time resisting the urge to just fall into Jack.  And, of course, then Jack had to lean his head in until their foreheads almost brushed, and say softly, “Can you trust me on that?”

Ianto tried to control the fine tremor in his limbs.  He tried to keep it out of his voice, too, even as he watched the words as they were formed on Jack’s lips.  “I kind of want to punch you,” he admitted instead of answering.

Those lips formed a quirky smile.  “I get that a lot.”

“And if you ever try to use ‘pet’ as a cute nickname – ever – I’m going to knock you head over arse.”

“You know, those lovely Welsh vowels of yours somehow make even that sound kind of sexy-”

“Oh, shut up,” Ianto groaned, and leaned forward in a desperate surge, catching Jack’s mouth with his.  In their past encounters, it was usually – no, always – Jack who started things.  Jack who had first started coming on to Ianto, starting with compliments about how he looked in his tight trousers and neat vests and ending with veritable sonnets about his ‘Welsh vowels’.  Jack who had slowly wheedled his way past Ianto’s defenses and into the secretary’s good graces, and eventually managed to steal a kiss or two without getting slapped.  Jack didn’t take without permission, but he definitely was determined to get that permission.  Almost before Ianto knew it, he was doing something he hadn’t done since Lisa, and most certainly had never done with a man: sex, hot and hurried in the rarely used west-wing locker-room.  It should have been awkward and uncomfortable, but Jack had made it good, and Ianto hadn’t quite regretted it enough to refuse to do it again three days later (this time on an actual bed).  Jack was a shameless flirt and everyone knew it, and it was also well known that he slept with anyone and everyone, so Ianto hadn’t really thought much of it beyond the sex.  Which was incredible.

But then some of those nights had ended up lasting longer, ending sweeter.  Bodies lingering in beds, fingers trailing down sweat-damp sides long after the orgasms had faded to a happy hot buzz.  And finally had come the morning when Ianto woke up and Jack was still in bed with him, and he’d realized that there was something more going on here than just repeated convenient fucking.

Now, Ianto felt like all of the horror he’d been holding left him in a rush as Jack immediately kissed him back – determinedly, ferociously, Ianto’s back actually connecting with a little thud against the wall as the larger agent pressed against him like a wave on the beach.  The way Jack growled into the kiss even as Ianto sobbed a little bit in fading terror, the way Jack gripped him… that wasn’t the kind of thing that you did to a random fuck-buddy.  The kiss lasted only seconds, and when it ended, Ianto was indeed being crushed into a hug, feeling the safest he had since the day before with his chin hooked over Jack’s strong shoulder.  “It’s going to be okay, Ianto,” Jack said, as fierce as a hailstorm, “I promise.”

Finally feeling safe enough to take stock, to really think things through, Ianto circled his arms around Jack in return.  He wet his lips before saying, after a pause that he wished could last forever, “Before you go and make promises… I should probably tell you what I’ve got in my pocket.”  ‘A lump of technology that could potentially free you from that collar, and that a lot of people will probably kill me for,’ he finished fatalistically in his head.

Chapter Text

~^~

The Quartermaster’s gallant defense of M over the intercom might have done some good, but Gareth Mallory certainly wasn’t seeing any of that good, and he was running out of bullets.

Gareth had been in battle before, and had certainly done his fair share of shooting – he’d even killed people in the line of duty before, something that nowadays was considered very dangerous to one’s Psychopass, hence the use of Hounds to do Britain’s dirty work.  Since becoming M of Eigengrau, however, Gareth had gotten a bit out of practice, and he was cursing every second that he hadn’t spent either at the range or sparring with Merlin from Q-branch.  His latest shot hadn’t quite hit home, and now Mallory was down to three bullets in his clip, no refill of ammo, and just as many people on his tail as he’d had one shot ago.  Gareth’s grandfather, an avid hunter who’d grown up rough where you brought home a meal with every bullet or you got whipped, was no doubt writhing in his grave right now.

So far as M could tell, Q’s best intentions had gone nowhere.  Either everyone had been deaf to the intercom announcement, or no one had been logical enough to follow Q’s reasoning to a sensible end – or, at least, an end in which Gareth Mallory was alive in any way.  If there was anyone who’d taken Q’s advice to heart, Gareth hadn’t met them yet, and he was fairly certain that he’d be dead by the end of today.

Or worse: wishing he was dead.  Q had made it clear that he’d hold a grudge against anyone who harmed Eigengrau’s leader, but it was easier to forget that part, even for those who saw the usefulness in keeping the valuable information Mallory held intact.  Gareth was not particularly looking forward to finding out whether his training was still ingrained enough for him to keep his mouth shut under torture.

Skidding around a corner and down another hall, Gareth holstered his gun if only to make running a bit easier.  Hands free, he pumped them at his sides, already feeling the burning in his legs and lungs as his body reached for that next erg of speed.  If he could just get a bit further ahead in this bloody maze-!

A bullet winged off the wall just behind him.  Usually a very self-controlled man, Gareth decided that now was the perfect time to be a bit unprofessional, and yelled “Hell!” more or less at the top of his lungs.  It didn’t help at all, but it felt a bit nice, and if he was going to be shot soon, he wanted at least a tiny taste of happiness somewhere in his recent recollection.  He managed to pivot on his right foot as he made his next turn, spinning himself so that his back slapped against the wall around the corner.  He immediately had his gun drawn, and wasted only two exact heartbeats bracing himself before he twisted just enough to get off a shot back the way he’d just come.  This time, there was the choked off scream of someone getting a hole put in them.  Mallory bared his teeth in a very uncouth snarl and gave vent to a celebratory noise before he realized that he now had two bullets left, and could hear more than two people thundering down the hall after him.  “I am so fucking done with this shit,” he grumbled resignedly, then took off running again.

He’d been on the move basically since he’d split off from Ianto Jones yesterday night, which already felt like a lifetime ago.  Maybe he’d have been able to hide out somewhere, but since he’d started by basically baiting the enemy, he’d lost his opportunity to find a nice safe anonymous hole to hide in, and now he was almost wishing he had hid.  True, he’d wanted to give Jones a head start, but it was harder to think selfless thoughts now that he’d been awake for nearly fifteen hours and his body was screaming for rest, water, and food all at once.  The literal highlight of his day had been three hours ago when he’d found enough peace and quiet to take a piss and then fall into one of the shallowest sleeps of his life.  His watch said that he’d only been asleep for a paltry thirty minutes before he heard a door being kicked in, and then he had to move again.  It was almost pathetic how much he hated his watch now for only telling the time.

Dehydration was getting to him; the next turn saw him slewing into the far wall, and for a moment his vision got a bit hazy.  He’d trained in some pretty horrific conditions back in the day, but having his own body giving out on him never ceased to be frustrating and terrifying.  Blinking hard and shaking his head, Mallory took off again, only to have to stop, turn around, and fire off another shot to keep his pursuers back.  One more bullet left.  At least he’d heard a body drop with his penultimate bullet, before circumstances had necessitated he start moving again.  He was in a pretty empty part of Eigengrau now, far from any employee living quarters, but he’d taken a few turns he hadn’t meant to, and he had the sickening sense that he’d actually turned more towards…

The Hounds’ sleeping quarters.  A broad-shouldered figure stepped out of the shadows ahead of Mallory, cutting off that direction of escape.  Even if Mallory hadn’t realized where he was (the Hounds' designated quarters were spread out into four ‘blocks,’ because keeping them all bunched together led to homicide, and this was Block A), he’d have recognized the dull glint of the emergency lighting off the metal of a collar.  “Damn,” Mallory gasped, skidding to a halt that made his legs scream with the effort.  This wasn’t a small agent either – not that the smaller ones were any less dangerous, but Mallory didn’t like his chances against the broad-shouldered silhouette ahead of him.  Using some of the momentum still tugging at his body, Mallory let his gun swing forward, squeezing off a bullet almost before he’d gotten it lined up.  Mallory immediately cursed his hurry, but despite rushing, he would have hit his target had not the man lunged to the side with almost impossible speed.  One of the older Hounds then; newer high-Pass agents simply weren’t that fast.  Mallory felt his chances sinking right down to his shoes even as he lifted and aimed again more carefully, while the target ahead of him was still recovering his footing.

But when Mallory pulled the trigger, all he got was a hollow click.  He looked at the weapon stupidly for a moment, before finally sighing, “Well, shit.”

There were still more footsteps catching up like a hailstorm behind him, but surprisingly, the figure ahead hadn’t pressed the attack.  “You’re out of bullets.”  Trevelyan’s voice; usually, 006 was as jovial as a fox in a henhouse, but right now he sounded only mildly wry.

“I might have another clip,” Mallory pointed out, already trying – and failing – to think of a good way out of this.  He suddenly wasn’t sure which option he preferred: death at the hands of the hooligans behind him, who were mostly random traitors and a few very green Hounds – or death at the hands of 006, who had at one point in his history taken three days to kill a man.

He wasn’t prepared, however, for Alec’s body to turn broadside to him, as if preparing to run the other way.  “If you’ve got another clip, then you’d better bloody load it – or do you plan to use that gun as a blunt-force instrument on those bastards behind you?” Alec barked.  When Mallory didn’t immediately reload (pretty much answering the question), the high-Pass agent further surprised M by beckoning and growing more commanding, “Get your arse in gear, Mallory!”

Clearly, Trevelyan meant for Gareth to follow him, and while that sounded like possibly the most ludicrous thing M had ever heard… he also wasn’t spoiled for choice.  When the roaring of voices behind him abruptly intensified with nearness, Mallory’s legs moved on impulse, and he found himself running in 006’s direction.  He was still smart enough to brace himself for a surprise attack, but before he had even drawn close enough for Trevelyan to try something, the agent – with an approving nod – had taken off, too, leading the way.

“Why the… hell…” Mallory panted, “…are you-?”

Alec turned his head, grinning roguishly as he interrupted teasingly, “Were you asleep when Q gave his little speech, Mallory?”

The agent was definitely fresher than Mallory was, and it was an effort to keep up with him, but Mallory was a tough man.  Dragging in air in steady but greedy mouthfuls, he still managed to get out between breaths, “No…  Just surprised… that you gave a damn.”

Abruptly slowing so that he dropped back to Mallory’s side, Alec gave the other man’s shoulder a push, sending them both turning sharply down a narrow corridor that Mallory hadn’t seen.  He didn’t know this part of the building very well – but obviously Alec did.  Then again, Alec lived on Block A.  “Well, I don’t know if I give a damn about you personally,” Alec allowed, as if he were admitting to nothing so much as preferring cherries over strawberries on his ice-cream, “but Q gave a pretty good argument, so I figured, what the hell?  I can always kill you later if things don’t work out.”

“How… reassuring.”

“Glad you think so,” Alec replied cheerily, and pulled ahead again.

Alec was a good three paces ahead when Mallory was suddenly blindsided by a person juggernauting out of an adjoining room, but the head of Eigengrau had barely crashed into the floor before he felt the weight ripped off him.  He lay on his back and panted, momentarily just watching as Alec dragged off a young collared woman and quietly incapacitated her with a precise blow to her jaw.  Her head snapped back and she went limp, still breathing.  Alec dropped her and then ambled back over to Mallory as if nothing had happened, extending a hand down to him.  Gareth eyed the hand warily, then eyed the smiling face it was attached to just as warily, before also reading the challenge in Trevelyan’s green eyes.  “Break a leg there, Mallory?” Alec teased, in a tone that said, ‘Are you really too cowardly to take my hand?’

In response, Gareth glared a little and swept an arm up to clasp Alec’s forearm.  It was nice to have assistance getting to his feet, 006’s strength making up for the exhaustion in M’s legs.  M looked warily at the younger Hound who had just attacked him, and then asked steadily, “Did you know that she was there?”

“I might have,” Alec shrugged, “But going in after her felt like a waste of time.  Much easier to draw her out with good bait.”  Trevelyan had the audacity to clap Mallory on the shoulder, to which the ‘bait’ in question raised two displeased eyebrows.

“How did you know she wasn’t armed?” Gareth pressed, even as Trevelyan got moving again and he followed.  They must have lost their pursuit with that last turn, as the hubbub behind them was dying away.

“I didn’t,” the high-Pass agent tossed back blithely, then looked back and winked, “But I figured that if you couldn’t handle yourself for at the three seconds it took me to get to you, then you don’t deserve to be head of Eigengrau.”

The pace they were setting was much more manageable: a steady lope instead of an all-out sprint.  It made it easier to catch his breath, but Gareth still didn’t answer for a long moment, and when he did it was to say in a deadpan voice, “I’m starting to see why Harkness likes you.”

Alec chuckled throatily.

Gareth went on, sincerely bemused, “And I’m starting to wonder how Bond hasn’t shot you in the face yet.”

Alec’s laughter became louder, and either the agent knew that no one was near enough to hear and hone in on the sound – or he knew that anyone with half a brain would hear him laughing and run the other way.  Alec was a smug bastard, quick with a smile and prone to joking, but that was just a case of some very good sheep’s clothing over a very dangerous wolf.

~^~

“I don’t know if they’re happy with me,” Eggsy grunted, looking down at his phone after the conversation he’d just had, “but they believe me.”  He turned it off, slipped the mobile back into a pocket, and turned back to Agent 005.  “And we’re in luck – they’re not to the chopper yet, save a skeleton crew that’s keeping the place secure.  The Quartermaster’s talk has made a right mess of things, though, and the main group has been running into a bit of trouble.”

Hart had been leaning against the wall behind him with no particular expression whatsoever on his face.  Now, it cracked into a pleased smile.  That smile – always so small and brief – was starting to do things to Eggsy, to say nothing about Harry’s occasional compliments.  “I’d imagined that would be the case.  That was well done, Eggsy.”

Perhaps in an effort to deflect the sincerity in Harry’s tone, Eggsy teased back wryly, “You’re congratulating me on lying, you know.  That’s supposed to be a bad thing, innit?”

“Not in my world,” Harry corrected him lightly, pushing away from the wall and clasping Eggsy’s shoulder briefly as he walked past him.  It felt natural to pivot and follow, something in Harry’s determined, unhesitant stride magnetizing.

Eggsy’s first call to Moran hadn’t actually got through – only on the second try did the man answer, and that in and of itself was proof that things weren’t going quite as planned for C and his men.  Moran had sounded much like he usually did, but Eggsy, who was familiar with how unflappable the assassin was, could pick out the little shifts in Moran’s voice.  “I think Moran’s scared,” Eggsy opined after they’d walked in silence for a stretch, headed for Eggsy’s helicopter.  He’d told Harry how he’d disabled the rest (while another operative had done the same with the boats), and while Eggsy felt frustrated and guilty about it, Harry had accepted that information without surprise or judgment.  Eggsy wrinkled his nose and amended, “Or at close to scared as that lizard gets.”

“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Moran.  What’s he like?” Harry asked, seemingly idly.

Huffing out a breath and then casting back in his memory, Eggsy began to describe haltingly, “He’s like…  Well, he’s a right bastard for one, just in general.”  That didn’t seem very specific, and Harry had flicked an expectant glance his way, so Eggsy tried for more pertinent details, “He’s fast and quick – a fighter with more than just training.  He’s got experience.  And he’s one cold sonofabitch.”

“Language,” Harry said like it was a reflex.

Eggsy briefly considered telling Harry that he could just go stuff his ‘language’ where the sun didn’t shine, but figured that it wouldn’t do to get into an argument with a man who could take him out… but who was choosing to help him out instead.  So Eggsy went back to his description and did, indeed, try to lean more towards Harry’s kind of speaking, “I can see why Moran is C’s second-in-command, and even if he had a gun pointed to his head, I don’t think that he’d break or do anything stupid.  I saw him in a few fights, and it was scary stuff, but always quick.”

“He doesn’t drag out a fight just for the sake of it?”

“Nope,” Eggsy concurred, then seemed to hit upon a realization.  It was as if he’d walked right up to it, but somehow hadn’t seen it until he was right on top of it, so he said with quiet surprise, “He’s high-Pass, isn’t he?”

Harry looked to be biting the inside of his cheek, thoughtful and frowning, and he didn’t respond right away.  When he did, however, he looked troubled.  But he also nodded.  “Before you and I had our initial altercation in the hallway, I listened in to your discussion with Moran, and drew a few conclusions myself, but I didn’t have enough information.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Eggsy shook his head, trotting a little to catch up when Harry’s slightly longer strides pulled him ahead.  Eggsy wanted to see the older man’s face, which was now subtly twisted with unease.  “Sybil’s supposed to catch all of you lot.  No offense.”

“No offense taken,” Harry brushed that aside easily, eyes still focused ahead of them.  At first, Eggsy thought they were looking at the middle distance, but then he noted the way that they were always roving – checking out every little detail of what was ahead of them.  Belatedly Eggsy realized that he should be doing the same, and with an embarrassed flush he got himself to focus – he turned to watch behind them a bit more, trusting his peripheral vision of Harry to keep him from walking into things despite his frequent backward glances.  When he did glance forward next, he saw Harry looking back at him out of the corner of one eye.  There was a look of approval on the older man’s face.

“I don’t have an explanation for Moran,” Harry went on, “but I find it hard to believe that even C himself has a Psychopass below one-hundred.  You can’t instigate a situation like this without being high-Pass, not with all of the opportunity for killing that C has expressly created and encouraged.  By all rights, Sybil should have noticed.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy agreed, but couldn’t add anything to that.  It pretty much summed up his thoughts.  He did add, however, after another sweeping glance revealed nothing on their tail, “I think Moran deserves to be here more than you do.”

Harry didn’t answer, but Eggsy thought he saw the man miss a step before recovering like a cat.

~^~

Q and Bond were back in the rec-room where James had first offered to be dangerous not to Q – but for Q.  They’d both realized that it was wisest if they kept moving, even if they had a lot of things to discuss, and even now that they’d stopped running, their debate was continuing at a rapid pace.  Ostensibly, they’d stopped so that they could rehydrate and conserve their strength a little, but in reality they didn’t want their arguing to make them miss something dangerous.  Here, in the rec-room, James was able to block off the doors and make the place defensible, allowing them to bicker back and forth without distractions.

How were they to reconcile their two views?  Q wanted to keep people safe from killers and terrorists; James wanted to be free.  Both of them wanted human beings to be treated as human beings, though, and they both agreed that a collar with a kill-switch wasn’t that.  But what about Smartblood?  Where did necessity and privacy intersect and destroy one another?

The discussion reached a lull and Q sat back against the mirror from earlier, sipping pensively from a water-bottle and marveling at the fact that they were still talking.  After all, 007 was capable of getting his points across a lot more physically if he wanted to, yet there the man was: sitting across from Q, a body’s-length away, doing nothing but wait for Q to drink his fill and pick up the argument again.  He wore the look of a man who was patient enough to wait for the answer he wanted – an ambush predator, capable of remaining motionless for hours until something he wanted walked within reach.  Q was determined to outlast him, but he nonetheless marveled at the fact that James hadn’t resorted to violence to force Q’s agreement.  Q was a great debater, but he wouldn’t have lasted long against Bond’s arsenal of fists and guns and knives.  The agent was well-armed now, having scavenged what he needed before they left the guard station.  Two guns holstered on either side of his ribcage; two knives that Q could see, stuck through Bond’s belt; probably more knives that Q couldn’t see, well concealed.  It was eerie to realize how dangerous James was, and yet to see him playing so docilely.

“Do you believe that I’ll start murdering people as soon as I escape Eigengrau?” James asked, out of the blue.  His tone was calm and considerate, neither challenging nor angry.  The blue of his eyes may as well have been the unbroken shell of a summer sky.

“No,” Q replied, only realizing that he believed it after he’d said it.  He frowned at the impulsive nature of his own mouth and then explained, “But I’ve only known you for a short while.”

“And what do you think of me?”

“That you’re dangerous, but that you follow a code.”

“And does that code make me more or less dangerous?”

“Both,” was the answer that fell naturally off Q’s tongue.  He saw interest flicker in 007’s eyes before it was expertly hidden away, like everything else.  James bent one knee up so that he could clasp his rugged, scarred hands around it, looking relaxed but interested.

Realizing that he was close to admitting that, no, he didn’t think 007 was as dangerous to society as people thought he was, Q changed tactics and said, “I have to worry about more than just you.  If I let you get away, what about the others?  What about Root?  What about Hart?  What about Hannibal?  Hell, Hannibal has a code, too – but they tell me that his code allows for him to kill and eat rude people.”

James, of course, had an answer to that, capturing Q in the blue of his eyes and holding him there while his words slipped in like a stiletto through the ribs of Q’s argument, “What about Sherlock?”

“Don’t bring him into this,” Q bristled.

“He’s already in this, Q.  Literally.”

Making a sound of hurt frustration, Q turned his head away, pressing his lips together lest something stupid come out.  It didn’t help that his wounds were beginning to ache, a sensation that he’d pushed to the back of his mind while they were moving, but now was crowding forward again for his attention.  Q wanted an answer to all of this so badly – it wasn’t even that he opposed everything that James was saying, and now his pain and his frustration combined, making it suddenly very tempting to cry.  Q drew up his knees even though it made his torso hurt, folding his arms atop them.  “This would be easier if I despised you,” Q found himself saying miserably, proof positive that he shouldn’t have let his mouth open.  Only a bit later did he realize that he was talking into the jacket that he’d borrowed from James, which still smelled like the agent, was still warm like him.  It only confused Q further.

Surprisingly, instead of answering, James paused a moment in silence and then stood.  Q fancied that the agent walked with the same careful slowness of a rancher approaching a yearling foal, not quite broken and still quite skittish.  Q didn’t have it in him to move away even as James dropped down into a crouch at his side, and put a hand on Q’s right shoulder.  The man’s eyes were surprisingly understanding, and when he spoke he sounded almost sympathetic, “No, it wouldn’t.  If you despised me, I’d have killed you by now.”

Maybe ‘sympathetic’ was the wrong word…  “Has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner is absolutely appalling?”

“Most people are more interested in my manner in bed than beside it,” James sallied back, but fortunately didn’t seem interested in pursuing the sexual innuendo.  He tapped Q’s shoulder lightly.  “You need more pain-meds, and I need to look at your shoulder again to make sure you’re not getting an infection.”

Q remained with the lower half of his face pressed against his arms, looking moodily forward.  His stomach was starting to realize that all Q had given it was water, and he could feel it gnawing at him, making him petty, so he mumbled into his borrowed sleeves, “I should refuse to cooperate, just to be an arse.  It would be well-deserved payback for all the times you’ve been an arse.”

“I’m amused by the fact that you think your cooperation is necessary,” James replied with just the thinnest edge of threat in his otherwise pleasant voice, proving that he was getting a bit annoyed.  Despite that, however, he didn’t make any forceful overtures when Q didn’t move.  Suddenly morbidly (or perhaps suicidally) curious, Q continued to hold his position, for all the world pretending that there wasn’t a killer crouched to his right, even though the entirety of Q’s senses were focused on exactly that.  When, after nearly a minute, 007’s hand moved, Q immediately went as tense as a piano wire in preparation for expected trouble – but all that James did was burrow his fingers in the hair at the back of Q’s head, not even gripping but instead carding through.  What tugs there were to Q’s scalp were gentle.  Almost pleasant.

After three such caresses, James cocked his head and asked, calmly, “Do you want me to force you?”

‘That’s a stupid question,’ Q meant to scoff, but somehow he opened his mouth, sucked in a breath… and then closed his mouth again, for reasons he didn’t understand.  “Everything already feels like it’s happening without my permission,” he said instead, after a pause.  He wasn’t sure if it was hunger making him maudlin, or the pain making him unreasonable, or the steady pressure of fear up until now making him reckless.  Either way, he found that his fear of 007 was ebbing, and he… and he didn’t know what was rising to fill its place.

James’s head tilted slightly, considering, and his eyes continued to watch the movements of his own hand as it spread fingers through Q’s thick dark hair once again.  “You can control this,” he said after a beat, “You choose whether or not to give me control.  I don’t want to take it.”

The only reason Q twisted his head to look was because that last sentence struck him as unexpectedly sincere.  It wasn’t fervent, or overemphasized like a salesman trying too hard to dress up a lie and make it pretty.  Instead, it was said with the same factual manner that Bond had used to describe his own nature: ‘I’m a Hound, I’m good at violence, and I don’t want to take control away from you.’  When Q’s surprised, incredulous gaze sought Bond’s eyes, the agent’s blue gaze met his frankly and without reservation, reflecting nothing more or less than what Q had heard in his voice.  Bond meant what he said, strange as it seemed.

Q’s throat was suddenly a bit dry.  He opened his mouth to wet his lips, and was exquisitely aware of how 007 unabashedly watched the path of his tongue.  “How-?”  Q started, stopped, then forced himself to start again and this time keep going before he could think better of it, “How would that work?”

“You have your skills, I have mine.  I let you use your skills earlier today, and didn’t interfere,” James seemed happy to explain, although his voice got a bit lower and huskier as he let his palm span the back of Q’s skull, thumb pressing behind Q’s ear and massaging away the budding point of a headache that Q had almost not noticed, “Now, you could let me use my skills – without interfering.”

Q didn’t know what he was getting into, but he desperately wanted an excuse to detach himself from everything.  He felt like a rock-climber that had been clinging to a cliff-face for hours, and he wanted to let go without plummeting to his death.  When he’d spoken to everyone over the intercom, he’d taken responsibility for so much more than he’d planned to, and it was starting to sink in like acid through bone.  Bond, it seemed, was promising temporary relief.  

Eyes fluttering briefly closed, Q sank into the warmth of Bond’s hand for a moment before recalling that that same hand had killed Raoul Silva just hours ago.  Q’s eyes snapped open, and he tried to collect at least some modicum of common sense… even if he refused to back away entirely.  “Will you stop if I say no?” he demanded.  His voice had gotten thin and breathy without him noticing.

“Did I listen to your hand on my throat last night?”

Q rolled a gimlet look James’s way, partially because the reminder made his stomach do funny things that had nothing to do with hunger (at least not the kind of hunger fed by food), and partially because the man refused to give straight answers.  “Stop answering questions with questions.”

“Fine.”  Bond rolled his eyes, but his mouth was starting to curl upwards at the sides.  “Yes.  If I wanted to railroad you entirely, I wouldn’t be asking to do it – I’d have done it already.  So I’ll listen if you tell me to stop.” The forthrightness was strangely refreshing, and once again Q was struck by how juxtaposed different parts of 007 were: he could be as cagy and shady as hell, or he could say absolutely everything as if reading from the book of his mind, no redactions.  Q was still pondering that when James’s hand curled in the collar of his jacket, giving it a little tug.  “So – what’s your answer?”

“Tell me what you’ll do if I say yes.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” James admitted with a shrug, still exquisitely, unapologetically frank.  He did try, however, to elaborate after Q’s lips pursed and his eyebrows lowered pugnaciously, “I’ll check your shoulder, check your ribs.  Probably make you take twice as much of the painkillers, because that first dose obviously didn’t do its job.  I might sit still with you for another half-hour, just so I know you’ll be ready to move again when the time comes.”

It all sounded… so logical.  And so simple.  It forced Q to ask, “What do you get out of this?”

The answer came surprisingly quickly: “Control.”  Before Q could open his mouth to ask for clarification, James lifted a hand to tug back the neck of his own pullover.  The Hound’s collar, previously well hidden, glinted with a dull and evil gleam.  “Something that’s in rather short supply for me,” James finished with a completely humorless half-smile.

Somehow, that made the answer easy, as all of the pieces – what James wanted now, what James had been arguing about for the past hour – slotted into place.  “Okay then,” Q found himself whispering, finding a strange peace within the answer, “Yes.”

Chapter Text

~^~

Surprise flashed across 007’s face, then something akin to ravenousness; the changes to his expression were subtle, but it was like his eyes suddenly glowed with new life in the dimness.  Q found himself entranced in that freshly birthed fire.  Pleasantly lost, Q didn’t struggle when James reached around to grab both of his lapels, standing then and dragging Q inexorably up with him.  Already Q could feel how 007’s strength was taking all choice away – but at the same time, Q was aware in a giddy sort of way that he’d allowed this.  Asked for this, almost.  He had to admit, though, getting to his feet was a helluva lot easier with James taking the weight.  Q’s abused muscles barely protested.

Q’s breath caught in his throat as he found himself nearly standing on Bond’s toes, positioned close enough to the other man that he could feel his heat and memorize the way James's pullover stretched across his broad chest with every movement of muscle.  The nearness couldn’t be anything but intentional – the same went for the way James paused that way, just holding them suspended in stillness with Q resisting the urge to lift his eyes and see what look was on Bond’s face.

Moving on a schedule that only James knew, 007 suddenly moved them.  Q stumbled, but it didn’t seem to be 007’s intent to unbalance him, because the man’s grip never wavered and kept Q’s balance for him.  It was like moving with a dancer, and almost before he knew it, Q found a bench against the back of his knees as 007 forced him firmly down.  Speaking felt like blasphemy in a holy place, so he said nothing, only waited with a buzzing expectation as James stood in front of him like a god to pray to.

“Are you afraid of me, Q?” Bond asked with only mild curiosity in his voice, nothing more.  He stood with his hands at his sides, open and empty, feet braced apart as if for a fight – and suddenly Q wondered if James was always this way.  If Eigengrau had made him this way.

Tired, and sagging where he sat, Q tipped his head back slowly, eyes following the powerful, darkly-clad lines of Bond’s body.  Up his torso, along his breastbone, tanned neck to handsomely intense face.  “Yes,” Q answered quietly, then added, “But not enough.”

The flash of surprise came back, just for a heartbeat, this time mingling with sudden pleasure.

Because James Bond didn’t kneel – perhaps 007, Hound of Eigengrau did, but not the James Q was looking at in this moment – he dragged up another bench, sitting down right across from Q.  It put them on even footing again, but Q still felt somehow overwhelmed, if only by James’s tangible certainty as scarred hands reached forward.  They found either side of Q’s jacket-collar again, and this time James looked at it consideringly, cocking his head and smirking as he opined idly, “I rather like this on you.”  He pushed it back, so that it slid off Q’s shoulders, leaving the Quartermaster suddenly feeling the chill again.

Shivering, Q retorted cautiously, “Then why are you taking it off?”

James’s smirk grew, and the man leaned forward until Q felt the man’s stubbled jaw brush his cheek.  “Because I like it better off you.”  Q sucked in a breath, freezing, but thankfully James drew back; his smile was still cheeky, but it was cautious, too.  “I think there’s a lot I’d like better off you, but that’s a talk for another day.  Yes?”

Q’s voice shook, but he was able to answer as Bond withdrew, “Yes,” and the racing of his heart once again subsided to a more manageable level.  James was keeping him on edge – no doubt purposefully – but only as close to that edge as was exciting, not terrifying.

“Another day then,” Bond agreed, and Q let out a relieved sigh even as he allowed himself to be divested of the jacket entirely.  James’s hand next caught Q’s forearm, however, drawing it forward to show the bandaged left wrist.  He added more soberly, “Perhaps when you’re less damaged.”  Q wanted to protest against that, but he wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to say – perhaps that he wasn’t some piece of broken crockery, perhaps to correct Bond’s priorities and remind him that the real reason they shouldn’t have sex was because they were living in a horror movie.  It became a moot point, because James shushed him anyway.  Q subsided without a fight, curious again to see what would come next, and tolerated his hand in Bond’s.  The older man’s palm was rough and calloused, but warm and conscientious of the fine bones and joints it held.  Q watched with a mixture of fear and fascination as James slid one hand to grip Q’s elbow, the other remaining on Q’s hand, and in that fashion gently tested Q’s range of motion.  Q hissed as the burns pulled, but 007 wasn’t in this to be a sadist – merely to see where Q’s limits were.

Figuratively as well as literally.

Efficient as a machine, James moved on, and Q pulled in one faster, deeper breath as the hand on his hand switched to cup his shoulder, dismissing the first injury and coming dangerously close to the next one.  Q would have pulled back, but he had indeed given control over to 007, because the other hand still had his elbow trapped, and the grip tightened.  The scrub-top Q was wearing hid the graze between his neck and left shoulder, but for a moment, James just sat as he was, one thumb rubbing the point of Q’s shoulder and the other resting over the blue veins in the crook of his arm.  James seem utterly absorbed with these two small tasks, and after a moment of taut alertness, Q found himself relaxing, content to live between these two touches as well.

In hindsight, 007 was probably registering Q’s pulse, and only spoke up when he felt it slow down, “Take your shirt off, Q.”

Again the fear tried to overtake the anticipation and anxiety, like carbonation rising to the top of a drink in a fizzing mass.  Q clenched his teeth, feeling the urge to draw back but focusing on the fact that 007 hadn’t moved.  The order was hanging there, waiting, but instead of instantly enforcing it, James was just watching Q with those ferociously blue – but inhumanly calm – eyes.  Maybe it was that look, that reassurance that James was judging what every action was doing to Q, that had Q clearing his throat, tipping his chin proudly, and saying breathlessly, “You do it.”

Bond’s eyes sparked, like heat-lightning across the belly of a cloud; the look transformed into a small, intrigued smile.  “You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he crooned lowly.  Q held his breath, not lessening the challenge in his eyes, waiting to see how the Hound would take it.  The grin grew a bit wilder, like a fox peering out of a deep, fey wood.  “You’re lucky that you give such good orders-”  James leaned suddenly forward, and Q once again found the man talking against his ear, this time close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, smell the musky scent of sweat that clung to James’s hairline.  “-Or I’d tell you to shove it up your arse.”

It was getting increasingly hard to tell when James was threatening him and coming on to him.  Q shivered at the words hissed delicately against the shell of his ear, but only twitched a little as James – perhaps purposefully – brushed his rough cheek against Q’s as he retreated.  It was like being licked by a lion in passing.  As 007 sat back, however, his hands did indeed move to the hem of his Quartermaster’s shirt, and it really sank in, ‘This is happening.’

Q squeaked despite himself as the inexorable upward motion prompted him to lift his arms – which hurt.  No sooner did the noise escape him, however, than James had one arm on his left elbow again and was guiding the motion.  Q still almost lost his glasses, but at least he hadn’t been swallowed up by pain by the time he was all bare skin from the waist up.  As Q straightened out his glasses, 007 got up and disappeared out of his range of vision, but only to return a few moments later with the familiar bottle of painkiller and one of their bottles of water.  As promised, he handed Q more of the former than before, and after a moment of wary hesitation, Q gave in and took them.  It was pretty obvious by now that 007 could think up more creative ways of doing Q in than making him overdose on pain meds – and he would have done it already if he was all that interested.  Q swallowed the dose and hoped they kicked in quickly, because most of his left side was killing him.

Bond whistled past his teeth, sitting down across from Q again and inspecting the younger man before him.  “You really are a right mess now, aren’t you?”

“You flatter me,” Q deadpanned, unimpressed.

James glanced up, and his grin was so charming that Q’s heart sped up.  “You’re a pretty mess,” the agent clarified, and now the flattery was real.  In fact, if Q didn’t know better, he’d say that James rather liked the bruises that had now bloomed into full color along Q’s belly and ribs.  They were stark enough against Q’s naturally pale skin that they were visible even in the shadows.  

When Bond reached for him next, it was a strangely gentle gesture, slow and easy until just the backs of the agent’s fingers brushed Q’s belly.  Q’s abdominal muscles contracted shyly at the contact – which caused a renewed ache – but when James’s hand brushed lightly upwards instead of downwards to forbidden territory, Q found himself relaxing.  One would think that James was lightly stroking the fur of a day-old kitten instead of a hapless, slightly battered Quartermaster, and being treated with such light hands was almost breathtaking.  These were battle-tested, killing hands, but now their touch was moth-light.  Q barely felt them skimming up from his navel to his chest, and while Q wasn’t exactly as muscular as a Hound, he was proud to say that he was lean – not an inch of fat on him.  He even fancied that James noticed, as the man unfurled his fingers a bit more, so that instead of blunt fingernails skimming Q’s skin there was finally the pads of fingertips branching out across his ribs.

There were bruises there, of course, but James kept his touch so delicate that Q barely felt a twinge.  “You really did get the shit kicked out of you,” James opined without any particular inflection.  For a man like him, of course, these were probably more like love-taps than injuries, and Q shifted where he sat.  He was suddenly self-conscious of his own pain.  James noticed.  “What is it?”

Not wanting to meet keen blue eyes, Q fixed his eyes downwards, watching Bond’s hand instead.  It had returned to his center of mass, fingertips just pressing on his solar plexus in an absentminded sort of way.  “I was just thinking…” Q slowly tasted his words, pressing them against the back of his teeth and then continuing before he could ask himself why he was answering at all, “…About how often you’ve seen wounds like this – made wounds like this – without even blinking.  I stabbed Agent 004 in the neck, and it barely slowed him down.  This-”  Q dipped his chin just a bit lower, towards himself, “-can hardly be that exciting to you.”

“You don’t think I find this exciting?”  Suddenly Bond’s hand was rising again, and there was somehow more intent in his movements now.  The line of Q’s torso was once again followed, but this time when Bond’s hand splayed, it left his palm pressed against the side of Q’s chest, above his dancing heart.  One of James’s fingers was ghosting along the edge of Q’s left nipple, and the boffin abruptly found himself looking away to avoid a blush – which meant meeting 007’s eyes again.  Most colors were indistinct with only the emergency lighting to cast a glow on things, but somehow he could still see the color of the agent’s eyes, and it was like that shade of blue was the only color in existence.  “Q, you have to understand something,” James said soberly, “It’s a lot harder than you think for a man like me to find someone in Eigengrau who’ll to let me touch them-”  James’s hand strayed, and Q had to curl his toes up in his shoes so as not to react to calloused fingertips skimming over his nipple, then drifting unexpectedly into safer territory to trace the line of Q’s clavicle to the hollow of his throat.   “-Much less explore them.”

It took Q a dazed moment – his slow thoughts perhaps due to adrenaline, perhaps to hunger and weariness, and perhaps to the simple fact that 007 was damn distracting – to realize that James really meant it.  Still meeting those blue eyes, Q beetled his brow a little, looking for signs that James was just stringing him along.  He couldn’t find any such clues, however, and what was more, he couldn’t see a motive.  There was no purpose to Bond giving that information away, unless it was simply truthful, in which case this was a whole new facet to the man that Q hadn’t considered.  Just as Q was pondering the bewildering possibility of a touch-starved agent, James went on, “If you ask around for gossip, you’ll hear over and over again that we agents seduce our Handlers – but that’s because they’re the only ones desensitized enough to think that fucking us might be something that they can survive.”

“Everyone else is terrified of you,” Q realized.  He suddenly found himself reviewing all of the Handlers that he’d met.  Had there been a glint of daring in their eyes?  Some small part of their personality that tended towards suicidal, or made them an adrenalin-junky – or otherwise more likely to say ‘Bring it on’ instead of fainting at a Hound’s sexual advances?

James nodded, once again treating all of this like a simple, normal fact.  “I like a little fear,” he admitted, mouth quirking up at once side, and Q’s breath hitched as Bond’s thumb pressed down into the hollow of his throat – then relaxed the pressure as the man continued “But I don’t get off on pure terror being the predominant emotion.”

“So, basically,” Q tried, throat a bit dry, “Handlers are the only people stupid enough to fuck you?”

“Careful who you call stupid, Q,” Bond chided, but he was definitely smiling now, “because even my past Handlers haven’t been too keen on what I’m doing to you just now.”  As if to emphasize his point, James’s fingers flexed, and Q realized quite without warning that the agent was holding his throat and had been for at least the last few sentences.  It was such a gentle grip, and he’d been getting so desensitized to the touches that it had snuck up on him unawares.

“Easy, Q,” James hushed when Q’s breathing picked up rapidly.  The fingers around Q’s throat drifted back to his left shoulder where they were benign once again.  Q’s hands had lifted at some point, too (they’d been resting on the bench to either side of him until now), and both James and Q tilted their heads to look.  The Quartermaster’s long, skillful fingers were halfway between them and reaching James’s way – and Q froze because he knew where they’d been headed.  Apparently James did, too.  The Hound flicked his eyes back up to meet Q’s and he raised one eyebrow, noting, “You’re also the only one who has the gall to go for my throat.”

Q could feel his cheeks and ears heating, and quickly lowered his hand back down again, until both were anchoring him to the bench on either side, grip tight.  He asked stiffly, embarrassed, “Are you fishing for an apology?”

“God, no,” was the unexpected reply.  With his right hand still on Q’s shoulder, James lifted his left without further ado and gently nudged Q’s jaw, pushing it authoritatively to the side.  The agent went on as he inspected Q’s stitches closely, “Weren’t you listening?  You’re a rare catch, Q.  You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”  James’s smile became wry, and he added ruefully and in a lower register that picked up more of the gravel than the honey in his voice, “Except perhaps threatening to hunt me down with those fucking nanites in my blood.”

 Sighing and lifting his hand again – this time to push up under his glasses and rub at his eyes – Q admitted in a voice precariously close to a whine, “I don’t think I have it in me to discuss that with you right now.”

Surprisingly, the show of weakness didn’t beget trouble.  “Fine by me.  So long as you know we’re going to talk about it later,” James allowed, and when Q gave a weary but accepting nod, the agent actually dropped the subject.  As promised, he was stopping when Q said no – which surprised Q enough that he dropped his hand and blinked his eyes open again to just stare stupidly for a long moment.  Bond pretended not to notice, demurring from making eye contact, but his mouth had kicked upwards at one side.

Things were pretty quiet after that, as if James had made his point and was now content to let it sink in.  Q, for his part, really did have a lot to digest – but was also sincerely worn out.  The day wasn’t even over yet, and already he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and fall instantly asleep.  Of course, whenever he thought of ‘bed,’ he thought of the last bed he’d been in, and how he’d ended up sharing it with a certain high-Pass agent.  That was enough to wake Q up again, nerve endings alight, even as 007 shifted his focus from Q’s stitches to his bruises.  The first touch to Q’s side had the Quartermaster flinching and swearing involuntarily.

“On further inspection, I think these might be cracked,” James diagnosed with a faint expression that might have been sympathy – or simply a look of inconvenience, “or at least deeply bruised.  There’s nothing to be done about it besides medicating for the pain, though.”

“Bugger all,” Q muttered to himself.

James had to add helpfully, “Of course, the only way to completely knock out the pain would probably mean taking enough medication to just about knock you out.”

“You and your bedside manner are quickly becoming more irritating than the many other people no doubt trying to kill me.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Q,” Bond scolded even as he pressed warm, calloused fingertips to Q’s other side, which at least seemed more intact.  Q just gave the man a gimlet look.  He didn’t say anything else, however, and it felt almost like a reward when James handed him his shirt back moments later.  “Here – you can put it back on.  You’re no worse off than last time I checked, so I know you’re not going to keel over and die on me.”

Q grimaced as he tried to get the shirt on over his head, and the movement once again pushed pain through the wall of medicinal numbness.  Thankfully, James helped again, and Q made an effort not to overthink the big, dangerous hands that had now helped both undress and redress him – all without molesting or seriously hurting him.  Still feeling chilled and hungry and worn out, Q huddled in on himself after getting the shirt back on, pointing out pessimistically, “Unless someone helps the process along by putting a bullet in me.”

“That’s why you’ve got me – to prevent unwanted bullet-holes,” James reminded cheerily, even as he reached over and flourished the jacket, settling it around Q’s shoulders again.  The agent didn’t seem to miss it yet in the slightest, which made Q more than a little bit jealous of the man’s pullover – or perhaps just his prodigious body-heat.  Q felt positively cold-blooded.  “Now, come on,” James stood, making impatient beckoning gestures with his hands, “I’ve got an idea that’ll get you warmed up.”

Q, partially curious and partially wary – because the last plan had included sharing a bed, but there were no beds in the rec-room – tugged the jacket closer and hesitated to take the hand stretched out to him.  When he looked distrustfully up from the hand to James’s face, the agent sighed loudly and rolled his eyes with exactly the kind of drama that he’d scolded Q over.

“I already said that I had your best interests at heart,” he grumbled, “and trying to get into your pants right now would be tantamount to fucking in a warzone – which, while exciting, goes against my basic survival instincts.  Now, you said you’d give me control.  Are you saying that you want to take it back now?”

James was frowning, the challenge clear in his tone, and for a moment Q swayed between the two options.  Mostly, he was marveling over the fact that there were options, because this seemed like proof positive that his opinion really did matter.  Perhaps this was why Q, after another heartbeat or two, reached out and folded his hand into Bond’s grip.  Knowing that he could back out at any time – despite 007’s disapproval – gave him the necessary reassurance to not back out, but to trust 007 just a little bit longer.

Dropping Q’s hand after a few steps but trusting him to follow, James led Q to the showers.  This made the boffin nervous all over again until James gestured for him to stay put just outside the room, even as the blond-haired man went in and turn everything on.  C hadn’t meddled with the water supply, and soon the showerheads were all running – and beginning to steam, because 007 had turned them all on hot before retreating.  Like Q, he was still dry, and Q began to realize what he was doing.

“You’re making a sauna for me,” the Quartermaster realized, cautiously delighted.

“For us,” James corrected wryly, “I’m not selfless enough to let you have all the warm air to yourself.”  Saying that, he chivvied Q over to the lockers and quickly set about unlocking one.  The showers were all located in one big room, with very little separating them from where the rows of lockers were set up.  The steam would soon start rolling in; the heat already was, making Q’s muscles relax appreciatively.

Q was a bit lost in the soothing sound of running water, and it took him a moment to realize that James wasn’t actually opening his own locker with a key, but actually picking the lock to get at someone else’s things.  Q opened his mouth to say how that was wrong, then realized who he was talking to, and gave up with a jaded little exhale and just watched.  Where James had gotten the material for lockpicking, he had no idea.

“Some of these smell pretty rank, but there’s a shirt or two in here that might keep you warmer than that scrub-top,” James said, even as he pulled things out wholesale, locker after locker.  He truly was terrifyingly fast at bypassing locks, making Q appreciate more and more the efforts it took to keep James contained in Eigengrau.  Only once he had a sizeable mound of clothing on the floor did James stop, bend, and gather up his bounty in his arms to drag across the room.  He dumped it all on the floor right outside the showers, creating a pile against the wall.  Two articles of clothing were rescued from the pile, but then James was coaxing Q over again.

“Try these,” James tossed Q what turned out to be a tee and a pullover, the former white and the latter banded with thick, horizontal stripes that might had been reddish or brown in better light, “I doubt they’ll fit, but if the temperature keeps dropping, you won’t freeze as fast.”

“Thanks,” Q said.  He was surprised that he meant it – actually, he was starting to realize just how much thanks he owed this man.  After a moment of hesitation, he eased the jacket back off onto a nearby bench, soon letting the scrub-top follow.  Moving still hurt, but he was getting more used to it.  Either that or James was right, and the extra pain medication was belatedly setting in.  It still felt a bit terrifying to be half-naked in 007’s presence, but after their recent interactions in the rec-room, Q couldn’t claim shyness.  James had already seen this much of him already – and touched him, too.  These must have been someone’s decently fresh clothes, meant for changing into after a workout and shower, because they didn’t smell of anything but detergent as Q slipped into them, first the tee and then the pullover.  Both, predictably, bagged on him.

James was watching with a lopsided, curious smile on his face.  “Well, you look ridiculous.”

“Bastard.”

“You’re welcome.  You also look warmer, if that helps.”

The rest of Bond’s plan became clear when the agent reached over and snagged Q by one overlong sleeve, tugging him closer but then also applying some downward pressure.  It wasn’t until Q was actually sitting on the purloined heap of clothes that he realized 007 had made a nest, softening the concrete floor into something comfortable.  Q switched immediately from halfhearted name-calling to complimenting as he looked about him – at the cushion of cloth, his own new clothing, the warm steam settling in – and admitted, “You really are good at this.”

“At what?  Survival?”  007 seemed briefly caught off-guard by the topic-change.  He was still standing over Q, and now also undergoing a change of attire - removing his bloodied black pullover for a clean grey one that fit like it was actually his.  Q found himself staring at the bewitching rippling of muscles as 007 maneuvered clothing off and on.  It all took seconds, and then he was sitting down as well, dressed again.  He was warm and steady against Q’s right side.  “I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years.  I like surviving,” he brushed off lightly.

Tense at first, Q slowly let himself relax until he was tentatively leaning against the muscled form next to him.  Since James was sitting this close, he supposed that he was expected to do so, or at least invited.  He pulled the jacket near him again, and when James waved it off instead of taking it, Q settled the dense material over his legs… then dared to flick it over 007’s a bit, too.  The agent made a little noise that might have been surprise, appreciation, or both.  The room continued to get steadily warmer, until it felt very nearly cozy, flush against a warm body and finally dressed appropriately.

‘May as well go all-in,’ Q said to himself, and leaned his full weight into 007’s shoulder.  He wasn’t rebuffed, and found the new position quite comfortable.  “What did you do before this?” he asked, because if he was taking a few risks, he might as well take more, “Before Eigengrau, I mean?”

“Didn’t you see my file?  I swear that’s what you were doing when we first met.”

“I was skimming.  I stopped reading in depth after getting more than I bargained for with Lecter’s file,” Q admitted with a grimace, quickly going on, “I was just looking for my brother’s file.”

Bond accepted that with a hum, and for a moment it didn’t seem like he’d answer.  Q didn’t have very good peripheral vision beyond the range of his glasses, and he resisted the urge to look over and read the man’s expression.  Instead of letting it go, however, the high-Pass agent began speaking after a moment, “I was a spy.”  He inhaled and exhaled, and Q got a little thrill out of feeling the expansion of 007’s chest through his arm.  “And a mercenary.  I did what people paid me to do, and I was good at it.  Good enough that the only reason I still needed to work was because I had a few bad habits.”

“Oh?”

“Expensive alcohol and more expensive women,” James admitted, then tipped his head.  When Q looked over, the man was staring off thoughtfully at nothing, and said a moment later without an ounce of shame, “Although I could generally get the latter for free.  I’ve had a few offer to pay me for the night, actually.  Good Scotch is a bit more immune to charm, unfortunately.”

This was a bit more of an answer than Q had bargained for, and now he was the one staring stoically forward as if eye-contact would burn him.  He searched desperately for a better topic that wouldn’t seem like a totally obvious escape.  He grasped at something that wasn’t too far off: “What about the other agents?  Do you know what they were doing before Sybil caught them?”  He realized that this question might be useful to him, and revised, “What would they be doing now if they weren’t in Eigengrau?”

Bond made a noise of contemplation low in his throat, and Q felt the vibration of it.  He was getting positively cozy now, and when his legs relaxed, his shoe bumped 007’s.  The agent didn’t seem to mind.  “Trevelyan, Shaw, and I were in the same business – mercenaries.  I can’t see Shaw ever doing anything else, honestly.”

“But you and Trevelyan?”

Bond shrugged.  Q felt the flex of muscles right through the layers of clothing.  “We’ve played a thousand different men before – from businessmen to hired thugs, from paupers to princes – so it’s not beyond imagination that we could take on one of those roles more permanently.  Most of us are perfectly capable of blending in.  Even Lecter.”  James glanced over and caught Q giving him a scandalized look; the blond-haired man grinned back.  “Scary thought, isn’t it?  Hannibal was actually a very respectable member of society right up until the Sybil System ran him to ground.  A psychiatrist, I believe.”

Q couldn’t think of a response, because that was truly a terrifying scenario to imagine.  He’d pondered how the Hounds looked so normal at first glance, but had never considered the fact that they were barely even trying to hide what they were, in Eigengrau.  They could be themselves here.  But out in the world, they could weave masks that could fool – and had fooled - everyone they met.

Then, because 007 was too observant by half, James went on with a gentler, more rueful smile, “Trying to imagine us as reformed convicts, transitioning back into society?”

Caught out, Q stiffened… then sagged.  There was no point in lying, he realized defeatedly.  “Can’t blame a man for dreaming,” he replied weakly.

There was another stretch of silence, and then, unexpectedly… James shifted his weight.  Now he was leaning back into Q, purposefully.  His gaze was forward again, but his eyes were half-lidded, and somehow his expression was missing its omnipresent lethal edge for the first time since Q had met him.  “Thanks, Q,” he said softly, completely out of the blue, and it took the Quartermaster a moment to realize that he was being thanks for thinking well of a man who’d been treated as an irredeemable monster for the most recent stretch of his life.

They sat and listened to the water running, soaking up the heat and the safety while it lasted.

Chapter Text

~^~

Q and Bond talked a little bit more, their conversation revolving delicately around the topic to which there possibly was no answer: How could they end this in a way that would make them both happy?  Something about the warmth and the hushing sound of the water created a sense of camaraderie that, while probably false, made it easier to talk about subjects that had been touchy earlier.  Q still knew, logically, that 007 was a dangerous man – a qualified killer – but the Hound felt warm and human by his side.  That warmth and sense of humanity lulled the fear in Q until it was something manageable, and he was very nearly dozing before he even realized it.  The conversation had petered off, and James hadn’t made any comment to rouse the younger man when Q’s head lolled against the side of James’s neck.

An unknown length of time later, however, Bond jostled Q with a roll of his shoulder.  “Gotta move, Q.  As cozy as this is, we can’t stay here forever.”

“Why not?” Q grumbled with more petulance than he wanted to admit to.

Then his stomach growled, which pretty much answered the question even before James chortled and said, “Because otherwise you’ll starve.  I’ve got some practice at going without food, but you hardly look like you eat enough as it is.”

The jab at his skinniness got Q moving more than anything else, his ego pushing aside the part of him that wanted to stay where he was and forget about anything but the warmth, the nest of clothes, and the surprisingly comfortable shoulder he’d taken as a pillow.  So while Q got up and stretched the stiffness from his legs, James braved the showers to turn off the water.  When the agent returned to find Q once again gamely shouldering their satchel of supplies, he dipped his head in approval – but also gave the boffin an assessing once-over, a look that was too clinical to be caring, and yet made Q feel inexplicably cared for.  James was looking for points of weakness, but not to exploit them, and from a man trained to go for the throat, there was something humbling and flattering about that kind of nonlethal attention.

James beckoned him on with a jerk of his chin a moment later, apparently deciding that Q was well enough to go on.  Q still felt a bit like hell, but decided that he trusted the agent’s judgment.  Plus, he was ravenous, so if 007 was promising food, he’d follow the man through just about anything.

Almost.

~^~

Will was dreaming.  Or, at least, he assumed he was – there were an increasing number of days in which he just wasn’t sure anymore, and his last memories slewed into nightmare in a way that wasn’t easy to untangle.  He was kneeling over McKenna, the throb of his own heartbeat and the panting of his breath loud in his ears.  At first, he thought that he heard McKenna’s breathing, too, but then he realized that the man was silent.  Horror a distant buzz at the back of his mind, Will reached forward, feeling for a pulse – nothing.  The neck beneath his hands felt wrong, too, its angle absurd.  The more he looked at it, the more broken it looked, but he simultaneously found his ability to feel panicked about that waning.  It was as if someone had stuck him with a blade, but it wasn’t blood pouring out, but rather his fears and anxieties.  Following those emotions came the little, persistent voice in his head that was always telling him what was right and wrong – how to act if he wanted to be seen as human, how to act if he wanted the Sybil System to mark him as low-Pass.  He felt his humanity pouring out through a wound he couldn’t see, and it puzzled him.  He was astride a dead body, his exhaustion telling him that he’d done this, but he was having a harder and harder time recalling that this was a bad thing.

Had he ever known that this was bad?  That question managed to prick at his dwindling sense of morality, and he started shaking.

“Will.”

In the midst of Will’s frantic puzzlement, a voice reached him, low and steady.  It had a slight rasp to it like a barren wind past a barren tree, and there was an agelessness to it – if this was a wind past a tree, then that tree had roots, and that wind had circled the earth forever.  Will dragged his gaze away from the man he’d killed, although it took effort to lift his eyes and find that strange voice.

For a moment, he saw a man: broad shoulders, confident stance, tawny eyes beneath tawny hair.  Then Will blinked and he was staring at a great feathered stag, its feathered body inky and dark with its great antler arching back to scrape the hallway ceiling.  Will gasped, struck speechless, unable to determine if he was afraid or awed.

The stag pawed impatiently, cloven hooves cracking sharply against the manmade floor.  Between blinks, it was a man again with deep-set, unblinking eyes – then a manlike being with ink-dark skin and a crown of antlers – but all of them spoke in that same calm, collected voice.

“Will.  You’re all right, Will.”

“I killed a man,” Will tried to argue.  He sensed that he was supposed to argue.  His eyes were still being drawn downwards, and he imagined that it was shame urging him to drop his gaze back down to McKenna’s corpse.

“You hunted prey,” the voice argued, seeming to reach right into Will’s head with light fingers even as he watched the stag toss its great head.  Eyes as dark and moist as a river stone fixed on Will, seeming to condescend, to scoff, even as the voice remained nothing but soothing, “You’re not like everyone else, Will.  You’re a wolf.”

The words seemed to echo.  The world seemed to shudder.  Will felt something quake in his bones.  Now he was staring at the entity he didn’t have a name for, the thing that stood on two legs like a human but scratched the light fixture with antlers like black branches, everything so onyx-dark and midnight-smooth…

“You’re a wolf, Will, and wolves hunt.  Do you mourn prey?”

No, Will didn’t suppose you did that.  He felt an ache in his jaws, but the pain felt fresh and clean after the usual, pounding misery of his headaches.  Only then did Will realize his head didn’t hurt anymore – it was like he always had a migraine hovering in the back of his skull nowadays, but the pain had been sapped away, replaced by this glass-clear sting.

He was looking at the man again, at the man he’d seen a few days ago.  Hannibal Lecter.  The man who hunted man.  “What do you do with prey, Will?” Lecter went on, saying Will’s name over and over again like a spell that built upon repetition.  Those eyes were unfathomable, and when Will met them and looked into them, the pain in his jaw intensified even as his pulse quickened.  This was a good kind of pain, like healing, like birthing.

Hannibal’s expression finally changed: he went from aloof and watchful to softly, indulgently smiling.  He tilted his head until ash-blond bangs fell forward across his forehead a little, and he coaxed like a patient parent with a favorite child, “What do you do with prey, Will?”

Now Will looked down, something in him telling him that it was time to.  The corpse was beneath him, still warm, still so fresh that it was like he could smell McKenna’s last breath hovering on his lips.  When Will leaned closer, the pain in his jaw sprang forth into a fire-bright agony, and he gasped – but Hannibal was there.  He couldn’t see him, couldn’t look up again, but he knew he was there.  The hand on his shoulder felt solid and familiar.  It felt clawed and unbreakable and gloriously strong.

Will wanted to be like that.

“That’s it,” Hannibal’s gentle voice soothed, as Will opened his mouth – and then kept opening it, wider and wider, agony transcending into euphoria as his lips split at the sides and his jaws popped out of their gums, replaced by proper fangs as his whole face stretched into a long, sloping wolf’s head and he fed.

He was aware of Hannibal’s hands peeling the ichor of his own shed human skin away, even as Will voraciously tore into McKenna.

~^~

Hannibal had alternated between watching Will, ensuring that no one else entered the kitchens, and making soup.  Even when doing the latter two items on his mental list, however, he had a certain amount of focus spared for Will, and therefore heard when the man’s breathing picked up seconds before the profiler started thrashing.  Hannibal knew what a nightmare looked like (he’d even suffered from them as a child, but not for long, because the monsters in his head could only compete for so long with the monster he forged of himself), so he quickly put aside what he was doing and approached with sure strides.  He moved a bit faster when he saw that Will was moving violently enough to pull out Hannibal’s careful stitches.

“Shhh, shhh,” Lecter soothed, assessing the situation in the seconds it took to drop to a knee.  Will was gasping, gulping spasmodically, and a sweat had sprung up all over his body to dampen his dark curls slickly to his nape and temples.  He looked at once vulnerable and strong like this, with a pained, confused line between beetled brows, closed eyes, and mouth slightly open – but every muscle of his body taut and defined.  Hannibal carefully gripped Will’s right arm at the elbow, pinning the limb to the other man’s body and ensuring he couldn’t move it, even as Will released a whimper and curled onto his side.  This put his body into a rough ‘C’ shape around Hannibal’s knee, and the agent found himself smiling almost without realizing it.  “You’re safe, Will,” Hannibal assured gently, making no attempt to actually wake the other man, but instead just seeking to situate him.  The mind would either awaken or fall back into an easier sleep as it so chose.  “The danger is passed, and you survived it with flying colors.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hannibal used his free hand to stroke Will’s hair back from his forehead, just to see if…  Yes, he’d been right before.  Touch-starved.  A mind like Will’s wouldn’t allow him to make friends easily – not in a world where everyone was increasingly aware that insanity was contagious, and a bit of strangeness could get you arrested or even executed.  As before, Will pressed himself into the little bit of physical contact, hungry for it even though he was barely conscious.  “You’re quite a marvel,” Hannibal murmured, reevaluating just how much work it must be for Will Graham to daily interact with normal members of society.

Normal, boring members of society.

At that point Will’s eyes snapped open, and he came to a close approximation of consciousness, staring up at Hannibal.  For almost three seconds there was utter stillness as Will, bewildered, struggled to find his mental footing.

One second…

Two…

In the third second, Hannibal saw Will revert back to one of the personalities in his mind and attack.

In retrospect, it made sense, and Hannibal would have to keep it in mind for later confrontations: when already dazed and pushed to a certain point of helplessness, Will Graham reached for his fight-or-flight responses just like any creature (human or otherwise).  The difference was, as Hannibal had pointed out earlier, Will had a few more tools at his disposal when it came to survival.  Like a switch being thrown, there was an unhesitant killer behind Will’s eyes, and the move he used to knock Hannibal over was most definitely not a technique taught to FBI profilers or Eigengrau guards.  Hannibal managed to keep his grip on Will’s arm, and perhaps could have countered the sharp, vicious move, but a certain part of him was morbidly fascinated, and he allowed himself to be rolled over.  The dark-haired young man immediately swarmed up over him, his body apparently able to bypass its injuries so long as the mind behind it all was fresh and foreign.

It was spellbinding.

Teeth bared, Will snarled gutturally, “I won’t be hurt again” before loosing a punch with his free arm.  Hannibal weathered the blow, even as he picked apart the sentence – while Will was certainly entitled to the sentiment, he doubted that these were Will’s own words.  The killer behind Will’s olive-green eyes had once been a victim?  A second punch snapped Hannibal’s head to the side, reminding him that he couldn’t let this continue… if only because Will’s punches were growing more accurate, his muscles warming up to the skill flowing into them.  As awe-inspiring as it was to see Will at his most dangerous, Hannibal didn’t particularly want to be beaten into unconsciousness – he had survival instincts, too.

With a raw speed that few people knew he had, the Hannibal’s right hand shot out and snared Will’s left wrist mid-swing.  Will hissed like a wildcat, and something about his overall demeanor and the way he jerked his body made Hannibal suspect that it was a woman’s mind overshadowing Will’s personality.  A wise choice, no matter how uncontrolled it had been: most women were aware of what it took to fight bigger opponents, and Hannibal was definitely bigger than the profiler straddling his lap now.

Suddenly unable to move either of his arms like he wanted to, Will writhed for a moment, then something in him seemed to snap.  He paused, head tossed back and chest heaving, and Hannibal could only stare, because it was glorious.  Will blinked up at the ceiling, and Hannibal could see the way the dark-haired man’s lips parted in confusion – the borrowed psyche was slipping.  It wasn’t letting go without a fight, however: Will shuddered like he’d just taken an ax to the middle of his spine, body jerking, thighs tensing against Hannibal’s flanks as Will struggled to maintain his physical and mental balance.

When Will looked down again, he appeared painfully confused – lost like a sparrow in a hurricane.  “I…”  Will started, searching Hannibal’s face with no recognition.  If anything, he got more bewildered, and stuttered, “Y-You’re not McK-K-Kenna.”

“No, I’m not,” Hannibal assured.  He used his calmest voice, feeling out the situation while also keeping up his grip on Will’s right elbow and left wrist; they yanked against his grip.  Will was strong for his size.  Taking a chance on how much he understood Will’s thoughts, Hannibal maintained eye-contact and went on steadily, “There is no need to kill me, Will.  Not like McKenna.”  It didn’t take much thought to deduce that McKenna was one of the men Will had killed hours before.  “I have no interest in threatening you – quite the opposite.”  Then, taking another calculated risk, Hannibal slowly let go of Will.  So far, he’d seen Will’s hyper-empathy at work three times: only once had been on command, at the scene of the killing blamed falsely on Hannibal; the other two times had both been triggered by a perceived threat to Will’s person.  If Hannibal was not a threat, he suspected that the same morals that had driven Will to argue Hannibal’s innocence would keep him from attacking.  In some ways, Hannibal regretted that; morals were a limiting, human construct, and Will would have been perfect without them.

As Hannibal’s hands dropped away, Will’s expression became confused – frustrated even.  The outside personality was a fire that fed on violence, and Hannibal was removing the fuel; he smiled as he watched it starve.  There was still a moment when he thought Will would strike him again, but then Will’s hands unclenched as he abruptly sagged instead.  Right arm curling around his stomach and his other bracing itself on Hannibal’s chest, Will hung forward, dragging in breath after breath like a diver who’d just come up for air.  “God, what have I-?” the dark-haired man gasped raggedly, then gave his head a hard shake, “I was going to-  I almost killed you.”

“The fault is mine,” Hannibal reassured, still keeping his hands on the ground as a precaution even as his theory was proven right, “I should have known that you would perceive my nearness as a threat, and react with violence.  It was entirely appropriate.”

“Going postal on you was appropriate?” Will retorted with heavy sarcasm, verging on the hysterical.  He still hadn’t look up properly to take in Hannibal’s face yet, which was probably the most poignant proof that this was really the reclusive Will Graham, and Hannibal idly wondered if the profiler actually knew who he was talking to yet.  Before recognition could definitely occur, however, Will gasped and moved his left hand up to his right shoulder.  Overall, Will’s shirt was still intact, but through the cut away sleeve, it was obvious that blood was seeping from the wound again.  “Fuck,” Will ground out, and now Hannibal moved, if only because Will would have toppled over onto him if Hannibal’s hand hadn’t risen to splay against his chest, obligingly holding him up.

“Will, you’re injured,” Hannibal informed him with quiet imperativeness.  Secretly, he thrilled at the sensation of muscles tightening and flexing beneath his hand.  “I stitched closed the worst injury – on your shoulder – but I’m afraid-”

“That I’ve undone your fine needlework?” Will interrupted with the faintest hint of a smirk past his pained grimace.

Hannibal gently chided, “Don’t interrupt, Will.”

“Sorry.”

After that, Will was surprisingly easy to work with – perhaps because he was obviously in a great deal of pain, and sincerely apologetic not just about his interrupting but about attacking his savior in general.  While Hannibal regretfully removed the profiler from his lap, Will vacillated between looking at his shoulder and just squeezing his eyes shut, showing every sign of a massive headache alongside his other pains.

“I apologize that I have nothing to give you for the pain,” Hannibal said, strategically deciding not to bring up the cooking alcohol.  It had been useful before, but would be a detriment now, if they were attacked and Will was inebriated.  Pain was the safer option for the time being.  “Despite how you may feel, however, you are in no immediate danger.”

Pressing the heel of his left hand against his left eye-socket, sitting against a set of pantry doors, Will’s mouth sketched out a wry smile.  “So you keep saying.”

“It seems an appropriate sentiment to repeat.”

“Where am I?” Will asked next, growing more alert.  He ignored Hannibal kneeling to his right and inspecting his shoulder in favor of putting both hands in his lap and looking furtively around the kitchen.

Will had indeed done a number on Hannibal’s stitches, prompting the agent to frown, already thinking three steps ahead on what it would take to patch up the torn skin again.  “The main Eigengrau kitchens,” he replied absently.  It was a miracle that Will hadn’t hurt himself worse – or, perhaps not a miracle so much as Hannibal’s quick thinking in restraining Will’s bad arm.  The older man gave himself a metaphorical pat on the back and got up to gather what he’d need to do some re-stitching.

Will’s voice trailed after him, “I didn’t just hallucinate killing those five men, did I?”

“You know the answer to that as well as I, Will,” Hannibal counseled, not unkindly.  He came back to find Will sitting with his knees drawn up and his head in his hands.

Many individuals with high Psychopasses had difficulty sympathizing with others – it was one of the core flaws in high-Pass people.  Hannibal fell slightly outside the statistics, however, in that he could actually empathize with others to a great degree.  He could watch a person and divine their motives, their wants, their fears, in seconds.  However, whereas most people took that understanding to heart and transformed it into compassion, Hannibal’s understanding of people never touched him.  It was all data to be used, and his sympathy for the motives of other people didn’t affect his own thoughts and feelings any more than an algebraic equation would.  From certain angles, however, he could develop a shallow sort of reciprocal emotion: now, for example, as he logically deduced that Will was hurting because he’d done something he perceived to be very wrong.  Hannibal felt that sadness with him, although he had to come at it from a different angle: Hannibal didn’t perceive those killings to be at all wrong, but he was sad, too, if only because he knew there was no simple procedure to remove Will’s morals.  Neither medicine nor psychiatry had found such a solution yet.

Hannibal knelt quietly at Will’s side, respecting his emotional trauma by leaving it be.  He focused instead on the solid and physical, knowing not only that he could fix it, but that it would distract Will from useless thoughts of guilt.  “This is going to be unpleasant,” Hannibal informed the other man truthfully, “but leaving the skin open and bleeding like this will only encourage infection, and the scar will be worse.”

“Scars I can handle,” Will joked, but it was humorless.  He turned his head in his hands so that his left temple was pressed against his palms but his eyes were on his bared, wounded shoulder.  At that point, his eyes also flicked up quickly to Hannibal’s face and away again.  Will tensed, but the expected explosion of fear and horror didn’t come; perhaps some part of Will had been aware of who his companion was this whole time, but was just now accepting it.  “I’d ask if you knew what you were doing,” the profiler went on, still with that crooked not-quite-smile on his mouth, “but I’ve already read your file and know that you do.”

“So you know who I am then?” Hannibal finally pressed the issue.

Will flinched at the first touch to his wound, but quickly ground his teeth together and bore it.  It was a few moments before he gritted out, “Yes.”  It took him a few minutes more to add, “What I’m still trying to figure out is why the hell you’re helping me right now.”

Hannibal kept working as he answered glibly, “Is it so hard to believe that my Hippocratic oath still holds some sway over me, despite my internment here?”

Will’s response was a dark chuckle and an unexpectedly keen, “I don’t think that altruism suits you.”

The answer was startling enough that Hannibal raised his head, although his hands never faltered.  Will’s eyes swiveled to meet his gaze as if expecting it, and while Will only allowed the eye-contact for a second, his grey-green eyes were expressive enough that Hannibal was able to read nervousness, curiosity, and fear in equal measures.  Considering that most people would have been drowning in fear alone, Hannibal was impressed, and smiled to show it.  Will just caught the first upward curl of Hannibal’s mouth before turning away.

Interest piqued now, Hannibal asked to keep Will talking, “What does suit me then?”

Will clearly had a high pain tolerance, although he was starting to shake with the effort of keeping still while Hannibal patched him up again.  He pressed his head back against the stainless steel doors and swallowed convulsively before answering, “I-I don’t know.”  He dissembled, and Hannibal remained silent, because he suspected that Will did know.  And, sure enough, the profiler continued stumblingly a moment later, “I can’t imagine that you actually need my help to survive, and you’re not stupid enough to think that I’ll be your magic ticket out of here.”

“You think very highly of me and my skills.”

“Not of you.  Just your skills,” Will clarified, and Hannibal bit back a chuckle at the dark-haired man’s pure moxie.  Not a lot of people would say that to Hannibal’s face, at least not so succinctly.  Will didn’t say anything more until Hannibal had finished, wrapping the wound in makeshift bandages to hopefully keep the stitches from catching.  Incorrectly, Hannibal had assumed that Will was simply retreating into silence to deal with the pain, but instead it appeared the other man had been thinking – when his eyes opened again, there was dawning understanding in them.  Will turned to face Hannibal again, brows furrowed and eyes focused cautiously on Hannibal’s nose.  “You’re interested in me because I just killed five people,” he said with something like horror in his voice.

“I was interested in you before that,” Hannibal felt it important to note, mouth tugging traitorously into an amused smirk once again; he worked to school his expression into something more professionally friendly.  Still, he couldn’t help but add, “However, I won’t lie and say that I found your recent exploits disinteresting.”

Will’s eyes came closer to meeting Hannibal’s, and the growing anger in them was righteous, and stirred a fire in Hannibal’s heart.  “I’m not like you,” Will said flatly.  His eyes danced up once, twice, meeting Hannibal’s gaze to get his point across.  On the third look, Will stuck it out, glaring stubbornly, so Hannibal gazed unblinkingly back until he saw Will realize something with a shiver.

‘Look into the abyss and the abyss looks back,’ Hannibal quoted to himself with dark pleasure, and finally stood.  He wanted to ask what Will had just seen – what his empathy had caused him to feel – but he sensed that Will had been pushed enough already.  At least for now.  “I have always thought that heavy conversations such as this should not be had on an empty stomach,” Hannibal informed his new companion, who looked almost hilariously suspicious, “If you wish to run from me, by all means, now is the time – but if not, I would ask you to join me for a bite to eat.”

“This entire island is becoming a hunting ground where people are on the menu,” Will said slowly, incredulously, “and you’re inviting me to lunch?”

“People are always on the menu, Will,” Hannibal chided without remorse, and took a certain amount of pleasure in watching the other man’s face whiten, his throat convulse.  At the same time, Hannibal thought that he saw Will’s pupils dilate for the briefest of seconds, some memory flashing across those eyes…  The desire to know what that thought was nearly overwhelmed Hannibal’s usually staid, patient nature, and he had to lock his knees for a second to keep from striding back into Will’s personal space.  Logically, Hannibal knew that cracking open Will’s skull would give him no answers, but the temptation was still there, a hot and heavy panting at the back of his thoughts.

Will stood up slowly, but gave no indication as to whether he was preparing to flee or to follow.  “So,” Will took a breath, “is this all a precursor to putting me on the menu then?”

“I would like it if you would not compare me to a swarm of locusts,” Hannibal warned, “I do not simply devour all within my path.”

“No, you’re a more selective predator,” Will said in a tone that hovered between accusation and simple observation.  Notably, Will hadn’t left yet; in fact, his body had turned more Hannibal’s way.

Hannibal put on his best benign smile.  “Precisely.  We’re reaching a greater understanding already.”

“I still don’t understand exactly what you want from me.”

“Company?  Eating alone is often quite depressing.”

“I’m shit company.”  Will was playing now, and it suited him better than the fear-mongering of earlier.  Will’s humor had an acidic bite to it that Hannibal found he liked.

He also liked it – and found it very telling – that Will still hadn’t made any attempts to retreat.  Curious and anticipant in a way that he hadn’t been in a very long time, Hannibal turned and beckoned further back into the kitchen, where he had soup waiting.  “Let me be the judge of that.  As you noted, life here has turned quite suddenly upside-down, so perhaps we can let a bit more ridiculousness slide.”

“This isn’t ridiculous, this is insane,” Will breathed from behind Hannibal, probably in a tone that hadn’t been meant to carry.  Hannibal snuck a glance back to see Will rubbing his hands over his eyes, only wincing when he very belatedly noticed the various cuts and bruises his mouth and nose bore.  Probably to himself, Will muttered, “I can’t believe this is happening.  Maybe I’ll get lucky and this will all just be some wild hallucination because my brain had finally blown a fuse.”

It was impolite to eavesdrop, so Hannibal didn’t comment on Will’s warped sense of ‘lucky.’  Instead he focused on his own luck: Will Graham continued to get more interesting by the second, and there must have been some curiosity in return, because Will was following him now without any further prompting.  There were logical reasons, of course, for doing as Hannibal said: Hannibal had food (a basic need of all living things) and Will had to be hungry; Hannibal was also at the top of Eigengrau’s inverted food-chain right now, and therefore a valuable ally.  Will wasn’t exactly helpless, though, if he allowed himself to admit it: he had the unique ability to transform himself from prey to predator.

If Will wanted, he could walk away from Hannibal and stalk through Eigengrau like he owned it.  He could be as much an apex predator as any of the Hounds were, and he would have next to nothing to fear – with a little guidance.

The fact that he chose to meekly trail after Hannibal instead suggested that Will wasn’t ready to face that side of his nature yet.  And for now, that was perfectly fine by Hannibal.  After all, if Will’s fear of his capabilities kept him close, then Hannibal had some stimulating company.

And if Will overcame his fear, well… then Hannibal had a hunting partner.  

Chapter Text

~^~

Harry and Eggsy had gone back and forth on various topics, occasionally discussing Eggsy’s father but mostly keeping to immediately productive topics – like ways to get Eggsy and his family out of this alive.  The most obvious course of action was to contact local authorities in Eggsy’s home town and have his mother and sister (he didn’t care about his mother’s boyfriend) put in protective custody.  The problem was, there was a catch.

“C’s got one of your fellow Hounds on his side,” Eggsy said as he looked moodily at the mobile in his hands, still walking along at Harry’s side, “and she’s not only scary as hell, but she’s got some way of monitoring phone calls.  One call to the mainland and I’m toast – and so’s my mum and sis.”  Eggsy added as a disgruntled afterthought, “C’s no slouch at electronics himself.”

“It’ll be difficult to keep ahead of the situation with C controlling all communications,” Harry noted, displeased by this turn of events, too.  Getting the word out about the siege of Eigengrau would certainly end all hope of freedom for an agent like Harry, but it still would have been an easy solution to a complicated problem – and of all the Eigengrau Hounds, Harry Hart was probably one of the most well-adjusted.  Some days he could even forget the collar around his neck and convince himself that he was still just another agent of the Queen, a Kingsman by another name.

The gears in Harry’s head were turning, however, coming up with different options.

After walking up a flight of stairs in silence, Harry asked seemingly out of the blue, “Eggsy, is every one of C’s comrades equipped with a phone like yours?”

Eggsy shrugged.  “Most of ’em, yeah.”

“And how closely does C monitor communications between them?”

The boy’s shoulders lifted and dropped again, but his eyes were glinting with carefully guarded curiosity, “I think that so long as it stays in-house, no one really cares.  I texted another member of the team to blow off steam not long after I got here, and as far as I know, word never got back to Moran that I called him a fucking dickhead.”

Harry looked slightly surprised and momentarily impressed, but quickly got back to the subject at hand as they turned up another flight of stairs, “So what are the chances that some of your friends waiting at the helicopter will have a mobile that they won’t miss?”

“They’re not my friends,” Eggsy made very clear, then paused, thought, and answered slowly, “But they must have at least a phone or two, or else no one would even know that they were in position there, waiting for me.”

“Good,” Harry nodded as his plan solidified in his mind.  He clapped Eggsy on the shoulder and smiled at him.  It must have been a slightly disturbing smile, because the pilot narrowed his eyes and frowned warily in return – even before Harry said smoothly, “I need you to lift one of those phones for me.”

“You’re fucking insane,” was Eggsy’s immediate response, but he didn’t shake off the hand.  In fact, he stood where he was, both of them still and silent now, and merely examined Harry’s expression for a bit.  He must have found something there, because after a moment he relented to ask, “What do you want another one for?”

“Contacting the outside world might be inadvisable, but I want to at least be able to maintain contact with you,” Harry explained, then went on at Eggsy’s confused look, “I’m going to find someone who can fix our telephone problem once and for all.”

Eggsy got more uneasy, a definite furrow deepening between his eyebrows now.  “You’re gonna have to explain that one, bruv, because you’re not making a lot of sense right now.”

Before answering, Harry released a put-upon sigh and used his grip on Eggsy’s shoulder to get him walking again.  There was no reason that they couldn’t walk and talk at the same time and be efficient.  Even as they increased their pace to a steady but ground-eating lope, however, Eggsy’s wary gaze returned frequently to Harry, questions piling up behind his pursed lips.  Harry took a few moments more to compose his thoughts, internally impressed by Eggsy’s patience despite the fact that people he loved were in danger. “Wars are won and lost by three things: supply lines, maneuverability, and communications.  Within three days, supplies aren’t as important – and maneuvering one’s army is impossible if you can’t give them orders over a distance, leading us back to communications.”  Eggsy’s gaze was clear and determined, proof that he wasn’t confused yet, but still following Harry’s train of thought.  “So, ultimately, in this insular little war, C has the only advantage that he needs: he can talk to whomever he wants, whereas his opponents are in the dark, the Quartermaster’s single speech over the intercom notwithstanding.”

“So how does me lifting a mobile for you change all that?” Eggsy wanted to know.

“It doesn’t, not really,” Harry admitted, “But an island-wide signal jammer would.”

Eggsy’s eyes immediately lit up, and he turned nearly sideways as he jogged; the boy’s agility was really quite remarkable.  Also remarkable, it turned out, was what he knew: “C’s already got a signal jammer.”  At Harry’s suddenly intense look, Eggsy hurried to explain, “It’s how he’s keeping your collars from being activated – that Hound, Root, secretly built it before the rest of us even arrived.”  When Harry’s look got a bit exasperated, Eggsy added defensively, “What?  You never asked, and it didn’t come up.”

“So C’s inside man is a woman,” Harry concluded, finding that he wasn’t all that surprised.  Agent 009 was a strange but scarily capable woman, and it explained why she’d already been at C’s side when this all began – none of this had come as a surprise to her.

“Does that cause a problem?  That they’ve got a jammer already, I mean,” Eggsy elaborated quickly.

“It might help, actually,” Harry admitted, slotting that new piece of information into his head and re-evaluating the benefits and dangers like a gambler glancing over his hand of cards.  “I still want you to get me that phone, though.  Even if our plans are to put everyone on an even playing field and make C just as disconnected as everyone else, I want to be able to contact you up until that point so that we can time this.”

“Time what?”

“Eggsy,” Harry said, catching the younger man’s eye and holding it, “When all lines of communication are cut, C’s men are going to be understandably angry and frightened – and when they panic-”

“It’ll be every bastard for himself, and they’ll come for the helicopter, won’t they?” Eggsy realized in a fatalistic tone.

Perhaps Eggsy’s accent didn’t have the fine, upper-crust polish that Harry’s did, but clearly Eggsy wasn’t stupid.  Harry nodded.  “I’ll give you as much warning as I can before everything shuts down.  If possible, I’ll join you at Helicopter Pad C prior to setting off the signal jammer.”

“Aww, guv, you don’t have to do that,” Eggsy deflected, looking forward again as he jogged along.  His posture radiated insecurity, more of it than he’d shown up until now – as if he were more used to being attacked and threatened than he was used to being offered help.  Harry felt something in his chest melt a little.

Maybe that was why he kept looking at Eggsy, and said with great gravity and sincerity, “Perhaps.  But I’m going to anyway.  I owe you a debt, you’ll recall?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy said, seeming to recall that, and regain a bit of stability in the fact, “Yeah.  Okay.”

~^~

As they got closer to Helicopter Pad C, they slowed down.  Harry instinctively wanted to move out in front, but logically he knew that the people they’d be meeting were Eggsy’s people – albeit nonconsensually.  That, and the boy was clearly able to take care of himself, and even now was moving with the even, alert gait of a tomcat expecting trouble.  He was something to watch, really.  Eggsy was of medium height and size, but Harry had already learned first-hand that the brunet was well muscled, and his every step had the kind of balance that Harry usually only saw in acrobats or dancers.  It wasn’t overt, but it was there, and Harry couldn’t help but think that Eggsy would have made a good Kingsman.

“Eggsy,” Harry called quietly when he heard people ahead of them, but the pilot was already slowing down.  He was also pulling out his mobile again, flipping it open and starting to type.

“This’ll be the quickest way to get that mobile you want,” Eggsy explained, still texting, focusing on his work, “and keep anyone from shooting me accidentally.  You want to stay out of sigh, yeah?”

“Yes,” Harry agreed, having turned that over and over in his head, too.  Technically, he could show his face and claim that he was a Hound who’d already decided to take C up on his offer, but then it would be awkward to explain why he wanted to wander away again.  Harry could lie as smoothly as the next high-Pass agent, but it was simpler if they avoided the necessity altogether.  “Is that possible?”

“Easy,” Eggsy said in a tone that did indeed sound utterly unworried.  He hit ‘send.’  “There.  I told ’em that I was here and didn’t want my head blown off, so I wasn’t coming any closer until I knew it was clear.”  The phone vibrated briefly, and Eggsy opened up a returned message, instantly smirking.  “Ah, now we’re in business.  The owner of this text-”  He waved the phone as if to indicate the received message now lit up on its screen, looking very chuffed.  “-Is coming out to meet me.”

“He probably won’t come alone,” Harry pointed out neutrally.

Eggsy shrugged.  “Doesn’t matter.  I’m not planning to fight him, just… empty his pockets a bit.  All I care is that at least one person with a mobile is coming out here, so that you can hide nearby, and I can snatch and drop a phone somewhere that you can safely pick it up.”  Abruptly, Eggsy looked up at Harry from under his eyebrows, smile disappearing.  “Don’t ask how I know how to do all this.”

Innocent expressions were Harry’s specialty.  “The thought never crossed my mind,” he said without missing a beat, and watched as the poorly hidden shame in Eggsy’s eyes evaporated, replaced by tentative surprise and relief.  Harry took the risk of stepping closer, allowing him to put a hand on Eggsy’s shoulder again, this time giving it a squeeze.  “Good luck.  Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

The last sentence had more or less fallen out of Harry’s mouth of its own volition, and the agent wasn’t sure where it had come from, but Eggsy seemed to find it amusing.  The shit-eating grin was back in a flash, bright and cheeky.  “The thought never crossed my mind,” Eggsy said in a disturbingly good approximation of Harry’s upper-crust accent.

‘By God, if this boy doesn’t make it out of here alive, the rest of my life is going to be unremittingly boring,’ the revelation hit Harry like a bus, shocking him even as he resigned himself to the truth of it.  Eggsy’s father had been brilliant and interesting and filled with potential – and his son was that and more.  It would be a true sin if Harry didn’t get the chance to know him better.  He lifted his other hand to mimic the first, squeezing both of Eggsy’s shoulders and hoping that this wasn’t the last time he saw Eggsy’s eyes go surprised and then soft at the unexpected expression of camaraderie.

Without another word, Harry let go and turned away, stepping swiftly into a room just down the hall.  He closed the door but for a crack, the shadows settling down around him like a mother bird’s wing, but allowing him to still watch the proceedings through the slice of open doorway.  He was just in time to see Eggsy hiss out a breath past his teeth and then shake out his limbs – perhaps the boy wasn’t going to take unnecessary risks, but he was also going to be prepared in case he found trouble anyway.  Smart.  Harry nodded in mute approval.  Eggsy was a survivor, and while Harry was increasingly saddened by the life that had molded Eggsy so, he couldn’t argue with the results.  Unexpectedly, Eggsy squatted down and began fiddling with his shoelaces, and by the time he stood again, one was untied.

“Hey!  Oxford!” a voice shouted from further down the hallway not a moment later.  Eggsy looked up and turned, and Harry wasn’t sure whether he saw Eggsy tense up just a bit, or whether he himself was projecting – because Harry definitely found himself tensing, and he had to flex his hands to keep them from curling into an instinctive fist.  All high-Pass agents were deadly, but Harry was particularly adept at close-quarters hand-to-hand combat, and suddenly the distance between himself and Eggsy seemed too great.  If something happened, if someone were to become suspicious of the Unwin boy and…

But none of that happened.  ‘Oxford’ greeted the man who came down the hall – then the man and woman who followed – like old chums, shaking hands and slapping backs and even laughing.  If the others were surprised by the joviality, they didn’t hold out against it for long, and Harry recalled what he’d heard about Oxford’s friendliness.  It was a very disarming sort of mask, Harry had to admit, and Eggsy carried it off flawlessly.

He also carried off the first man’s phone flawlessly, to the point where even Harry just barely caught it.  The agent was already grinning, however, by the time Eggsy flashed the stolen mobile behind his back – cheeky pup, knowing that Harry was watching, even as everyone else stood obliviously in front of their belatedly returned pilot.  As everyone turned back the way they’d come, Eggsy hung back and finally drew attention to his shoelace.  There were a few derisive comments lobbed his way (all in good fun), and Eggsy laughed back as he bent down to tie.  Harry heard the other footsteps retreat, because no one was worried now, having been lulled by Oxford’s good humor.  Even if they had been idly watching, however, Eggsy was close enough to the wall that Harry doubted anyone would have seen the flick of his wrist that sent the mobile sliding just a few inches inside a doorway.  It wasn’t a particularly complicated hiding place, but it did the job as Eggsy immediately bounced to his feet again and trotted off after his fellows, leaving the phone behind.

“Good boy, Eggsy,” Harry murmured with pride like a flower of fire blooming warmly in his chest.  As soon as the coast was clear, he ghosted out of his hiding place – and, lo and behold, there was a mobile phone waiting for him, just inside an empty room down the hall.  Picking up the phone, already having memorized Eggsy’s number, Harry texted ~You didn’t need my luck after all~

He didn’t wait for a reply before retracing his steps, soon jogging down the halls and off to another destination entirely.  He had a rendezvous to make.

~^~

Harry Hart wasn’t the only person to have been transferred over from the Kingsman program.  Most agents had either been killed instead of captured, or disappeared entirely, but a decidedly larger populace of support staff had been peacefully hired to various positions in Eigengrau – after all, they already had training in dealing with a spying organization.  Merlin had been one of those transfers.  In the Kingsman program, Merlin had held a position comparable to Q’s, and still worked in that department, although past events seemed to have soured him a bit.  Harry had chastised him for not seeking promotion, but apparently watching the dissolution of the Kingsman program had hit Merlin harder than it had even hit Hart.  To be fair, it had been a rather bloody dissolution, and Merlin had always cared too much for his agents.

Still, Harry and Merlin had remained fast friends – and the arrival of Harry’s most recent Handler had paid dividends, in that she’d done wonders for Merlin’s mood.  Harry had to stifle a smirk just thinking of it.  He wasn’t supposed to know, of course, that the two had progressed beyond shy hellos since their first ‘chance’ meeting (Harry might have engineered it), but the sex seemed to have done Merlin some good.  Roxy looked very happy with the arrangement also, if the frequent sated look in her eyes was anything to go by.

Ultimately, what mattered to Harry was that his old friend was more himself again: the man who’d perhaps sat behind a computer screen more than he’d gotten out in the field, but was still an undeniably capable and dangerous man.  And a paranoid one, just like Harry.

That was why, when Harry broke into a room on the east side of Eigengrau on the second floor, he was utterly pleased instead of utterly peeved when he was instantly attacked.

The fist that flashed out at him was slimmer than he’d expected, but Harry took that in stride, dodging the punch and grabbing the hand in a move similar to the one he’d used on Eggsy.  When he tugged, it brought Roxy in to view, her hair tied harshly back and her eyes fierce.  “Stop, Roxy!” Merlin’s low bark rolled across the room a second later, halting the fight even as Roxy followed her training and struck again, this time nailing Harry in the stomach.  He’d tensed against the blow, and therefore retaliated faster than she’d anticipated, snatching up her other hand and twisting the young woman until he had her pinned against his front.  She tried to stomp on his instep as he held her there, arms in a tight ‘X’ across her chest and a furious shriek rising up her throat.  Harry avoided the stomp of her foot and the subsequent kick back towards his ankle.

He froze in place when another arm snaked around his throat from behind, thicker and more muscular.  “Let the lass go, Harry.”

At the growled order, Harry smiled, knowing that brogue anywhere.  “I’d like to point out that Roxy threw the first punch, and that I had every intention of coming in here for a polite talk,” Harry said as idly as if they were chatting over tea, although he firmed up his voice to add pointedly, “between friends.”

“Don’t-  Don’t listen to him, Merlin,” Roxy gasped, still struggling.  She was a lot harder to hold on to than Harry wanted to admit – but he wasn’t surprised.  After all, he’d trained with her, and some of these moves he’d taught her.  She would no doubt be one of the most formidable Handlers in Eigengrau with time, but for now, she was young, and Harry had been playing this dangerous game longer than she had.  Still, she tried to slam her head back into his nose even as she warned, “You heard the damned Director-General on the intercoms, offering the agents-!”

“Would you two bloody stop it!” Merlin finally just snarled, and with a lot more strength than people thought he possessed beneath his baggy pullovers, the Q-brancher changed tactics to instead try pulling Harry and Roxy apart.  Harry obligingly let go, and in fact stepped back smartly when he saw the opportunity to turn her over to someone else – she was a wildcat of a woman, and it was slightly amusing to see Merlin struggle with her for a moment.  Harry straightened his shirt while Merlin murmured things to her and kept her bodily from attacking again.  “He’s on our side,” Merlin assured, the thickness of his Scottish accent giving away how tense he was despite his gentle volume.  He looked up then, of course, his sharp, angular features and shaven skull giving him a particularly fierce, warlike look in the emergency lighting – despite the scholarly glasses settled on his long, aquiline nose.  Gaze wary, he asked more loudly, “Aye?”

“Rest assured, I’ve not fallen prey to the seductive offerings of the Director-General,” Harry quickly clarified, “Even before the Quartermaster’s counter-arguments, the deal looked a bit too good to be true – plus, I got some inside information.”  He could see now that Merlin was curious, and Roxy, too, but he decided to wait to tell them about Eggsy.  “It’s good to see you both well, under the circumstances,” he said with brisk politeness.

Roxy’s eyes had narrowed again, and she slipped out of Merlin’s grip to stalk forward.  She didn’t attack, fortunately, but she did ask shrewdly, “How the fuck did you find us?”

“Uh…” Merlin started, embarrassed.

As Roxy turned to look bemusedly now between the two of them, the older men exchanged slightly guilty glances.  It was Harry who spoke up, however, because his own answers wouldn’t jeopardize whether or not he got sex, “Merlin and I both share a deep appreciation for preparedness…”

“You share…?” Roxy started, trailing off, and it was at that point that Harry realized that she perhaps hadn’t been aware that they were old colleagues.  Harry hadn’t mentioned it, but only because he’d thought to leave that particular discussion to Merlin – but apparently that hadn’t happened.

As a sort of dawning realization began to grow on Roxy’s face like the mushroom cloud above a nuclear bomb, Harry surged gamely onwards and Merlin muttered something that might have been a prayer, “So we’ve made… What would you call it?”

“Contingency plans,” Merlin supplied helpfully.

“Yes, in the event of various dangerous situations, not unlike families will have plans in place in case of a fire at home.”

Roxy wasn’t listening anymore.  Her expression had the burning look of a slow but deadly fire, and her gaze was fixed firmly on Harry.  “You two know each other.”

“Well, of course,” Merlin interjected, which was a bad idea: the fire began to blow his way.  Merlin’s nostrils flared and he rocked back on his heels a bit, but still tried to finish, “Harry introduced us, after all.”

“How long have you two known each other?” Roxy demanded, undeterred.

“Er…”  Merlin looked to Harry for help.

Harry, realizing that he’d have to be the one to bite the bullet, sighed and finally admitted, “Since Kingsmen.  We both entered the program at roughly the same time.”  He watched as Roxy’s expression turned to one of dumbfounded shock before she covered her face with both hands.  “Merlin was injured during training and was therefore disqualified from a position as an active agent, but in the time it took him to heal, it was discovered that he was a more valuable asset running the operations from behind the scenes.  He was invaluable.”

“Thank you,” Merlin said, pleasantly surprised by the praise.

“Don’t mention it.”

Roxy still had her face in her hands.  She dragged in a ragged gasp and exhaled, “I’ve basically been fucking my agent’s brother, haven’t I?”

“I… uh…”  Now it was Harry’s turn to also look a bit scandalized, as he exchanged a look with Merlin.  Merlin was emphatically shaking his head.  Harry chose to delicately answer, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“That is to say,” Merlin tried to salvage the shaky answer, and made it worse, “there are certain things that brothers do not do with one anoth-”

“Shut up!” Roxy demanded shrilly.  Her hands had migrated from her eyes to her ears, and she looked very near hysteria.  Merlin and Harry exchanged awkward, guilty glances, even as Harry told himself that he had nothing to be embarrassed over.  His and Merlin’s relationship was long past – although it had been quite pleasant.  Nothing to be ashamed of.  When he opened his mouth to say so, however, Roxy lifted one imperious finger and snarled, “I might have attacked you barehanded, but I do have my gun, and if you don’t change the subject this very second, I swear to God I will shoot you both.”

Merlin’s eyes flicked to the nearby windowsill; Harry’s gaze followed, and he nodded to show that he’d seen the promised gun.  Perhaps this was a bad time to be having this conversation.  Clearing his throat gruffly, Harry started over, “To the business at hand then, yes?”

“Yes,” Merlin replied very quickly.  For all that Merlin was a grown man with the combat training to give even a Hound a run for their money (Harry sparred with Merlin enough, in private, to know that the man wasn’t out of practice), he looked desperate to be talking about a less dangerous topic.

Rubbing her temples, Roxy urged, still in a dangerous sort of tone, “Yes, please, tell us why-”  She paused, stopped, and lifted her head to ask in disbelief, “Wait, earlier, were you saying that you two seriously had a contingency plan for where to meet up if Eigengrau were overrun?”

This time when Merlin and Harry exchanged looks, it was to raise bewildered eyebrows at each other.  They looked back at Roxy simultaneously in confusion.  “Yes,” they said in tandem, unable to understand why this should be so surprising.  Of course they’d had this plan in place; they weren’t stupid.  In this sort of situation, they had to meet up somewhere amidst the chaos, and this room had a defensible entrance and could be exited out the window – either down to the ground or up to the roof, with climbing equipment that Merlin had smuggled in and tested.  It was a good room.

Roxy’s shoulders sagged and she dropped her arms.  “I give up, I sincerely do,” she muttered.  Then, raising her voice to a resigned but normal volume, “Fine, we’ve all met up here, as planned, apparently.  Now what?”

“Now,” Harry said calmly, and perhaps he waited just a little bit for effect, aware of attention from both Merlin (his oldest friend) and Roxy (also perhaps a friend, or at least a very tolerable Handler) before he finished, “we royally muck up C’s plans.  If you’re both amenable, of course.”

The fiery light was back in Roxy’s eyes – but this time it was C who should probably feel fear.  When the blonde-haired young woman smiled, it was truly disturbing in its pleasantness.  “Harry, I’m truly sorry for punching you just now.”

Merlin, a bit more cautious, folded his arms and stated warily, “I hope you have more of a plan than that.”

“I do,” Harry stated proudly, and then proceeded to relate his meeting with ‘Oxford’ – and all of the information he’d learned thereafter, culminating in the tantalizing bit of information about Root’s signal-jammer, and how they could use it to level the playing field if they could get their hands on it.  Merlin was immediately interested, pulling his glasses off and polishing them on the hem of his jumper as he began to pace and think.  Roxy, meanwhile, had got silent and thoughtful, watching Harry.  “What is it?” he finally asked, facing her reasonably.

She and Harry were both sitting down now, both of their chairs positioned strategically so that anyone trying to come in the door would be attacked from either side – as Harry had been.  Now Roxy leaned back, however, stroking a finger over her lower lip consideringly.  “You’re not telling us everything about this Eggsy fellow, are you?” she said bluntly.

Merlin froze in his pacing, looking back.  He knew the story of the Unwin family, and had read between the lines; all Harry had actually said was that he’d found out Oxford’s real identity and learned that he could be flipped against C if his family was kept safe.  Roxy was apparently keen as well as fierce and pretty, however, a combo worthy of Harry’s oldest friend.  That, perhaps, was why Harry smiled a small, regretful smile and replied, “No.  Some secrets aren’t mine to tell.”

For a moment Roxy just kept staring at him thoughtfully, now nibbling at the tip of her finger.  When she dropped her hand, however, she didn’t seem frustrated.  “I don’t actually care,” she admitted, “At least not right now.  Now, all I care is that Oxford - or Eggsy, or whatever you call him – is our way through C’s defenses, and that for some reason you want to help him.  Tell me, Harry-”  She tucked a stray strand of blonde hair back behind her ear.  “-Would you be doing this if it weren’t for him?  Even after what the Quartermaster said, this still sounds like a dream come true for you, but what you’re suggesting…”  She shook her head.  “I don’t see a way that this ends except for you still a collared Hound.”

“I’m not incapable of putting the greater good above my own pride and comfort,” Harry said staunchly, lifting a hand to touch the collar almost completely hidden behind the collar of his button-down.  Roxy accepted that answer with a nod, having questions but presently deciding not to look a metaphorical gift-horse in the mouth.  Merlin, however, had slipped his glasses back on and was eyeing Harry still.  His dark, sharp eyes were unreadable, but they clearly suspected more to the story.

Which there was.

Harry had, perhaps, also left out the part about leaving Eggsy behind to guard the helicopter.  While Harry did indeed see the dangers in letting high-Pass agents like himself escape to run free across the UK, he wasn’t above hedging his bets.  There was the faintest, slimmest chance that he could end up walking away from this a free man, if he played his cards right and had access to a helicopter and a helicopter pilot who owed him a favor…

Chapter Text

~^~

The bullet tore through muscle and flesh, and Mallory was only distantly aware of crying out as he lost his footing and fell.  The agony in his left outer thigh was excruciating enough that it precluded any other pain, so that Mallory could have fallen down a flight of stairs and not noticed the change – fortunately, he simply fetched up against the hallway wall, and Trevelyan was immediately grabbing his shoulders.  “Shit, Lorraine has good aim,” Alec huffed, too out of breath for it to be clear whether his tone was angry or impressed.  They didn’t have a lot of time, so Alec barely spared one glance for the bleeding wound before sliding his hands under M’s armpits and dragging him out of sight into the nearest room.  Mallory tried to be of assistance, but all he could do was snarl in the face of the pain and sag to the floor as 006 let go.

The Hound immediately returned to the door, and there was the sound of things being dragged around as he blocked it.  In what felt like years but was probably not even a minute, Trevelyan was back at M’s side, gripping his left knee firmly while pulling away Mallory’s hand to see the damage.  To his credit, he didn’t look alarmed, but Mallory was well aware of a Hound’s tolerance for bodily harm and gore.  “We’re lucky that it was Lorraine and not David who shot you,” Alec said by way of assessing the situation, naming off other high-Pass agents even as he stripped off his pullover (leaving him in a sleeveless tee beneath) and began tearing it into strips, the muscles of his shoulders and arms flexing rhythmically, “I wouldn’t want to face her in close quarters, but he’s more the sniper of the pair.”  Some cloth was efficiently wadded up and pressed against the wound while the rest Alec wrapped swiftly around Mallory’s leg, holding it in place but also making it all hurt even worse.  Through it all, Alec just kept up the narrative, “I keep hoping that they’ll kill each other off, but no luck so far.  There.”  While Mallory clenched his jaw against another sound of pain, Alec tied it all off.

“How bad?” Mallory gritted out.

Alec just shrugged, then swiftly grabbed the other man’s arm and slipped under it.  “Not really sure.  The lighting in here is shit and we don’t exactly have time for me to get into your trousers for a better look.  Now, can you stand?”

He was already standing as he asked, so it was just about the most useless question that Mallory had ever heard.  He answered by way of a strangled off snarl as he was hauled into a vertical position.  Trevelyan connected the dots from there, observing absently, “I suppose that running will be too much to hope for…”

At that point the door shuddered, voices audible from the other side.

“Come on, before 011 and 012 start shooting through the door,” Alec commanded.  Somehow, he still sounded almost lackadaisical, and Mallory didn’t know how the man did it – he was grateful, however.  Because if Trevelyan could keep his shit together, then Mallory could do the same.

Luckily, there was a second door leading out of the room, and they disappeared into another section of Eigengrau’s seemingly endless maze.

~^~

“John.  John!”  The lanky Hound was moving back and forth behind the bars of his cell again, but his attention remained fixed on his Handler like metal shavings to a slightly-limping magnet.  Their last conversation had been cut off by more refugees coming in, and by this point, Holding was full of Eigengrau employees.  Now, though, things had quieted down enough for Watson to take a break again and just breathe.   

Sherlock, on the other hand, was veritably bursting with energy.  “John, you have to let me out.”

Looking up from where he’d been gingerly checking his bandaged knee, John made an ‘Are you serious?’ face and replied, “I really don’t.”

“John-!”

“Stop saying my name like a magic word, Sherlock!  It’s not going to make any difference.”

That, of course, stopped the middle Holmes brother not at all.  He merely wove back and forth like a tiger at a zoo a few more times, then came back to the discussion from another angle. “Maybe this will then,” he said in a sharper tone, gripping the bars and glaring through them.  By this point, everyone else was ignoring the intermittent exchanges between John and the high-Pass agent.  “Whatever is going on outside has to do with what got me in here in the first place.”

“Offending powerful people?” John deadpanned, still not impressed.

Sherlock looked away and made an irked noise in his throat, but admitted, “Yes, yes, that – but before that.  Stop thinking on such a small scale, John, it’s just disappointing.”  When John snorted indelicately at him, Sherlock returned to the topic like a dog to a bone, “You’re already agreed with my deductions regarding the killings that I was investigating-”

“Party-crashing.”

“-Investigating,” Sherlock repeated with more emphasis, straightening his spine and proudly looking down his nose at John, who seemed immune to the arch look.  “The man on the intercom was strategically killing off Eigengrau employees and replacing them with his own men.”

“Which probably wasn’t all that hard,” John said, and for once Sherlock was caught off guard, and he leaned forward again to listen intently, “considering that it’s the Director-General, C, who’s behind all this.”  At Sherlock’s widening eyes and fixed attention, John pinked a little and shrugged it off, “The gossip is doing the rounds, even under these circumstances.  We got attacked by a chatty group on our last run, and they gave up some information.”  Something about John’s eyes got cold as he said that last sentence, and Sherlock’s heart-rate picked up as he involuntarily began to deduce just what that meant.  ‘Gave up’ might not have been a voluntary sort of thing, proving that John wasn’t as harmless a man as he appeared to be.  Sherlock made a mental note to stop dismissing the Handler so quickly.

Turning back to the topic at hand, Sherlock backed away from the bars and rubbed at his chin, thinking.  Soon his thinking became audible.  “There are still pieces to this that are missing.  As the Director-General, yes, he has access to employee files, but that doesn’t explain how he’s able to orchestrate multiple killings and yet not get caught by Sybil.  I mean, I got caught by Sybil, and I’m far less murderous and far more cunning than he is,” Sherlock grumbled.  Behind him, John chuckled, but Sherlock ignored him and lifted his other hand to steeple his fingers, tapping them against his lower lip like a metronome to center his wildly churning thoughts.  “And the man who killed the pilot-”

“Hannibal Lecter, Agent 003,” John supplied.

“No, he was exonerated,” Sherlock corrected quickly, “But that still means that we have yet another killer who was moving freely right under Sybil’s nose, even before C’s arrival.”

By this point, John was starting to pay more attention, too, drawn inexorably into the gravity of Sherlock’s ideas like a planet being pulled into a new orbit.  He’d forgotten his knee and was leaning forward intently.  “Technically, C didn’t say that no Hound was involved – just that Hannibal Lecter wasn’t the actual murderer this time,” he noted, “We could still be looking at a high-Pass agent.”

“No, because these keep track of us, don’t they?” Sherlock reached up a hand to pluck at the collar around his throat.  He demanded, “Were there any other Hounds in and around the scene of the crime near the time of death?”

“I don’t know,” John had to admit.

“But Hannibal was?”

“I think so?”

Despite John’s increasingly unsure answers, Sherlock was just getting warmed up, and he surged back to the bars.  “If there weren’t any other Hounds in the area within the time of death, than that means that the killer wasn’t collared,” he deduced in a rush.

John tried to slow him down, raising a belaying hand, “Now, Sherlock, we don’t know if anyone else-”

“But they would have investigated if there were others, John!”

“Not with Hannibal already in custody!” John barked back.

Just as both men’s voices threatened to reach shouting pitch, one of the refugees spoke up, her voice timid but breaking through the argument, “There wasn’t.”

John and Sherlock’s heads snapped towards the mousy, older woman sitting against the wall, a bandage around her head and knuckles on one hand split open.  She repeated slowly, clarifying, “I work in Q-branch, and we have records of all the movements of the high-Pass agents.  Agent 003 was the only one in the area within the time that the coroner thinks the pilot was killed.”

“See?”  Sherlock turned back to John smugly, “I was right.”

John rolled his eyes at the childish triumph.  “You’re sure?” he turned back to the woman.  She just nodded, her eyes clear despite the horrors she had faced today.

“This is why you have to let me out, John,” Sherlock got right back to where this had all started, and this time John leaned back against the wall and covered his face with his hands.

Sherlock thought that he could just barely hear John mutter, “My name is like a buzzword to you,” then say more loudly, still through his hands, “That information doesn’t give me a single bloody reason to let you out.  You’re a Hound, too, remember?  You’ve been incarcerated for a reason, and C is the only person in this whole damn place mad enough to want you freed.”

“You’re not listening,” Sherlock seethed.  He took a deep breath and slowed down, however, reminding himself that this was how normal people were: their brains were slow and they were stupid.  “I need to see the body.  Better yet would be to see the Director-General himself-”

“Not going to happen,” John grunted.

Sherlock ignored him.  “-But even learning about one of his cronies would undoubtedly answer questions.  I only need to fill in a few blanks, and I know that I’ll understand this.”  Perhaps Sherlock’s tone had finally grown fervent enough, desperate enough, for John to hear the change in cadence and tone; the Handler lowered his hands slowly, eyes wary but watchful now.  Sherlock, trying not to look like an addict begging for a fix, continued with his long fingers curling around the bars again, “I can almost see the whole pictures, John.  There are just a few key pieces missing, and if I can understand just a little bit more – even if it’s just to learn who the real killer of Captain Connor White-”  Surprise flashed across John’s face; he hadn’t expected Sherlock to remember the name, or to speak it respectfully.  “-Then I know that I’ll see what’s happening here.”

Something like understanding was beginning to color John’s expression, although it was still heavily colored by distrust.  He didn’t say anything, however, and by now everyone was staring.  Sherlock, after just a few minutes, couldn’t take it, and broke the silence to say in as close to a contrite tone as he possessed, “Please, John.”

‘Please’ didn’t generally get thrown around the Holmes household very often, mostly because it didn’t do a lot of good, but apparently it hit a chord in Watson, because the man stood up.  Sherlock noticed that he wasn’t limping as he approached, despite his injury, even.  There was a sort of singular determination in his short frame and measured stride.  “How do I know you’re not just looking for an escape route?” John asked, but his voice wasn’t accusatory.  It was merely factual, and Sherlock could hear John’s history in the army in that tone alone.

“Because I have absolutely no combat training, and therefore would be useless to C anyway,” Sherlock admitted shamelessly.  He met John’s eyes evenly, although he had to look down because of their different in height.  “Beyond that, I’d say that my brother is on the island as well, and even I’m not so heartless as to leave while he’s still here, in danger.”

“I can’t confirm that second one, but the first is true,” John agreed under his breath, eyebrows moving into a thoughtful expression.  Sherlock tried not to rankle at how easily John had agreed with him on the lack of combat training.  It wasn’t that Sherlock was useless in a fight, it was just that he’d always had much better things to do in his life than enroll in something as pedestrian as martial arts classes…  “You do realize, though, that what you’re proposing is basically walking out into a combat zone?”

Sherlock had been purposefully ignoring that fact, and now he broke eye-contact to look away uncomfortably.  “Well, I’ll have you along for that, naturally,” he demurred gruffly, looking anywhere but at the short little man in front of him, whom he strongly suspected was smirking.

“Just for that, you’ve got yourself a deal,” John said with a definite glint of amusement in his eyes – but perhaps a light of adventure, too, as he turned to go and find the keys to Sherlock’s cell.  Excitement lit Sherlock up like a firework, and he barely even bothered to listen as John got into a swift and brutal argument with his fellows, getting his way with remarkable speed for a man who looked like just your everyday, average bloke.

~^~

“No.”

Harold took the negative in stride, continuing to pack up the few belongings he’d brought with him as he said stoically, “You can say ‘no’ all you want, Mr. Reese, but I’m still going.  The fact remains that I left one of the electronic keys to your collars in Q-branch, and regardless of C’s intentions, that piece of technology can’t be left to fall into enemy hands.”

The high-Pass agent was standing awkwardly in the center of the room, and Harold could practically see new grey hairs sprouting at his temples.  “And neither can you,” he argued back.

When H had first met John Reese, Agent 008, he’d been impressed by the man’s self-containment and calm.  It had set him apart from other Hounds, who could sometimes be impulsive and angry, or else made great efforts to appear gallant and charming.  Reese never really tried to maintain any kind of façade, and Harold had soon realized that the calm demeanor was real – making 008 one of the most genuine people in Eigengrau.  From there, H had come to the slow realization that not all high-Pass agents were amoral monsters, but a diverse group of individuals who could in fact be capable of good as well as evil.  Most of them seemed more capable of the latter, but if nothing else, Reese seemed willing to follow Harold’s moral compass nowadays.

Right now, he looked like he was second-guessing Harold’s morals.  Usually unflappable, Reese’s face was coming dangerously close to actually showing strong emotions as his lips pursed into a hard, slightly downturned line and his brows began to pull together over his grey eyes.  He was also starting to use sarcasm, which was always a bad sign: “Not that I disapprove of you being heroic, Finch, but you do know that there’s a fine line between being heroic and being an idiot, right?”

Harold hadn’t heard his last name in so long that he almost didn’t register it as being directed at him, and when he did, he flicked a displeased look 008’s way.  “Idiocy or not, I need to get back to Q-branch,” he maintained stubbornly.  By now he had all of his things, which included his phone and laptop, which were useless at the moment thanks to the virus that had swept through Eigengrau’s systems like a forest fire.  H secretly held out hope that he’d find a solution to that in Q-branch, too.  When H straightened determinedly to face the door, he found Reese in his way, expression world-weary and jaded – but also unhappy and worried, if you looked deeper.  “Please don’t stop me,” H said as steadily as possible.  His words somehow still came out hushed, and the moment stretched out like something silvery and fragile.

Then Reese broke it with a gusting exhale through his nose.  “I’m going with you,” he sighed resignedly, and stepped out of Harold’s way to drop down onto his belly and drag something out from under the bed: a rifle that he definitely wasn’t supposed to have.

H found himself smiling, relieved and fond despite what they were about to walk into.

High Psychopass or not, John was one thing, undeniably: loyal, at least to those who had earned it.

~^~

Q was starving.  He forgot meals all the time, but he was used to having tea to keep him going, and so far he’d had nothing but water – which just wasn’t the same.  Now his stomach was growling embarrassingly, and suddenly nothing sounded as worthwhile as food.  By the glances with one raised eyebrow that Bond kept casting back at him as they walked, the Hound had noticed.  When those glances seemed to come very close to accompanying laughs, Q finally broke and said, “Pardon me for not being fond of starving.”

“No one’s fond of starving,” James returned mildly, but was definitely smiling over his shoulder now, padding along just ahead of Q with a smooth and easy strode, “But not everyone has a stomach as vocal as yours.”

“Arse,” Q grumbled, forgetting entirely for a moment that he was insulting a trained killer.  Even when Q belatedly recalled his situation, he didn’t immediately drown in fear as before, the reaction muddied by the memories of gentle hands inspecting his bruises and the relaxed shoulder leaned companionably against his, seeping warmth.  Q let his mind drift, idly contemplating the shifting shadows between 007’s shoulder-blades as his feet carried him along in the man’s dependable wake.  He wasn’t sure at what point exactly it had happened, but he trusted that everything would be all right so long as he stayed close.  Maybe he’d even get a decent meal.  “We are going to find food, correct?” Q couldn’t help but clarify.

Bond didn’t turn around this time, but instead just chuckled, “Yes.”

They were headed towards the kitchens, which James said was their best bet, although by this time everyone would be starting to get the same idea.  Hopefully hunger was still coming in second to basic safety, however, and they wouldn’t be wading through a herd of hungry people just to get a bite to eat.  So far, with James taking them on a circuitous route, they’d met up with no one, and had only heard the sounds of altercations from a distance.  It seemed like, for three days, everyone was willing to go hungry if it meant hiding and staying alive, or hunting and using this time for as much vengeance as possible.  Q shivered, and was quietly thankful that he and James fell into neither of those categories.

“We’ll head in the back way, through the servers’ entrance,” James said as they got closer, “That way, if anyone else got here ahead of us, they’ll be less likely to notice us.  This isn’t exactly a route that everyone knows.”

Q cast his companion a suspicious glance.  “Then how do you know it?”

Bond’s returning leer was all sex.  “I was getting lessons from one of the cooks?”

“Forget I asked,” Q sighed, even as his mind supplied what kinds of ‘lessons’ those had been – chances are, 007 had been teaching as much as learning.  And neither party had walked away hungry.  He heeded Bond’s hushing gesture and fell quiet as they began to weave their way through a series of doors, the hallways tight but not so small as to preclude trolleys or trays of food being moved back and forth.  Soon they came to the two-way swinging doors that were a staple of kitchens everywhere, and Q had by this point relaxed a bit – even 007 wasn’t giving off signs of tension, so Q allowed himself to look around curiously.  As with every room in Eigengrau without access to day-lit windows, everything was lit an eerie gold by just emergency lighting, but they had obviously entered a kitchen.

Q was just registering that the place was actually comfortably warm when 007 suddenly went from calm but alert to suddenly one big mass of tension.  “Fuck,” Q heard him say under his breath, but it was another two heartbeats before Q was able to follow 007’s fixed, dangerously narrowed blue eyes – then another few heartbeats before Q realized that the shadow he was looking at was actually a person, and that person was Agent 003.  Q’s eyes widened, and he was about to back up when James reached back and caught his sleeve, silently demanding stillness.  Feeling a lot like a rabbit caught in the shadow of a hawk, hoping to blend into the grass, Q looked back again at Lecter’s deeply shadowed eyes.  The man was dressed eerily like James, actually: a grey pullover whose high neck artfully hid his collar, and dark trousers that seemed to accentuate the power of his legs, his steady stance.  He looked eminently at ease there, standing in the shadows just a few strides away.  007 hadn’t even noticed him, and somehow that was the scariest part.

“Hannibal!”  The new voice, sharp and sudden, was unexpected.  One of Hannibal’s eyebrows rose mildly and he turned to look back and to his left.  Another figure appeared, dark-haired and lacking a Hound’s collar, striding out of the deeper shadows.  Q didn’t recognize the fellow, but while the newcomer looked rather the worse for wear – scabbed cuts on his cheek and mouth, one sleeve torn to reveal a bandaged shoulder – he approached Hannibal without any markers of fear or hesitation.  And Hannibal let him, not turning despite the attentive angling of his head.  The newcomer had quick, expressive eyes beneath a messy fall of dark hair, and those eyes quickly flicked past Hannibal to take in Bond and Q, beginning to grow wary now.  As his gaze hit James, they paused on 007's eyes... and the injured young man missed a step.  Unexpectedly, Hannibal reached over without a word and steadied him.  Q frowned, unable to puzzle apart the agent's attentiveness or square it with Hannibal’s usual lethality.

Hannibal, one hand still on his companion’s right elbow, turned back to Bond and Q with a deceptively benign smile.  “Will, let me introduce you to James Bond, a fellow agent like myself,” he said cordially, although there was something ironic glinting in his eyes as he dipped his head minutely 007’s way.  Increasing Q’s worry was the way Bond stiffened; Q watched the lines of muscles sharpen beneath 007’s pullover, all down the agent’s arms and back.  Then Hannibal’s eyes flicked past James to settle on Q, something amused and intrigued lighting them almost imperceptibly.  “And the new Quartermaster of Eigengrau.  James, Q – meet Will Graham.”

“Hi,” Graham said, in what Q could only call supreme awkwardness.  He’d ripped his eyes away from James’s and now seemed unsure where to put his gaze, eyes flicking restlessly around Bond’s shoulders, Q’s chin and hair, making Q wonder if there was perhaps something wrong with him.

The movement was slow and easy, yet somehow possessive, as Hannibal’s hand moved from Will’s elbow to his back – polite yet somehow out of place for the situation.  003’s eyes remained on Q for a moment, mild and outwardly friendly as he said, “It’s a pleasure to see you still alive under the circumstances, Quartermaster.”  Then Hannibal’s eyes roved back to James, and it was like the temperature in the room dropped.  The air between them could have been cracked like a sheet of ice, and Q quivered under the tension in the air.  This was what it looked like when two thunderstorms met.  Out of all the high-Pass agents that Q had met, Hannibal Lecter was definitely one of the most dangerous – but Q’s appreciation for Bond’s deadliness grew by the day, and he was meeting 003’s gaze with a level-eyed deadliness that was the equivalent of an unsheathed knife.  Next to Hannibal, Will shifted a step back.  

“007,” Hannibal addressed him again, slow and easy, soft and quiet with the slightest cat’s-tongue rasp, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

~^~

Mallory was in bad shape, but he was still alive and breathing, not to mention swearing, as he and 006 made it to one of the abandoned living quarters – having finally shaken the most recent pursuit.  The make-shift bandage was soaked through with blood, and Alec dug through the simple, Spartan rooms for supplies while Mallory sat on the edge of the bed and tried vainly to ignore the pain.

“Usually I’d tell you that it’s totally manly to scream,” Alec called from the little en suite bathroom, “but for now, being quiet is probably for the best."

Taking a couple of deep breaths, pushing the throbbing agony of his leg down, Mallory said breathlessly but otherwise quite calmly, “Fuck you.”

Trevelyan just laughed.  He’d never been much intimidated by authority before, and wasn’t about to start now, clearly.  He returned a moment later with some towels and a first aid kit stuffed under one arm, a glass of water in the other.  Initially, M balked at the offered cup, before he realized how ridiculous it was to distrust offerings from a man who could have let him die on a dozen different occasions today.  With one last wary glance, the head of Eigengrau accepted the glass with a silent nod of thanks, then gulped it down greedily.  He likewise only hesitated a second before accepting Paracetamol from the first aid kit, realizing that he needed painkillers more than he needed his machismo.

“Well then, now that the party’s over, I guess it’s time to see just how bad this is,” Alec nodded to Mallory’s leg, dropping down onto his haunches next to the bed.  He was already making a face.  “I can either cut away your trousers all the way up to your hip, or you can strip them off and save us both the trouble,” Alec offered frankly, then shrugged, “The second option will also save us both the embarrassment of you running around with one open trouser-leg from here on out.”

“Whereas the first option leaves me running around in just my pants,” Mallory cut back wryly.

Alec was unfazed; snark had always been his native tongue.  “You say that like it’s going to be permanent, and I won’t let you have your trousers back.”  He was reaching for the bandage while he spoke, so Mallory gave in at that point, undoing his belt and then the button and zip for his trousers while Alec unwrapped the wound.  Despite the tight bandage, the wound had bled enough to soak a patch of red into his trouser-leg as broad as his spread hand, and it stuck to his leg like a wetsuit as he tried to pull it off.  Without being asked, Alec stepped in to help, and Mallory couldn’t contain a few more sharp expletives by the time he stripped the garment off.

“What?” Mallory panted, looking warily at Alec as the Hound stood a few steps away, just staring with a peculiar expression on his rugged features.

The expression resolved itself into a cheeky smile, and Alec winked, “Just thinking about how I never thought I’d see the head of Eigengrau without his trousers.  I’m committing it to memory.  You’ve really got nice legs.”

Mallory lobbed the bottle of pills at Alec’s head, and was too tired to be more than irked when the agent caught the object before it could hit him.  The grin was fully-fledged now, reminding Mallory that 006 was renowned as one of the most annoying agents in Eigengrau, as well as one of the deadliest.  The deadliness of the man before him still had Mallory unnerved, and he tensed up and leaned away as Alec approached, although he knew that he couldn’t’ go anywhere – Lorraine, Agent 011, he recalled now, and her bullet had seen to that.  Surprisingly, though, Alec showed enough sensitivity to slow down his approach and show his hands empty of everything except the intercepted Paracetamol bottle.  “Hey, if I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it already,” the Hound said, tone surprisingly frank and the humor gone as if it had never existed, “But Q made a pretty good case for you, and I know that James trusts the boffin’s judgment, too.”  Alec pulled up a chair so that he could sit by Mallory’s left knee, and the head of Eigengrau let him, even if he still eyed the Hound askance.  “Now, are you going to let me help you with that leg, or are we going to have a fight over this?”

Narrowing his eyes, Mallory lifted his chin proudly even as he observed with full awareness of his situation, “I’m pretty sure that any fight at this point would be one-sided.”

Alec’s mouth twitched towards a smile.  “So I guess the real question is, are you going to let me help you with that leg, or are you going to be a stupid arse about it and force me to sit on you and then fix your leg?”

“Everything I’ve heard is true,” Mallory said in faux surprise, “You really are an insufferable bastard.”

The smile grew into something wickedly pleased.  “That’s not exactly the nicest thing that someone has ever said to me after I’ve gotten them out of their trousers, but I’ll take it,” Alec said airily.  He took that as permission to get to work, however, and unabashedly reached over Mallory’s lap to grab the first-aid kit, where he’d left it on the other corner of the bed.  What followed was not easy and was not pleasant, but Alec knew what he was doing and did indeed seem determined to patch M up and keep him alive.

Later, Mallory lay passed out on the bed, still sans trousers but with gauze wrapped neatly around his upper left thigh.  He was alive, and breathing, and would live to see tomorrow.  Alec, blood still all over his hands, stood over him in the semi-darkness, his expression cast unreadably in shadow.  

Chapter Text

~^~

Will remembered Agent 007 from his file, but more than that, he’d read ‘killer’ in every line of the man’s body.  Like Hannibal, Bond had a veneer of humanity about him that hid something monstrous underneath, and Will’s empathy was still so raw that it took almost no effort to see through the layers.  Death rolled off Bond’s shoulders like a morning fog, and it took effort for Will not to glance over at Hannibal – because he knew that he wouldn’t get any less lethal results there.  Already he could read a map to pending violence, stretching out like a skein between the two agents, throwing out strings to Q, to himself, sticking to skin with sticky threads…

Jerking a step back, Will gave his head a hard shake, disturbed by how easily his mind had wandered and expanded like a piece of origami unbuilding itself.  Usually he looked at a scene and only reconstructed the past, but apparently that was too easy here: one glance and he knew that Bond had years of blood on his hands, and shared a double-bladed sword with Hannibal that threatened to cut them both to the quick.  With that history already unraveled, Will could feel his mind grabbing ravenously for more, and it took effort to rein it in.  In fact, the only thing that grounded him as he stumbled back was Hannibal’s firm hand he found splayed across the small of his back.  Suddenly there was the urge to glance over, because he knew that he’d find perfect order in those tawny eyes.  There was no chaos in Hannibal – there was violence, yes, but it was all situated in a matrix as perfect as the core of an iceberg, and Will wanted a piece of it so badly that he was ready to reach into Hannibal’s chest to grab it…

“007,” Hannibal’s exquisitely polite voice dragged Will back to reality like a choke-chain being yanked, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Will watched as the blond-haired agent across from them shifted his stance, the lines of a tiger in his body-language, as clear as if the creature had been tattooed on his skin.  “Just passing through,” the man said in the same easy tone that Hannibal was using, as if he’d plucked the voice out of the air between them and swallowed it for his own use.  It was eerie, and Will shivered.  Bond shifted his weight again, and Will realized that he was seeing more than dangerousness – there was protectiveness, too, keeping the agent subtly in front of the Quartermaster.  Suddenly Will was seeing moves on a chessboard, but he couldn’t quite decide who was the King, the Knight, the Rook…  He closed his eyes and struggled to rein in his brain again, feeling more out of control than he’d ever felt.

Unexpectedly, Hannibal’s hand flexed against his back, and despite what Will knew those hands had done – horrible, atrocious things – he was absurdly grateful for the gentle stroke of the thumb against his spine.  It sent a chill up his back and momentarily banished the swarm of gnat-like thoughts.  Hannibal responded to Bond as if nothing unusual was occurring, “In that case, are you hungry?  I’d be terribly rude to let colleagues just ‘pass through,’ as you say, without offering them something to eat.  We are in the kitchens, after all.”

007’s eyes narrowed, flicking briefly back and forth – checking exits, cataloguing his surroundings, Will realized.  From his frown, he didn’t quite like what he saw.  “We might have to politely decline,” he said slowly.

“Are you sure?” Hannibal quickly volleyed back, still feigning normalcy as 007 was, “I’d think that your Quartermaster would appreciate the opportunity to eat in peace, as his speech has to have made him quite unpopular.”

“Did it now?  You don’t seem bothered.”

“I like to think that I am not a man quick to anger.  Besides, it would be in poor taste for me to become angry at the Quartermaster when he is clearly of importance to you – don’t you agree?”

By this point in the careful, too-polite conversation, Will finally felt as if he’d gotten his head on straight again.  Of course, all that meant was that he had nothing to distract him from how absurd this discussion was getting.  “God, this is like watching a waltz,” Will muttered before he could think better of it, lifting a hand to rub at his temples.  He closed his eyes, both against the lingering headache and the fact that all of the attention had now turned to him.  “Would you stop dancing around each other already?”

“Will, I would hardly say that-”

The innocent tone Hannibal was using didn’t even register, and Will dropped his hands and demanded of the Hound next to him, “Are you going to eat him?”  He first poked Hannibal, and then pointed at Q, both of whom jumped a bit in surprise.  The Quartermaster froze entirely as Will spoke to him next, “And are you hungry?”

There was an awkward silence in which Hannibal’s mouth tipped down in mild disapproval and Q blinked like an owl caught in the daylight.  It was, surprisingly, 007 who broke the silence with a low and rolling chuckle.

“I like him, Lecter,” James said unexpectedly, the veneer of politeness gone and replaced by a real amusement – which was somehow more disturbing, as it lit 007’s eyes like pale fires, fixed on Will.  “What are you doing with him?”

The question could have been taken any of a dozen ways, and Will wasn’t sure which 007 intended: Why was Hannibal tolerating Will’s company?  How did they come to be together in the first place?  Or what was Hannibal physically doing with him?  The last possibility made Will’s face heat up, and he was glad for the poor lighting that cast them all in a nearly monochrome shadow.

More disturbing, however, was the slow and secretive way that Hannibal smiled in return, his eyes dark and unreadable.  “Good company is hard to find,” he replied obliquely, “I’m merely enjoying a pleasant windfall, you could say.”

By the wary tilt of 007’s head, he perhaps gleaned something from that answer, even if he didn’t understand its motives entirely.  Will knew, however, that if he turned right now and looked into the wells of Hannibal’s eyes, he’d discover exactly what Hannibal meant.

But he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Swallowing thickly, Will kept his face forward and his eyes on nothing as everyone else began to move around them, a strange, unspoken truce settling in place, making Will think of God’s hand on the lions’ mouths on the story of Daniel.

‘Does that make me God?’ Will wondered.  As Hannibal brushed past him, Will shivered, thinking that he could feel a lion’s pelt whispering against his bare arm.

~^~

It was the strangest meal Q had ever partaken in, and that was counting the painfully uncomfortable Holmes’ family dinners that he was forced to attend at Christmas.  Q was well aware of Hannibal’s file, which indicated that he not only killed people but ate them, and even after 007 very carefully asked about the soup – and Hannibal very artfully replied that he’d had limited supplies to work with, supplies that did not appear to include meat – Q still found himself hesitant.  After having just one spoonful, however, his appetite returned with a vengeance, and he silently focused on eating without thinking.  Next to him, 007 did the same, but at a more measured pace, pausing often to subtly look around them like an antelope at the edge of a watering hole.  Q appreciated it, if only because there were definitely crocodiles in these waters.  Sitting right across from them, in fact.

Besides his watchful eating habits, James was actually maddeningly calm.  In fact, when Hannibal dared to strike up conversation, Bond met him in kind.  All Hannibal wanted to know was how Bond and Q were faring, all said in a tone not unlike the way one might ask one’s neighbors how their geranium plants were faring this year.  In return, James bold-faced lied with a smile, and Q felt like he was living in some surreal alternate reality.  Or maybe some creepy sitcom about a family of serial killers.

Focusing on Will Graham didn’t really help, although Q soon couldn’t keep up with James and Hannibal as the two Hounds started up a smooth but rapid-fire conversation that could have been entirely true or entirely false for all Q knew.  Still eating, Q surreptitiously turned his attention to Graham, only to realize that he couldn’t figure him out either.  Sitting back in his chair with his arms crossed, Graham wasn’t eating anymore, and his half-lidded eyes seemed focused somewhere on the middle of the table with disinterest.  He looked like a tired wreck, and Q wondered if he himself looked much better.  Regardless, though, there was something about this man that was tough enough to survive the company of Hannibal Lecter.

Q was torn from his contemplation of Will Graham by Hannibal’s voice speaking his title, “Quartermaster, if you would permit me, I’d take a look at your shoulder.  I couldn’t help but notice that you’re favoring it, and before I became a psychologist, I did practice medicine.”  Q snapped his attention to the man across the table, finding the tawny-eyed Hound leaning forward companionably, hands loosely clasped and forearms resting on the table, bowl long-since moved aside.  He had a patient, expectant look on his face that was totally disarming, but Q still found himself looking to James.  Bond nodded, very slightly, but his expression was otherwise unreadable.  Q wished that he’d been paying more attention to the conversation, because he’d lost track of what the two Hounds had been discussing – and if they had actually been discussing him.

“I… uh… of course,” Q stammered, wanting to make the excuse that he was still eating but realizing that he’d just finished off his last spoonful.  Hannibal had timed his request very well.  Pushing back his chair a little, Q glanced around for inspiration, definitely not comfortable with removing his clothing in front of company like this, but also unable to find a safe way to say “Hell no” to a known cannibal who chose his victims based upon rudeness.

This time, when Q looked to 007, the agent was more helpful.  “Just sit, Q, and I’ll pull your shirt-collar aside so Dr. Lecter can see,” the man offered as if this were totally normal and Q didn’t have any reason to worry.

Q still planned on worrying, but he did sit still even as 003 got smoothly to his feet and circled around the table to them.  Will was more attentive now, Q noticed; the boffin could all but see Will pulling his mind from wherever it had been and following Hannibal with questioning, dark eyes.  

The touch of fingers to Q’s neck was just James, but Q twitched anyway, having to force himself to relax as 007 hooked two fingers inside both layers of Q’s clothing, pulling the necks of both until the juncture between neck and shoulder was visible – revealing the stitches.  James’s other hand found Q’s left forearm, just above the bandaged burn, when Q’s hands started to fidget.  Q let out an unhappy breath but managed to will his body into stillness just as Hannibal hove into view behind him.

“It’s not a clean cut – a bullet?” Hannibal guessed, while Q held his breath.  He was hyperaware when strange fingers just barely grazed the protruding threads.  James briefly explained the event, managing to sound blasé about the whole thing – quite a task, really, since Q had nearly shot James at least once in that altercation.  Q was just starting to feel resentful about that when Hannibal kept talking, distracting him with, “Young Will met with similar trouble, to the other shoulder, however.  And while you appear to have gotten Medical-grade supplies-”  Another light touch to the stitches, then Hannibal’s hand withdrew entirely.  “-Will and I had to simply make do.”

James’s eyes were calculating, Q noticed, watching Hannibal while the blue-eyed agent chewed at the inside of his cheek for a moment.  Soon he spoke, tone more considerate than before, “I might still have some of those supplies, including an antibiotic.  If I shared it, would that put us in your good graces?”

‘He’s bargaining,’ Q thought, then reached a darker realization, ‘Bargaining for our safety.’  They’d walked into a spider’s web when they’d entered the kitchens, not realizing that the place was already occupied until it was too late.

“I’m fine,” Will replied from across the table, but was summarily dismissed.  This was between the Hounds, and may as well have been a different language.  James released Q’s clothing but not his arm.

“Will, you were shot,” Hannibal looked to his own dark-haired companion with a patiently chiding expression, adding with a graciously self-effacing tone, “As much faith as I have in my own sterilization techniques, you’ll be much less likely to suffer infection this way.”

Just as Hannibal started to turn back to Q and Bond, the Quartermaster took a risk, sucking in a breath to speak up.  He also used his free hand to grab Bond’s wrist in turn, squeezing and hoping that he could somehow transmit to the agent that he knew what he was doing… mostly.  Regardless, the words tumbled out of Q’s mouth before 007 could stop him, “I could take off your collar.”

Q immediately had the full attention of everyone in the room.

Swiveling his head and purposefully meeting no one’s eyes but Hannibal’s – but still fairly certain that James was displeased, a feeling transmitted by the tightening of his hand on Q’s forearm – Q swallowed his mounting nerves and went on, “With assistance, of course.  There are obviously some things that I need before I can be of any use to anybody, but having an extra ally – or two…”  He glanced swiftly at Will, whose expression had scrunched up into a disgruntled, wary look.  Hannibal, fortunately, was looking more intrigued, so Q turned swiftly back to him.  “-I stand a much better chance.  What I’m saying is…”  Q wet his lips and hoped that he didn’t sound as desperate as he thought he did.  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, 007 and I are hoping to return to Q-branch, and we would appreciate your company.”  

The fist around Q’s arm was just short of hurting him by this point, and he was also pretty sure that James was growling, a low noise of displeasure under his breath.  This… wasn’t exactly something that they’d planned out beforehand, but Q’s mind was looking three moves ahead in this game, and as he saw it, they were facing some dangerous options: after what Q had said over the intercom, it was entirely possible that Hannibal might take it upon himself to kill Q outright.  But Hannibal wasn’t the only one…

“What a thoughtful invitation,” Hannibal finally chose to say, indeed sounding pleased and also relaxed in a way that was still unsettling as hell.  It didn’t help that the man was standing over him, looming like a statue, variations of shadow just barely carving out the edges of his smile.  His tone darkened just a bit as he added, “And your offer is not one that I’m inclined to resist, for obvious reasons.”  Q tensed, because bringing up a Hound’s collar was never a polite thing to do, and if there was anything he’d picked up from the gossip about Hannibal, it was that good manners were paramount.  He must have squeezed James’s wrist a bit harder, because the agent rubbed a thumb along his sleeve, a quick and sliding contact.  

Hannibal didn’t attack.  After a pause that felt eons long, he rocked back on his heels and tipped his head, offering instead, “May I think on it?  I’ll accept the antibiotics, of course.”

As quickly as that, Q was able to breathe again.  He was dimly aware of James answering for him – in the affirmative, noting that the day was coming to a close anyway and they would wait to move until morning.  Considering how Eigengrau was in a state of perpetual twilight, Q wasn’t sure why that mattered, but he was ready to hand off the reins of this conversation.  James got up and walked away with Hannibal, just a short distance to where Q’s satchel had been propped against the wall – James began to show off their medical supplies while Hannibal made all the appreciative gestures.  They looked for all the world at ease around one another, and it hurt Q’s brain to even think about that.  Dropping his head into his hands, he groaned quietly, “How did my life come to this?”

He heard a snort from his right, and jerked his head up.  He’d forgotten that Graham was still there – and presently wearing a bitterly wry smile as he, too, watched the Hounds seamlessly interact.  “I’m asking myself that same question,” he admitted, then loosed a short laugh that sounded like it was dancing on the edge of hysteria just a little bit.

Both dark-haired young men watched their blond-haired counterparts, considering the phrase ‘My demons play well with yours’ in more literal terms than they’d probably ever imagined.

~^~

Things were ironed out.  Will got a shot of antibiotics and made quite a fuss about it.  Hannibal seemed to enjoy the response, although whether he was thrilled to have caused it or thrilled to be the one to soothe it, Q had no idea – Hannibal Lecter was making less and less sense by the second.  It was agreed that they’d all go to Q-branch tomorrow, a loose term that probably just meant ‘after we all get some sleep.’  Q explained in slightly more elaborate terms that Q-branch was his best chance at getting his computer working, because right now he wasn’t very optimistic.

After that, Q secluded himself over by the cabinets and dragged out his tablet, wanting to get a head start on understanding C’s virus, but also wanting to get away from everyone for a bit.  There was only so much he could take before his nerves started fraying.

An hour and a half later, and Q’s tablet was another casualty of C’s virus.  He glared at it and swore.

“I haven’t seen you look that stroppy since I caught you hacking Eigengrau’s files.”  Bond’s voice startled Q and made him look up; the agent had been doing a lot of quiet chatting with Hannibal up until now, and occasionally Will, as if sensing that Q wanted to be left alone.  For whatever reason, though, he was back now, padding over with his usual silent stride.  His grey pullover all but blended into the shadows, although the present angle of light made his irises seem glassy and colorless as he watched Q.  “You actually look angrier now than you did when you got shot.”

“Because I was scared shitless when I was shot,” Q informed him bluntly, “whereas now I’m just plain mad.”  He gestured at his glitching screen.  “C’s virus is good.  I connected to the network to see if I could try and combat it, but just got overrun instead.  This is why we need to go to Q-branch – there are some computers there with better processing power than my tablet, and some of them might not be infected yet.”

“I see,” James replied casually, reaching Q’s side and then sliding down to sit next to him.  By this point, Q was pretty well conditioned to find the nearness unthreatening.  James only spoke again when they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, Bond’s arms draped idly over his bent knees.  “So when exactly were you going to tell me all this?” he asked with feigned curiosity.

Q felt a flush creep up his throat; his insides squirmed.  “It… might have been something I was considering for awhile now.”

“Uh-huh.”  James didn’t sound entirely appeased.  “And what about inviting a killer much more deadly than me onto the team?”

“He’s deadlier than you?”

“Don’t dodge the subject – and yes, he is,” James snapped back in sharper tones.  He cut himself off abruptly with a little growl, glancing around.  They had the room to themselves, however, Will and Hannibal having apparently found things to do elsewhere in the expansive kitchen.  James finally focused back on Q, and his eyebrows were lowered in a stormy expression that finally, finally showed appropriate worry.  “Maybe not more dangerous, but more deadly to you – there’s a difference.  When I say ‘dangerous,’ I’m talking about whether I could take him in a fight, and maybe I could.  When I say ‘deadly,’ I’m talking about the likelihood that he’ll murder you in your sleep and string your intestines up like garlands.”

The purely logical side of Q wanted to talk about just how much hairsplitting James was doing with those definitions, but now didn’t seem the time.  James was quietly seething and his glare was impressive – but what was more, he was transparently worried about Q’s safety, and the boffin didn’t quite know what to do with that.  Leaning away unconsciously, Q swallowed twice to get his voice working before replying, “I’m not going to argue this with you.  You clearly don’t like this-”

“Clearly,” was the rumbled growl.

Q went on stubbornly, even if his voice remained whisper-soft and even a little bit shaky, “-But I almost saw you killed by Silva today, and I’d rather have more allies than enemies.  And not just for me, but for you.”  For the first time, Q saw hesitance in James’s eyes as he was caught by surprise and his anger faltered.  Q took courage in that, and stopped leaning away, even as sitting up straight put them nose to nose.  “I can’t fight.  I’m not good at it,” Q admitted unapologetically, “and the next ‘Silva’ you find might end you if you don’t have someone better than me at your side.”

Silence stretched again, longer this time and of a decidedly different flavor, with Q maintaining a look of unblinking stubbornness, and James meeting that glare with something more thoughtful now than angry.  “This is still insane,” James said, but his voice wasn’t angry.

Q’s was, but he knew for a fact that he often sounded angry when he felt scared.  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

That tricked a chuff of laughter out of James’s chest, and his eyes began to ignite with interest and amusement.  This was a man who, deep down, liked danger and cheated it regularly.  Unbidden, Q was reminded of the man who’d stood behind him before the rec-room mirror, holding both their arms out and offering to be a weapon in Q’s hands.  Now, Q was protecting that weapon - maybe even coveting it - changing their dynamic yet again.

Finally, James eased back a bit, and Q let loose a surreptitious sigh of relief as the level of tension lowered.  He let himself sag just a little against the powerful shoulder to his right and told himself that he deserved it – and if James disagreed, then he could bloody well shove Q away.  “Anything else you want to clue me in on?” James asked mildly.

Lowering his voice to ensure that only James could hear, Q admitted guiltily, “That I might have been lying out my arse on the whole getting-the-collars-off thing?”

Bond hummed, but his disapproval was nugatory.  “I’d wondered about that, considering the fact that you don’t have Mallory.”  He suddenly looked at Q askance.  “You don’t happen to know his password, do you?”

“No,” Q huffed.  Then, after a pause, he went on slowly, “But I might be able to hack my way around that if I could get a half-decent computer to work with.”

This time the noise Bond made was an impressed one, and he accepted that with a nod.  “And you’ll actually let Hannibal loose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dangerous,” was all James said to that, with no clear indication that he was opposed to or supported the lies that Q was weaving – a Gordian knot of lies to string along another monster.  In fact, after another moment, James added, “He’s actually not a bad choice.  He and I have worked pretty well together in the past, and at the moment, I think his only ulterior motive is Graham.”

Now it was Q’s turn to swivel his head and look at the Hound more squarely, frowning.  “Come again?”

Powerful shoulders lifted and dropped in a shrug, causing the holstered gun at James’s side to brush Q’s ribs.  “Lecter likes Graham.  Don’t ask me why, or what that means, but I think that so long as we don’t lose Graham, we’ll have another Hound on our team that we can depend on.  Hannibal isn’t the impulsive type.”

“He’s just the cannibalistic type.”

“Only if we’re not careful,” James let that threat slide off, proof positive that there was definitely something wrong with his survival instincts.  However, they did seem functional enough for 007 to apply them to others, because he turned back to Q with more seriousness, “Which means you’re going to have to listen to me.”

Q’s heart skipped a beat in his chest, the tone of James’s voice subtly hinting at danger but also maintaining a rocklike steadiness.  Like a sea against a shore, 007 was warning and safety all at once, and it definitely got Q’s attention.  “Yes?”

“Don’t go anywhere with Hannibal alone – even if we have to split up, you split up with me.”  Bond’s voice was clipped and commanding; it broached no argument, so Q just sat and listened.  “You already know how to talk with him, so I won’t remind you to stay polite.  We all run by our own rules, and that’s the main rule for Hannibal – eat the rude.”  James’s mouth twitched every-so-slightly as he said that, a small admission that he found it slightly insane, but accepted it anyway.  He went on briskly, “And tonight, you stay with me.  We’ll know for sure by morning whether Hannibal really does want to work with us, but until then, there’s a slim possibility that he’s just waiting for the best opportunity to murder us.  Fortunately-”

“I can’t see anything fortunate about this topic,” Q made very clear, voice going thin and reedy.

Bond, the utter bastard, chuckled in response and went on with a smile, “Fortunately, Hannibal is a cautious killer.  He’s like a cat.  If he can see an opportunity to get the job done without getting his pelt mussed, he’ll do it, but so long as there’s a chance that he’ll get injured, he’s unlikely to make a move.  I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Hannibal go into a fight where he didn’t already think he had the upper hand.”  James’s smile grew wolfish, and even in the dimness his blue eyes glittered as they met Q’s, “And believe me, he won’t like the odds if he has to fight me to get to you.”

An invisible fist around Q’s heart loosened a bit, and the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding escaped him slowly.  James had a terrible habit of wrapping up his assurances within threats of bodily harm, but so long as the bodily harm wasn’t to Q, it wasn’t too bad.  It was even a little bit calming.  “All right, I think that I can do all of that,” he acquiesced after a nervous clearing of his throat.

 “Good, then get some sleep.  I think this might be your last chance to rest for a good long while, so best make the most of it.”

~^~

James sat with his back against the cabinet, legs stretched out in front of him.  There was no way to tell time besides the clock, and it could have said 8:45 in the morning or at night – the lighting would have been the same.  When he’d left Hannibal and Will, the other two had been content where they were, and liable to set up an arrangement not unlike Bond and Q’s.  One way or another, James could just barely hear them talking, a low murmur of unthreatening voices a safe distance off.  Bond smiled, pleased for multiple reasons to see Hannibal so preoccupied with another human being.

Preoccupied with his own human being, James looked down at Q’s head in his lap.  It had taken a bit of coaxing, but ultimately Q had given in because the painkillers were wearing off and he was sore – making any kind of comfort tempting, even if that comfort came in the form of a Hound for a pillow.  Despite his protests, Q had nodded off quickly, and now lay on his least injured side, right cheek pressed to Bond’s thigh.  His useless tablet was clutched close like a teddy bear and his breathing had evened out some time ago.  James ran a light hand over the boffin’s tousled mop of hair, ending with his fingertips caressing Q’s forelock back from his closed eyes.  He’d fallen asleep with his glasses on – bad for the glasses, good for survival.  “You’re learning,” James murmured very softly.

Of course, the fact that Q was learning improved lying skills was a bit more problematic, but James didn’t blame him.  If anything, he was impressed, although he could foresee a lot of fallout if Q slipped up even once.  James actually rather liked working with Hannibal, but he was well aware of how utterly brutal the man could be – especially if he realized that he’d been played.   James’s stroking fingers absently found the soft curve of an ear beneath the curls, and stroked the rim of it, too gently to wake Q but firmly enough that the boffin sighed out a sharper breath in his sleep.

On top of it all, James was still fully aware that he owned Hannibal a favor… and he knew that Hannibal hadn’t forgotten either, even if he hadn’t asked for the debt to be repaid yet.  Not even an agent like James reneged on a deal with Hannibal Lecter, and it felt like a Sword of Damocles was hovering over James’s head.  What made him like that feeling even less was that Q was standing under that sword with him, as oblivious as he was now in sleep.

James lifted his hand from Q’s head to instead reach to his gun harness, removing the weapon from its snug holster.  In movements that were rote by now, he checked that it was loaded, working, ready.  He touched the thin scab at his throat from where Silva had nearly slashed his neck, and felt a surge of… something… at the memory of how Q had saved him then, and was still working to save him now, by snaring allies.  James shook his head in quiet wonder.  “I’m just going to keep underestimating you, aren’t I?”  

Placing his left hand on the side of Q’s neck so that he could thumb soothingly at soft hairs of the boffin’s nape and feel the gentle thud of Q’s carotid beneath his index finger, James rested his other hand so that he had his gun held ready in his grip.  Q slept on, unaware of the gun just beyond the crown of his head.  James tilted his head back against the wall and mentally walked himself down into the shallow sleep that all Hounds learned.  He counted each step with the pulse of Q’s heart, a connecting thread to the waking world.  

Chapter Text

~^~

Day 2 of the Siege of Eigengrau

~^~

Will wasn’t sure why he stuck around that first night, with Lecter and Bond and Q.  He probably stayed because they had painkillers – by the time the Quartermaster had basically asked Will and Hannibal to join up as bodyguards, Will’s shoulder had been blinding him with pain.  Perhaps the antibiotics were the first thing on Hannibal’s mind, but painkillers were foremost on Will’s.

Yeah, Will had stuck around for painkillers.  Not because it felt like his brain was disintegrating and Hannibal was the only one who understood him.

Pain meds had always made Will feel groggy, so when the Quartermaster went off somewhere and the two high-Pass agents began chatting about the finer points of expensive vehicles, Will found the pantry and was pleasantly surprised to find actual bags of rice and flour packed against the back wall.  His other options were sleeping stretched out on a table or in the makeshift bed he’d awoken in previously, and neither option appealed.  As it turned out, however, Will was so tired that he probably could have sleep right on the floor, stretched out between James and Hannibal’s feet – the profiler was out like a light the moment he bedded down on the cooking supplies, darkness swarming up behind his eyes.

He was walking through the snow and his feet were bare; he could feel the coldness and the slushy forest floor with exquisite detail, as if the flesh of the earth were arching its back against the flesh of his feet.  It didn’t hurt, but he could see his breath clouding in front of him and was aware that he shouldn’t be out here.  People died of hypothermia, and the ground was full of brittle sticks and rocks.  The warm light of a house peeked out of the trees ahead of him, and it was as if the simple act of seeing brought him closer.  Within seconds, Will was on the edge of the woods, stepping out into a person’s yard.  The back porch light had drawn him, and he saw Jack there, ringed in light.  Will immediately approached, tentatively smiling, surprised by how easy it was to make eye-contact in the dream – or perhaps that was because Jack’s face was in shadow, and it was like he had no face at all.

The second Will’s feet stepped onto the porch, however, Jack’s low voice chided, “Don’t do that, Will, you’re making a mess.”

Confused, Will looked down.  Shock and horror burned up the back of his throat as he saw redness smeared all over his feet.  He was shocked that he felt no pain from it.

Jack was still talking, voice like an impenetrable wall, “You can’t come inside like that.  You’ll track blood over the carpet.”

Shame made his skin crawl, and Will turned away, hunching in on himself, the good-feeling of camaraderie gone.  Looking behind him, he saw that he’d left bloody footprints in the snow all the way to the edge of the wood, where the shadows ate them.  But why didn’t he feel any pain?  Suddenly obsessed, Will sat down, turning his foot over across his knee and becoming aware in that moment that he wasn’t dressed either – inappropriately attired in a public place, a mundane nightmare in comparison.  While the bottom of Will’s feet seemed soaked in blood, no matter how he dragged his fingers across his skin, he couldn’t find a single cut on either sole.

“Will!”  Behind him, Jack was getting impatient.  He was always impatient.  “Will, this is why we had to ship you off to the UK.  You can’t freak people out like this.”

Obsession was gripping him, and Will ignored Jack for a moment, instead looking harder into the woods.  The blood had to have come from there, if it hadn’t come from him.  This time, when Jack yelled his name, Will just got up and walked away, needing an answer more than he needed to be chastised and then loved - always in that order.  In fact, he felt a prickle of irritation as his nape like hackles rising as Jack tried to order him to come back.

At the edge of the wood, there was more blood, smears of it.  Triumph made Will smile, and when he looked down again, he saw that his feet had become paws; their tough pads pressed delicately into the leaf-litter, and there was blood stuck to the fur between his toes.  Barely hearing Jack now, Will trotted back along his own trail, naked autumn branches scratching like a lover’s nails against his wolf-body, carding through fur that kept him warm.  This is why he hadn’t had any clothes.  He didn’t need clothes.  He didn’t need any of this.

At that realization, the scene shifted suddenly, and Will was in a clearing, looking upon a pile of bodies half-sunk into a red lake.  Will felt his face split open in a canine grin, and he trotted forward.  Like any good predator, he could see in the dark, and at the edge of the lake of blood he could see faces he knew amidst the gory, rotting pile.  Alana, Beverly, even Jack, whom he’d thought he’d left behind at the quaint little house that had excluded him from its warmth and light…

That made Will pause, finally.  Would he miss the light?

Uncertain, he still felt himself padding forward in a daze, until his blunt claws tickled the bloody shore.  He felt a violent thirst, and bent his snout until he could lap up the wet redness.  But the second his tongue tasted the iron tang, red hands surged out of the water and fisted in his pelt, grabbing his ruff, his ears, his mouth, his legs, dragging him in-

He was drowning, and suddenly fear was all he knew.  A helpless, animal fear wrapped up in an airless red world.  When he tried to make a noise, he heard nothing, the blood stopping up his ears and flooding down his throat.

“Will.”

The word was as clear as a struck bell in the cloying quiet.  It was soft and soothing and dry with a slight rasp like a mother cat’s tongue, and at the sound of it, Will stopped thrashing and just listened.  He needed that voice.  He needed it more than he needed sight and air – because that voice could give him both of those things.

Or it could leave him in the dark.

Will struggled and tried to call out in fear again.

“I would never leave you here, Will,” the male voice said gently as if reading his thoughts, and suddenly the bleeding darkness broke.

Gasping, Will found himself above the lake of blood, the ichor raining off him.  His limbs felt heavy, as if he’d just fought for his life and maybe lost, so he just hung where he was, exhausted.  The moon hung above him like a single white eye, a burning cold fire, and Will’s limbs felt suddenly chilled – a glance showed him his own skin, streaked red, but naked and furless.

Glancing further down he saw that he’d been lifted out of the blood-lake on a bed of antlers, the stag as big as an elephant beneath him.

~^~

Will came awake choking, grasping at everything and trying to clear away phantom gore from his lungs.  It felt like someone had stuck a cattle-prod into his skull, and his thoughts were electrified and dancing to a mad tune that he couldn’t even begin to grasp.  It was terrifying.  He was suddenly disconnected from everything, in limbo between dreaming and awake, and the first hint of solidity that he found was the material he fisted in his hands.   

The voice was next; he could understand it.  “Will.  Will, just breathe with me.”  The words made sense because they’d followed him up from the dream, that same unflappable voice.  

Will felt a tingling in his scalp and was able to focus on the tiny pinpricks of pain, only realizing a moment later that the feeling came from a hand fisting in the hair at the back of his head – at the same time, he realized that the tug had gotten him to inhale his first full breath.  In front of him, Will realized that he was latched onto a firm, corded arm, wrinkling the sleeve up and digging his fingers into the warm muscle beneath.  That arm ended in a hand that was also carefully gripping Will’s upper arm – his injured one, he realized a few beats later.  Time seemed to slow, as if it were a metronome that counted seconds by the beating of his heart, and his heart was slowing.

Just as Hannibal’s voice had dragged him out of the red lake, just as it had dragged him fully awake when his brain had malfunctioned, the Hound’s words steadied Will’s world now.  “In my experience, a dream should never be exited hastily, but you seemed in some distress.”  The hand on Will’s upper arm transferred to his chin, tipping it even as Hannibal’s other hand remained firmly fixed in Will’s hair.  For a brief flash, Will was the wolf again, held firmly by the scruff – he bared his teeth.  Hannibal immediately froze, even if his expression showed no fear.  There was almost no light at all in the room save what filtered in the open door, and Hannibal’s eyes were dark and unfathomable, even if the rest of his features were picked out delicately in amber.  Patient and unmoving, Hannibal remained as he was, silent, until Will let his lips drop back over his teeth again.  When he exhaled, he felt like he was letting the beast go along with his air, leaving only embarrassment in its wake.

Only then did Hannibal cock his head and ask, plainly curious, “Are you with me, Will?”

“Do you mean, is it really me?  Or am I going to switch personalities and attack you like last time?” Will snarled out, hating how uncertain he was.  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried – and utterly failed – to grasp just how insane this was.  How insane he was.  “God, doesn’t this bother you?” he finally accused, hating himself for asking that out loud a beat later.  

For a moment, the hand in Will’s hair loosened, and Will was surprised by how devastating that was.  Any other day, being restrained like that would have made him red-hot mad, but right now, all he could think was that a serial killer didn’t even dare hold onto him.  That ripped Will up inside worse than anything McKenna had ever said.  Even as Will’s chest got tight with emotion, however, Hannibal’s grip tightened again instead of releasing - because of course Hannibal knew that he needed that.  Hannibal knew.  He just knew.  “Perhaps your average person might be bothered,” Hannibal said, so reasonable, a smile revealing a flash of teeth when Will dared crack one eye open and peak, “but neither you nor I are average.  Rest assured, even another violent episode wouldn’t have bothered me.  Besides-”  Only now did he release Will, but with purpose and with slowness, making it abundantly clear that he wasn’t doing it out of disgust or fear, but because he had chosen to do it.  Everything about Hannibal, Will was realizing, was purposeful that way.  “-I have been practicing violence far longer than you have.  A tiger does not fear a cub.”

Sitting up under his own power now, finding himself eye-to-eye as Hannibal squatted on his haunches right in front of him, Will found himself replying, “But even freshly hatched snakes have poison.”

Hannibal’s smile reappeared, close-lipped this time but sharp and surprisingly delighted.  “So they do,” he agreed readily, conceding the point without a fight.  It was strangely relaxing, and Will felt his hackles lowering.  “But if we are both cobras, I’d point out that they readily eat even their own kind.”

“I think you’d find me quite a mouthful.”  Fuck, what did his mouth think it was doing?

As before, Hannibal seemed more than ready to banter, even as they left the realm of mundane conversation and headed somewhere else entirely.  “The reply that comes to mind is that snakes can unhinge their jaws for just such an occasion, but the mental image gets rather grotesque when applied to humans,” Hannibal said, and even though he demurred from pursuing what could have been a fabulous innuendo, the deepening of his smile more than made up for it.  Even the shadows couldn’t hide the interested glint in his watchful, deep-set eyes.  Will was on the verge of actually laughing when Hannibal leaned forward, subtly but observably, and his nostrils flared.

Will frowned.  “Did you…  Did you just smell me?” he asked, unsure whether to be offended or weirded out.

The Hound’s eyebrows lifted innocently and he was quick to defend, “I was born with an atypically keen sense of smell, and have since learned to use it to the benefit of both myself and others.  I was merely seeing if I could smell any signs of infection from your bullet wound – such a smell is usually quite pungent.”

Very briefly, Will considered making a joke about why exactly agents like Hannibal were called ‘Hounds,’ but he wasn’t quite suicidal enough for the words to come out.  Still, since today could hardly get any weirder, Will let loose a tiny bit of the smile that was fighting to spread across his face, asking, “So, what’s the verdict then?  Do I smell pungent?”

“You smell exactly as you should,” was the surprisingly reassuring answer as Hannibal unfolded to his feet.

It was like being complimented on something that he hadn’t known he’d been insecure about, and perhaps that was what prompted Will to ask his next question, head tilted back to look up at the man now looming over him.  “Does insanity have a smell?”

For a moment Hannibal merely looked down at him, making Will aware of how close they were, and how scared he should feel but didn’t.  From this distance, if Hannibal had had a knife, he could have plunged it into Will’s eye or throat without even having to reach.  Likewise, Will would have barely needed to outstretch his hand to feel the muscular strength of one of the thighs in front of him; had he leaned his head forward, he could have nuzzled somewhere even more intimate.  Will’s mind drifted between those two scenarios – dying or touching – in the seconds before Hannibal answered.  “Will, you must know, insanity is relative.  Much like good and evil, its definition is molded to best fit whoever is in power.  Of course-”  As quickly as that, levity entered Hannibal’s tone, and Will looked up to see a smile playing on the older man’s lips, “-If it did have its own peculiar smell, then you’d blend in quite well here.  I doubt that anyone would judge you.”

While Will was left chuckling nervously, unsure whether to be reassured or unsettled, there was a slight change in the lighting at the door.  A glance showed that the other Hound, 007, had appeared like a ghost and was now standing in the doorway.  He didn’t say or do anything, and the look that Hannibal cast back over his shoulder at the other man was unconcerned.

As if a silent conversation had concluded, Hannibal turned back to Will and extended a hand down to him.  “It would seem that our compatriots are ready to move, and it would be impolite of us to keep them waiting.  If you wish to come, that is?”

Will was aware that 007 was watching him particularly closely.  Will itched, for a moment, to unleash his empathy and unravel that attention, but he’d already gone too far down the rabbit hole – and was afraid that next time he wouldn’t be able to crawl back out again.  He switched his focus back to Hannibal, finding the man unbothered by the profiler’s shifting attention.  Just like he’d been in the dream, he was a source of stability, and the thought of going away from him sent a bolt of unforeseen panic straight to Will’s heart.

What if he went insane again?  If he was with Hannibal, then Will believed that the Hound could handle him – he’d survived Will at his worst when McKenna and four others hadn’t.  The memory made Will sick, and he was desperate not to repeat it again.  He had to admit it: he was capable of killing people, and possibly incapable of stopping.  But if he traveled with two Hounds…

‘Well, I hope that they can keep me away from the Quartermaster,’ Will said to himself even as he snatched Hannibal’s hand in a fast, fierce grip.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m going,” he got out, even as his too-imaginative brain painted out pictures of himself squaring off with two highly capable killers.

At the thought, his heart sped up.

And the wolf’s tail swayed back and forth.

~^~

Merlin put the last rebel into a sleeper hold, looking nearly bored as the man struggled for a few seconds and then went limp.  Roxy, standing over her own unconscious opponent, looked at him with narrowed brows until Merlin noticed and blinked.  “What?”

“When I asked how you stayed so fit, you said you worked out,” Roxy replied in a voice rife with suspicion.

Deciding that they didn’t have time for a lover’s spat over secrets, Harry finished off his own opponent with a swift kick and interrupted briskly, “He works out with me.  Now, come on, a ruckus like that is sure to have attracted attention.”  For a moment Roxy glared, but Harry’s imperious expression wasn’t the kind to be trifled with, and the young woman soon sighed and got moving.  Merlin, who was usually the most put-together person that Harry knew, ran a hand back over his bald head as if to smooth ruffled feathers.  Because Harry could lip-read, he was able to easily discern ‘Thank you’ when the other man said it silently.

Harry mouthed back, ‘You’ll probably still be sleeping on the couch for the next month,’ and then turned around and fell into step behind Roxy.  What went unsaid was the possibility of one or all of them dying, and no one getting a chance to spitefully evict anyone from bed.  It was easier to joke and bicker than face that potential reality.

As they left the scene of their last fight, Harry pulled out his phone.  He’d already texted Eggsy ~Found friends~  There was a reply waiting for him, and it sounded so distinctly like Eggsy that Harry didn’t have to worry about whether or not the other phone had fallen into enemy hands.

~That’s bril because I’m stuck with a shitload of C’s bastards~

The more complete sentence meant that Eggsy at least had the freedom to text as he liked, so Harry spared a moment to smirk and chuckle before awkwardly composing ~How many is a shitload?~

The answer came after a pause: ~7~ then another a beat later, with obvious attitude ~You arse~

Harry didn’t realize that he was chuckling to himself until Merlin trotted up alongside him and asked, “Mind letting us in on the joke?”

“It’s nothing,” Harry said, trying to hide the smile even as he swiftly put the phone away, “Just checking in to see if Eggsy is still holding his own.”

“And is he?” Roxy asked back over her shoulder.  Her eyes were entirely too keen, and Harry had to resist the urge to avoid her gaze like an errant schoolchild.  He had nothing to be embarrassed about.  Nothing.

“He’s proving quite capable,” he chose as his best answer.

Merlin’s eyebrows rose and he looked at Harry over the tops of his spectacles, still jogging easily.  “Is he now?”

It’s perhaps fortunate that they run into trouble again before Harry can decide to answer, or to bring up some other secret about Merlin’s past that he probably doesn’t want Roxy to hear about.

~^~

Eggsy hit ‘send’ and chuckled under his breath, trying to imagine Harry’s posh face as he reads the message ~Arse~ and has to figure out how to deal with it.  Up close, the man could be scary as hell, but Eggsy was far out of his reach now.  That thought made Eggsy sober quickly, because even though he really should have been relieved to be away from Harry Hart – who was one of the most dangerous Hounds in Eigengrau, and had kidnapped and threatened Eggsy – he really wasn’t.  Because even though Eggsy had a hard time trusting people, he’d come to tentatively believe that Harry really did want to help him.

Staring blankly at the phone and remembering the man’s hands on his shoulder – or before that, gently wiping the blood off his face – Eggsy tried to wrap his head around his feelings, growing frustrated when he couldn’t.  The not knowing made him feel vulnerable, and it was reflexive to hunch his shoulders and look around him warily.  Nothing had changed in the last minute, however: they were still in the indoor hanger, the only working means of transportation off Eigengrau looming like a dull, geometric bird in the glow of the emergency lights, and seven of C’s cronies lounging or pacing throughout the gloom.  Only one was a Hound – 013, Eggsy thought his number was – but even without taking that into account, it was still bad odds if they found out Eggsy had turned traitor on them.  He slipped his mobile out of sight with the deft movement of a pickpocket hiding evidence.

Harry hadn’t messaged him back yet, but the man would probably appreciate more details soon: How many Hounds?  How well armed?  What kind of exits and entrances?  Needing something to fill up his thought still, Eggsy focused on answering the last two questions, his eyes feeding off everything he could see.  Some of this watchfulness he’d learned from the military… some of it from Dean, because it had either been learn fast or get the shit knocked out of him.  Eggsy felt his shoulders tighten and his hands curl into fists just at the thought of the man, who was like poison to everything he touched: worsening Eggsy’s mum’s drinking habits, forcing Eggsy to deal for him and to steal…

Daisy was still untouched, though.  Eggsy didn’t have any illusions about how messed up he himself was – he was stained in ways that didn’t come out, he figured – but Daisy was still just a baby, and Eggsy would die before he saw Dean mess her up like he’d messed up everyone else.  That, more than anything, was why Eggsy had to make it out of this alive.

Eggsy didn’t realize how angry he was getting until his jaw started aching because he was clenching his teeth so hard.  Just as he tried to find another train of thought that might calm him down, someone at the doorway called out – a lazy salutation, which had Eggsy warily paying attention.  Stepping away from the wall, he angled himself to get a better look at who was being let in without so much as a challenge.

It turned out to be multiple people.  Seven more, to be exact, led by none other than C’s right-hand man, Moran.  While Eggsy stared with growing horror, Moran grimaced and commented to one of the men watching the hanger, “We had more, but there were some issues on the way here.  The Quartermaster’s little call to action gave some people stupid ideas.”

“Shiiiiiit,” Eggsy breathed slowly, as another Hound walked into the room – not one that he knew, but a capable-looking, handsome fellow with a small smile that would have been charming had it not looked like it had been cut with a razor.  There was a shorter man walking with him, or rather being pulled along, the Hound’s hand hooked through his vest.  As the new arrivals spread out and made themselves comfortable in the new space, the pair happened to wander closer to Eggsy, giving him a better look.  When the shorter man in the vest muttered something to the Hound – quiet and tense – it was too soft to make out words, but the accent was audible and strangely familiar…

“Jones?” Eggsy found himself asking reflexively.

Both the Hound and his companion twisted around to look at him, their wide eyes telling Eggsy immediately that he’d fucked up.

The Hound recovered first, glancing swiftly and efficiently over his shoulder – back at Moran, who was busy talking to someone else – before he let go of Jones and immediately stalked up to Eggsy.  The distance between them hadn’t been all that much, and the agent moved fast, giving Eggsy no time to react before the Hound’s hands were bunched up in his shirt and pressing him back against the wall.  Eggsy’s hand went immediately for his pocket, only to have the Hound growl in his face, “Go for that knife and I’ll make you eat it, do you understand?”

Eggsy had run into a few Hounds in his short time at Eigengrau – enough to know that this had to be one of the veterans.  A lower-level Hound was dangerous and all, but it wasn’t just any man who could get the drop on a scrapper like Eggsy, who had become a survivor out of necessity.  It also wasn’t just any man who could tell Eggsy had a knife before he even drew it.

Before Eggsy could decide whether or not to listen to the threat, however, the other man – who was definitely, definitely Ianto Jones, M’s freakin’ secretary – darted up and put a firm hand on the Hound’s shoulder.  “Jack!  Stop,” he hissed, looking around nervously.  He dropped his volume even further, leaning in with no fear of the Hound that Eggsy could see, “We can’t do this here.”

“Well, we can’t exactly do it anywhere else, and if word gets around that you’re not Ian from Accounting-” Jack hissed in a low and deadly threatening voice.

“Hey, I don’t want no trouble!” Eggsy took a risk and lifted his hands – empty and weaponless.  It went against his nature to just roll over and take it, but something told him that fighting right now would get him maimed or worse.  Jack’s eyes were coldly murderous, and held just enough desperation in them to make Eggsy scared.  He went on quickly, glancing at Ianto, who definitely looked the more reasonable of the two, “Must’ve mixed you up for someone else.  It’s these light, ya know?  Can’t tell one face from another.”  He saw Ianto’s shoulders relaxed minutely, and knew that he’d at least convinced one person of his harmlessness.  Jack still hadn’t let go of him, of course, but Eggsy added in a more confidential tone, “You might want to talk less, though, because you’ve got a voice that really sticks out, guv.”

Eggsy got slammed into the wall again for his troubles, harder this time, and he was seriously considering going for his knife – regardless of who he was dealing with – when Moran’s voice rang out across the room, “Harkness!  Hand’s off the pilot.”

Jack froze, his expression still furious and cold like a winter storm, and for a moment it looked like he’d snap Eggsy’s neck instead of listening.  Moran had good instincts, however, and seemed to realize more words were needed: “We need him, and you’ve already got yourself one warprize.”

“Warprize?” Eggsy asked, looking over at Ianto, who ducked his head and shifted his weight uncomfortably.  Ah.  That explained the way Jack had dragged him in here – although Eggsy still wasn’t sure about much else, except the fact that this Hound was dead-set on Ianto’s true identity remaining a secret.

“Harkness!” Moran barked one more time.  Over Harkness’s shoulder, Eggsy could see C’s second shifting his weight, something supremely deadly entering his posture.  This was the man that Eggsy had pegged as high-Pass, no matter what Sybil did or did not say.  He was deadly, and while Jack didn’t seem armed, there was a gun holstered obviously at Moran’s side – his hand was on it now.

Knowing that this could become a bloodbath any second, and all of his carefully laid plans with Harry would go to hell, Eggsy turned back to meet the Hound’s eyes and whispered quietly but as sincerely as possible, “I.  Won’t.  Say.  Nothing.”  It seemed to be a theme for him, he was starting to realize, but he hoped that Jack wouldn’t push the subject as Harry had.

“Jack,” Ianto said, and despite how his voice was less commanding than Moran’s by an order of magnitude – no doubt utterly inaudible for anyone but Jack and Eggsy – it was his word that got the Hound to relent.  Powerful hands released Eggsy’s shirt and Jack backed off, although the muscle twitching in his jaw said he wasn’t happy about it.

Straightening his shirt out a little and doing a mental check to make sure that he wasn’t injured (he was more than a little shocked that he wasn’t missing a limb), Eggsy took a deep breath… and then let it out to call out to Moran.  Jack and Ianto both stiffened immediately, mixtures of horror and wrath spread between them.  All Eggsy said, however, was a relaxed, “No worries, guv – just having a quick chat.”  He pasted on a broad smile for good measure.  When it was clear that that was all Eggsy was going to say, Moran lost interest, and Jack and Ianto both relaxed.  Unable to help it, Eggsy raised his eyebrows at them in a challenging ‘See?’ sort of expression, before he walked away as nonchalantly as possible.

Truth be told, it took all the self-control he had to keep from shaking.  He finally sat down on a crate next to four men and women playing a frustrating game of cards in the bad lighting.  They ignored him, focusing instead on trying to read their hands.  Eggsy took the opportunity to surreptitiously check that the Hound and his ‘warprize’ hadn’t followed him – and puffed out a breath of relief to see that they were moving to a shadowed corner instead.  Catcalls followed them, and Jack met it with smiles, Ianto with a lowered head.  The Hound’s eyes flicked across the room at one point, however, unerringly finding Eggsy’s eyes and nailing him with a laser-like look.  Eggsy quickly ducked his head in a good imitation of Ianto, before those eyes bored right through his skull.

Eggsy took out his phone.  Harry hadn’t messaged him back, but he typed out quickly anyway: ~We’ve got a problem~  Two Hounds, one non-collared psychopath, and fourteen rebels total worth of problem.

Chapter Text

~^~

Generally speaking, blood in the urine was a bad thing.

“It’s probably just a bruised kidney,” Mallory protested, after he was back on the bed again.  The only reason that Alec was aware of the worrisome but very personal new symptom was that M’s injured leg wasn’t letting him walk anywhere on his own – which meant a bit of awkward company in the loo.  Now awkward silence was making way to worried argument, as Mallory (still san trousers, as he’d only been awake for a paltry twenty minutes anyway) put on a stiff upper lip and Alec folded his arms and paced.

“Maybe – or you’ve got internal bleeding.  You fell pretty hard,” he countered.  His pacing took him to the wall so he came back, fixing serious eyes on the man who had once been his jailor but had definitely fallen from power now.  “Do you hurt anywhere else?”

Mallory gave him a jaded look and deadpanned “I hurt just about everywhere, even through the painkillers I just took.  I can’t focus on much past the leg, though.”  Making a face as if the limb had personally betrayed him, M looked down, just barely daring to touch the gauze wrapped around his upper thigh.  The bullet had gone clean through, but both men were understandably worried by just what kind of damage it had done along the way – neither of them had enough medical training to truly assess the damage, although Alec had gotten the bleeding stopped.

Catching himself staring at the muscular contours of M’s legs, Alec exhaled an explosive breath and turned away, burying his fingers in the waves of his blond hair.  “Fantastic.  So you could be dying, but maybe you wouldn’t notice?” he said with a hefty amount of acid to his sarcasm.

“I didn’t say that,” Mallory bit back, the tilt of his head and edge to his voice showing offense.

Since Alec made a habit of offending people – even people more powerful than Mallory, and certainly more dressed than Mallory - it didn’t slow him down much.  “Really?  Because I’m pretty sure that’s what I heard.  You’ve also always struck me as one of those blokes who wouldn’t admit weakness if it killed you,” he finished a bit snidely, and felt a little kick of adrenalin when Mallory’s eyes abruptly turned furious.  Perhaps Mallory didn’t act very wisely in the face of helplessness – but neither did Alec, and while he’d stood over Mallory’s sleeping form, he’d come to a decision that he was going to save this man instead of kill him, and now he felt his control over that slipping.

“We do not have the luxury of worrying over every little thing,” Mallory gritted out, grasping at the same professionalism that had kept him from strangling C when they’d first met.  In retrospect, a little bit less self-control on M’s part might have actually prevented this whole situation, and maybe that was why Mallory gave up on decorum and instead tried to get to his feet.  He shifted his weight to his good leg and gritted his teeth, feeling a little spark of triumph as a faintly impressed expression flashed across Trevelyan’s face.  “And as you can see, I’m-”  Mallory abruptly cut off; pain spasmed across his middle with crippling force, and he lost his footing.  Even the painkillers weren’t enough to completely muffle the combined agony now coming from his abdomen and leg both, as he tried to keep his balance by spreading out his weight across both feet - which, of course, made it worse.

Alec swore in what was definitely Russian and jumped forward.  It was an awkward catch, but he managed to grab Mallory’s arms and ease the other man back into the bed, even as Mallory’s stomach cramped one more time and then subsided.  Not moving suddenly felt like a very good idea.

Sitting next to him now, breathing perceptibly faster even though this couldn’t have exerted him, Alec eyed Eigengrau’s leader with clear worry.  There was also, perhaps, just the slightest hint of chagrin on his features, because he knew that he’d goaded this reaction into being just a little bit.  “Let me see under your shirt,” he demanded softly after a moment.  The antagonistic tone was gone.  Likewise, the fighting spirit had left Mallory, too, although he focused on just breathing for a moment instead of obeying.

After a few more slow, careful breaths, however, M nodded and plucked at the hem of his shirt.  Alec’s hands took that as permission to help, and was allowed to reach out and raise the garment.  Revealed beneath was a remarkably fit torso for someone who hadn’t seen active duty in awhile – as well as a mottled bruise across Mallory’s middle.  Alec whistled past his teeth.

“What’s your verdict?” Mallory asked with wary politeness.  They seemed to have reached an uneasy sort of truce, or perhaps a stalemate, and Mallory was treading warily to maintain the status quo.

Alec had probably only trod warily a half dozen times in his life, so he shrugged and said, “I was actually whistling at your body, but I suppose the bruise is pretty impressive, too.  Sadly, I still haven’t a fucking clue whether you’re mortally wounded or not.  That bruise could mean anything.”

“God, just when I thought you couldn’t get more insufferable,” Mallory wheezed, pulling his shirt down and keeping his arm tucked across his stomach.  If he didn’t move the trunk of his body, it didn’t hurt, but he definitely didn’t want more pain right now.  The muscles of his legs were both still quivering from it.  “Why couldn’t I have been found by a more sensible Hound – like Hannibal Lecter?”

“Hannibal the Cannibal?  He’d have killed you on sight.”

“I’m aware.”

“Now that just hurts, Mallory.  Admit it, my wit is better than being cannibalized by a Lithuanian psychopath.  Although the Lithuanian psychopath does have a medical degree...”

Mallory eyed Alec as if seriously considering those options, until the Hound finally groaned and rolled his eyes in exasperation.  Only then did M find himself fighting a very small smile, because the ridiculousness of it all was a good distraction from the fading pain.  As the head of Eigengrau, Mallory didn’t indulge in humor a lot, and was by nature a very serious man – but he could appreciate a bit of joshing, especially in tight situations where you could either laugh at it or cry.

“Unfortunately for you,” Alec finally said, standing again with a smoothness that made Mallory’s leg ache with jealousy this time, “the king has been knocked off his throne – so I’m afraid you don’t get to make requests, your highness.  You’re stuck with me.”  The Hound began digging through the room’s drawers while Mallory snorted in response to the new metaphor and title.  “And I say that we’re headed to Medical.”

“To what end?” Mallory pressed tiredly, watching as Trevelyan dug through the belongings of whomever this room belonged to.  “There’s no electricity, so we can hardly run any tests.”

“We could get lucky.”  The Hound straightened, a crooked smile on his face as he added, “We could find out that some pretty nurse has holed up there, just waiting for two handsome fellows like us to avail ourselves of her skills.”

Mallory angled his head to look at Alec disbelievingly from under his eyebrows, even as Trevelyan went back to digging, ultimately inspecting some piece of clothing that he’d found.  “That settles it,” Mallory said after a moment, deadly serious.

Trevelyan’s head swiveled to give him a wary side-eye.  “Settles what?”

“I’d prefer cannibalism.”

For a moment there was silence as they just stared at each other, and then Trevelyan started laughing.  Mallory bit his cheek to contain his own responding smile, giving himself a point for catching the Hound by surprise, even as he felt more tension seep out of his shoulders.  Yes, he’d been chased and shot and was possibly bleeding internally with only a high-Pass agent for help – but that high-Pass agent was trading jokes with him, which wasn’t usually a bad sign.  At the very least, against all odds, it seemed that Mallory had a very real ally in Alec Trevelyan.

Still chuckling, Alec chucked a pair of slacks Mallory’s way.  “Sorry, King, but you don’t get to choose your paladin – as the paladins are in charge right now,” he said blithely, ignoring the raised eyebrow he got for the continued analogies and pseudonyms.  “Now, get some trousers on.  I may still respect you in the morning, but I think that if anyone else sees you running around in you skivvies, you’ll have a hard time living this all down.”

~^~

Reese’s long strides were frustrating to a man with a permanent limp like Harold, but at least the agent never expressed annoyance at having to slow down and accommodate him.  In fact, when they’d first met, Reese had only asked about Harold’s leg once, and when he’d been told that he wasn’t going to get an answer, the man had let it go and never asked again.  John Reese was surprisingly good with boundaries.  Harold had ended up telling the Hound the whole story two weeks later when he was good and ready, having accepted that the monotone voice, flat expression, and high Psychopass hid a good man that he could confide in.

“John, I don’t believe that this is the way to Q-branch,” H observed after they’d been walking for a few minutes.  Harold was already buzzing with nerves, although it never crossed his mind that Reese might be leading him into any kind of trouble – sometimes, the things Reese did made no sense, but Harold had come to trust that they had a purpose.  A good one, usually, at least where H was concerned.

“It is if you don’t want to walk in the front doors where everyone can see you,” Reese countered unabashedly, pausing and flattening himself against a wall so that he could peer slowly around the corner.  His other hand reached back, not touching but creating a barrier to keep Harold back.  Harold could have told the agent that he wasn’t stupid, and that he had no more interest in getting ahead of Reese than he had in walking into oncoming traffic, but he liked to respect the Hound’s quirks like Reese respected his.  For example, Harold was not particularly comfortable with touch – therefore, Reese only touched him in extreme moments.

Which happened a second later when John suddenly stiffened, tilted his head back the way they’d come, and suddenly grabbed a fistful of Harold’s shirt and hauled him forward and around the corner.  There was the resounding roar of a gun going off behind him barely a second later, and Harold shouted involuntarily.

Reese followed him around the corner like a wave of muscle and bone, his own gun already off his back and in his hands.  “Are you hurt?” he demanded, the quiet rasp of his voice strained with impatience now.  This wasn’t a leisurely question that H could answer or ignore as he chose.

“No,” Harold barked back before actually checking.  Thankfully, after patting himself and mentally looking for any points of pain, he found his answer to be true.  “No, I’m all right.”  Then his eyes lifted behind his glasses and caught sight of something else, and he paled.  There was red blooming along Reese’s side.  “But you’re not,” he said with sharp anxiety.

“Just a graze,” Reese grunted, then tried to lean around the corner and shoot.  He was immediately pushed back by another bullet as it hissed threateningly by.  He made a face that looked more annoyed than afraid, but since any expression at all was rare for Agent 008, Harold felt his worry climb higher.  This time, when the Hound tried to shoot, he didn’t look, just angled the long weapon around the corner and pulled the trigger, immediately loosing a whole spray of bullets.

“Who is it?” H demanded.  He wanted information; his brain craved data, something to let him understand the situation and compartmentalize the danger.

He expected a generic answer or vague description – or perhaps a correction to say that there was more than one attacker.  What Q-branch’s second-in-command did not expect was for John to mutter back with as close to annoyance as he ever came, “It’s Root.  Apparently she got tired of chaperoning the Director-General and decided to go looking for some target practice.”

Two things were bad signs with John: breaking their rules about personal space, and extended talking.  If John Reese was doing either of those things, then he was outside his comfort zone, or otherwise under pressure.  His side was still bleeding, staining through his tan jacket, and it only took a glance for Harold to see the tightening of the agent’s jaw.  “We need to get out of here,” H said flatly.

“No, you need to get out of here,” Reese, usually one of the most obedient agents in Eigengrau, argued back unexpectedly.  Another single bullet rang down the hallway, making Harold flinch hard.  John repeated his action from earlier, presumably keeping Root back, before he risked a glance back at Harold and gritted out, “You said we had a job, Harold.  Someone needs to slow her down while the other gets that key, and I don’t remember you being all that keen on firearms.”

To be honest, Harold hated them.  Now, though, the prospect of going on without 008 was terrifying.

Before he could open his mouth to start an argument, however, Root’s voice echoed down the hallway, chiding but sweet, “That was a foolish thing to do, John.  All I was going to do was take out Harold’s good leg – just to slow him down so I could talk to him.  It’s not like his leg works all that well anyway.”

“Seems like you aimed a little bit higher than his leg,” Reese observed without getting particularly excited.  Harold shivered and felt his eyes drawn inexorably to the Hound’s bleeding side again – the bullet had grazed his lower ribcage.

“What can I say?  You distracted me.  But no hard feelings – we can still talk.”

Now Reese’s voice shifted octaves, going subtly into a warning timbre that Harold usually only heard on the comm-lines during missions.  “Not gonna happen.”  His body language changed, feet shifting slightly, subtle movements that turned him from decently dangerous to determinedly deadly.  Part of what Harold liked about Reese was that the Hound killed only when he had to, not because he liked it – but sometimes, just sometimes, he killed by choice.  Instead of waiting until the choice was taken away, until he was backed into a corner and it was self-defense, 008 would become the hunter, and it was truly terrifying.

Because as much as he avoided doing it, appearing efficient but lackluster on most of his jobs, John Reese was good at what he did.

“Go, Harold,” he repeated, snatching another glance back, making eye-contact even though it meant running the risk of being caught unawares by his opponent.  Harold knew that his own eyes were wide and scared, because he saw something sad and regretful flash over Reese’s grey gaze.  The man was more capable of sympathy than most people gave him credit for.  The Hound tried for levity, “Don’t worry.  I’ll catch up.”

Root was growing impatient, her voice rising as she called, “Harold!” and shot again.  This time bits of plaster flew, and Reese flinched back with a grimace.

“I’m really not in a mood to argue about this,” Reese muttered.  His deepening frown was putting brackets on either side of his mouth, making him look older and more worn, even as his eyes glinted with something fresh and fierce.  As terrifying as it was to see 008 at his worst, it was also breathtaking, and Harold was torn about whether to run for the hills or stay rooted where he was.  When the Hound finally snapped, “GO!” however, Harold nearly jumped a foot in the air and finally got moving.

All he could think was that this was how all the heroes died in movies: gloriously like martyrs, while their loved ones ran tearfully off into the distance.

Well, Harold sure as hell wasn’t about to cry, and he refused to think that this was Reese’s final dramatic exit.  Clutching his meager bag of things and cursing his bum leg with every step, Harold got moving at the best pace he was capable of even as the gun battle intensified behind him.

It wasn’t until Harold had turned three hallways that he realized he had no idea what route John had been taking them on.  He’d talked about not going in the front entrance, but that was where Harold had been instinctively going, and he hissed a few foul words before considering his options.  He was already panting, and his leg was threatening to mutiny on him.

~^~

Q startled awake as the sound of a ragged, animal shout tore through his sleep, but before he could reflexively thrash or sit up, he felt a firm hand fisting the material of his shirt and pullover.  The grip near his collar pushed down, and Q was fuzzily aware that his right ear was pressed against James’s thigh.  The man’s belaying hand with its firm fistful of material brushed Q’s other ear, somehow managing to be more calming than threatening.  “Shh,” James hushed absently.  A glance upwards showed Q the underside of Bond’s stubbled jaw as the Hound gazed off towards the other room, focused and alert.

As Q became more alert as well, he found that he could hear distant murmuring now that the single cry had died down.  It sounded like Hannibal, soothing, “Will.  Will, just breathe with me.”  Q’s brain wasn’t ready for that: Hannibal being soothing.  Giving his head a shake and making a face, Q groaned and went slack against the floor again.  Sleep had been delightfully uncomplicated, even if he didn’t quite remember when he’d decided that James’s lap made a good pillow.  But now he had to be awake, where things were confusing.

“I’m going to check what’s going on,” James’s quiet voice caught Q before he decided to go back to sleep again.  Still muzzy, Q wasn’t sure how to respond or react to that.  Thankfully, 007 didn’t seem to expect him to, and the hand holding the Quartermaster down repositioned itself on his upper arm.  Soon Bond’s other hand was digging underneath the weight of Q’s body, levering him up slowly, his hold firm but surprisingly gentle.  Q’s various aches and bruises came alive anyway, and he whined involuntarily before he bit it off.  Apparently James heard it, because while Q’s eyes were still closed, he felt Bond let go of him but then brush fingertips over the boffin’s hair.  Q snapped his eyes open again to find the agent crouching in front of him, expression watchful in an almost avian way – like a hawk canting its head at something new.  His hand had already dropped, and he didn’t explain the touch.  “Stay here.  I’ll be right back,” James ordered a moment later.

As Bond stood, Q cleared the sleep out of his throat and commented, “The last time you said that, I had to save you from Agent 004.”

James turned back, a powerful shadow in the dimness, the emergency lighting giving his hair an almost metallic golden sheen.  Q thought he saw the quirk of a wolfish smile.  “I’ll have to make sure not to repeat the experience with Agent 003.”  He didn’t wait for a rejoinder before turning and presumably going to find Hannibal and Will and the source of the quiet talking that Q could now just barely hear.  Realizing that the possibility of another ‘Silva episode’ was entirely possible, Q pushed his glasses up against his forehead and rubbed at his eyes, trying to wake up a bit so that he wouldn’t be completely useless.  He felt fully awake by the time James returned, his easy posture and leisurely step indicating that nothing was amiss.

“What was it?” Q asked, making to stand.  He made it – barely.  Everything still ached from his beating… how long ago had it been?  It felt like a century already, and the loss of regular night and day was beginning to mess with his otherwise impeccable internal clock.

“Hannibal’s friend has nightmares,” James said with a shrug, and Q wasn’t sure what was harder to process: that the problem was so benign, or that James had just called Will Graham Hannibal’s friend.  “Come on.  Since we’re all up, we’re going to start moving.”

A bit disbelieving, Q got his satchel together to sling gingerly over his shoulder again, then slowly queried, “So… Hannibal is still on board?”

“He hasn’t attempted to murder us yet,” was the obvious answer, stated bluntly, like it explained everything.

Q remarked dryly, “You keep saying these phrases that are meant to be reassuring, but they somehow always have words like ‘murder’ in them.”

What he got in response was a smug chuckle, proof positive that 007 was doing it on purpose.  The man’s hand moved, and Q barely managed to free up his hands in time to catch something at it was tossed to him – a bread roll, as it turned out.  “How’s this for reassuring then?  You won’t have to walk hungry today.”

The flaky sensation of the crust and the warm, yeasty smell was just about orgasmic.  Q inhaled, then said with delicately measured approval, “Better.”  He started eating to save himself from further conversation, even as the angle of Bond’s head caught the light and revealed a triumphantly pleased expression – like a cat that had gotten all the cream.

Bond meandered closer as Q leaned back against the wall and made quick work of the bread, and Q let him.  There was little point in maintaining any sort of personal space by this point, and Q was coming to find the Hound more of a comfort than a threat, his terrible bedside manner notwithstanding.  “On the way to Q-branch, Hannibal and I might range out ahead from time to time,” James confided, and Q stopped eating, the bottom falling out of his stomach for a second.  James was quick to go on, however, “Just to scout for trouble.  Don’t worry, Q, we’ve both guarded assets before – and while I’m not sure how useful Graham will be with his shoulder, he’ll probably hang back with you, so you’ll have that measure of security.”  James added a moment later, looking undecided, “Will Graham is apparently a profiler, but Hannibal reassures me that he’ll be useful in a fight.”  

“And do you think Graham’s a threat?” Q asked, just because no normal person would tolerate Hannibal Lecter – unless there was more to them than met the eye.

“I think everyone’s a threat,” Bond shrugged, “but I think so long as Lecter cares about Graham’s life the same way I care about yours, then we’ll be fine.  I may have a hard time killing another Hound, but if Graham hurts you for any reason, I sure as hell can end Graham.”

By this point, Q had one bite of bread left on his hand, but was just staring at the agent next to him.  “You have,” he said, “truly disturbing logic.  Has anyone ever told you that?”

James’s hand reached out and snatched up the last piece of bread, popping it into his mouth and proceeding to talk around it, “Q, in case you haven’t noticed, normal logic got tossed out the window the moment C gave us Hounds the metaphorical keys to the city.”  He swallowed, then shifted so that one forearm was braced on the wall by Q’s head, putting them very close along Q’s left side.  James was looking at Q with a frank expression, close enough that Q could see an old scar just barely marring the contour of 007’s left eyebrow.  “Normal logic like yours says that this is a homicide waiting to happen – my logic says that the more killers you have in the same room, the lower the kill-rate is.”

“That makes literally no sense.”

Hannibal’s voice startled them both, as it interjected from the doorway, “Pardon me for interrupting, but in a certain morbid light, it does.”  James had twisted away from Q the moment he registered the new presence, his protectiveness given away as he naturally placed himself in front of the Quartermaster.  Hannibal was polite enough to pretend not to notice.  In fact, his smile was dry and mild, the look of a boring old family friend rather than a mass murderer.  “While it’s true that we high-Pass agents have tried to kill one another on occasion, those have largely been situations that fell under one of two categories: one…”  Hannibal held up one finger even as the shadows behind him revealed Graham, still looking rough around the edges like a cat that had been pulled out of a sack backwards.  His eyes were bright and watchful, though, curious as Hannibal kept speaking.  “…Situations where the gain has outweighed the cost.  For example, I found myself recently working with an absolutely despicable new agent who had somehow earned the title of 019.  He was hardly dangerous enough for the position, and his company was intolerable.”  Hannibal tilted his head, the calm smile remaining as if he weren’t talking about a past murder of his own comrade.  “I waited until I knew back-up would be arriving, just in case.  What wounds I received were treated by Eigengrau’s medical team.  The gain of not having to work with him again was worth the relatively low risk to my person.”

While Q stared, horrified, James chimed in as if it were natural, “Whenever Hart and I have fought, it’s been here on the island.  That which does not kill us-”  He folded his arms and moved so that now he was occupying the wall next to Q, relaxed and almost indolent, the tension from before all gone.  “-Won’t lead to a lingering death, because we know that there are doctors on hand.”

“You said there were two categories,” Will spoke up, when it was clear that Q wouldn’t.  Hannibal tilted his head just enough to glance at the other man over his shoulder, politely listening as Will finished, “What’s the other occasion when you two might… you know… consider assassinating one another?”

Hannibal and James exchanged glances; James shrugged.  They may as well have been discussing a recipe that they both cooked slightly differently but still both enjoyed.  James took up the narrative, “The other situation would be when circumstances absolutely force it.  I’ve killed people before even when the odds were against me, but only when my back was to a wall.”  James lifted a hand and tugged down the collar of his shirt, revealing the collar and saying with decidedly more of a growl to his voice, “Or when this made me do it.  I’ve made some supremely stupid kills that weren’t my choice, because I’d been told that I’d die if I didn’t.”

Bond had been looking determinedly at Will as he’d spoken, but there was no way he’d missed the way Q was now staring at him.  The Quartermaster was still horrified, but the feeling had taken on a different flavor, and by the time 007’s eyes flicked reluctantly to him, the boffin looked… humbled.  Disturbed.  He’d moved so that he wasn’t just leaning against the wall but was facing 007 now, although their proximity hadn’t changed.  As Bond met Q’s eyes, there was something in those pale blue depths that asked, ‘Do you understand me now?’  At the same time, there was such resignation in those eyes, as if to convey a second message beneath the first: ‘This is the way my world turns.’

Q abruptly wanted to scream.

Instead, after a tense moment in which he felt every muscle in his body wind up like abused springs, Q spun on his heel.  Facing the exit, he gritted his teeth for a moment, composing himself and aware that he had two Hounds watching him as well as the wild card, Will Graham.  “We’re going to Q-branch now,” he said stiffly.  This was a known fact already, but no one pointed out the stating of the obvious.  Eyes going flinty, Q straightened his glasses on his nose and continued as much to himself as to everyone else, “If you can get me there, then I’m going to do something… about this.”  He gestured vaguely but with clear wrath at most of the room – presumably at Eigengrau and what it stood for.  Unlike when he’d promised to free Hannibal before, there was determination and anger in Q’s voice instead of desperation.

For a moment, James just stared at Q with a kind of quiet wonder hidden deep behind his eyes.  Then he turned, finding Hannibal calmly and unreadably watching him in turn.  The two Hounds stood a moment like that, certain things tacitly understood by men with their shared histories.  In tandem, they nodded, while Will looked on in wary surprise.

Hannibal merely put a hand on the profiler’s good shoulder, before turning to Q and dipping his head in a shallow almost-bow.  “We’ll see you safely to your branch.  You have my word.”

That was two promises Q was carrying now, from men who could have snapped him in half: James had promised to be his ally for three days, and now Hannibal had promised to keep him safe through the gauntlet of Eigengrau, until they reached Q-branch.  It all felt as flimsy as a bridge of eggshells beneath his feet, but he’d take what he could get.  Looking at everyone and seeing readiness in James’s eyes, aloof interest in Hannibal’s, and resigned acceptance in Will’s, Q nodded back.  Not trusting his voice, he hiked his satchel up into a more comfortable position, checked that he still had the collar key (as well as his scalpel), and just started walking.

Almost immediately, the two Hounds fell into step flanking him, like a pair of sharks getting comfortable in the wake of a ship.  Graham trailed along further behind, an incongruous shadow that muttered, “This is insane…”

“So I’ve been told,” Q muttered mostly to himself in return, only to hear 007’s knowing chuckle from his left.

Chapter Text

Gareth Mallory was a tough man, Alec had to give him that.  Even with Alec to lean on, walking was clearly difficult, but Mallory didn’t complain – just gritted his teeth and bore it.  Still, they had to move with extra caution, because they couldn’t afford another confrontation.  Alec was a skilled bodyguard, but he didn’t like it when his asset wasn’t mobile, meaning a swift escape was ludicrously impossible.  Although, looking at M’s set expression, Alec didn’t doubt that the man would give running a go if he needed to.  There was something to respect in that. 

“You know,” Mallory grunted, making quiet conversation even as he winced his way through another step, “I don’t even care if there’s anything in Medical besides painkillers at this point.  So long as I can die in a morphine-induced haze.”

Someone else might have been disturbed by the morbid humor, but Alec was able to chuckle before teasing back, “Careful there, King, or you’ll ruin your reputation with talk like that.  If people knew that their boss was that keen on drugs-”

“They can fucking deal with it,” was the interjected growl. 

Mallory dug his fingers into Alec’s far shoulder as they took another step together, and Alec was idly thankful for his own high pain-tolerance – because M had a grip like a vise.  The next thing that Alec idly noted was that Mallory had stopped bristling at the nickname, which for some odd reason made this whole situation minutely better. 

“Language,” Alec mocked, a second before a sound caught his attention and he froze.  He opened his mouth to tell Eigengrau’s leader to shut up for a second and let him listen, only to note that M was already doing that – perhaps Mallory had been out of the game awhile, but his training was still there.  Jaw still clenched from pain, Mallory didn’t ask why they’d stopped, but instead looked around with grim, soundless wariness.  The two of them probably looked like flawed mirror images.  Big, tense-as-hell mirror images. 

“I heard something,” explained Alec a moment later, keeping his voice to a cagy whisper, “but since I haven’t heard anything since, it either means it was nothing-”

“Or someone is trying not to be heard,” the other man finished.  By the jaded set to his eyes, he was clearly betting on the latter – if only because lately had been a series of worst-case scenarios come to life.  Still, the man was skilled at keeping a stiff upper lip, so all he said was, “Suggestions?”

“A detour,” Alec responded grudgingly.  He met Mallory’s questioning gaze and shrugged, “At least until I can be sure that no one is following us, I want to put you somewhere safe.” 

Mallory had the moxie still to deadpan, “I officially feel like luggage.”

“Valuable luggage,” Alec amended, and got a thoroughly unimpressed look for his troubles.  Forcing a grin in return (trying to ignore how pale Mallory was starting to look, either from the strain and the pain or because of something worse), Alec got them moving again, trying his best to listen to the world around them as they made slow progress down darkened halls. 

Unfortunately, even with the Hound straining his senses and M doing his best to endure his pain quietly, they didn’t hear anything until it was too late. 

At the last second, Alec heard footsteps, but before he could even turn there was a body crashing into him from behind.  The impact knocked everyone over, and Mallory’s cry of pain was sharp and harsh; the brittle call of a wolf being shot.  Alec instinctively turned to check on him, but found that he had other problems, their attacker now trying to put him in a sleeper hold.  On his belly on the floor, already winded, Alec didn’t have a lot of leverage – but Mallory must have done something, because there was a sharp curse spoken in an American accent and suddenly the weight across Alec’s back lessened.  Instincts honed to a razor sharpness, 006 didn’t miss a beat.  Releasing a snarl of his own, he arched and twisted, breaking free of the arm locked around his neck. 

He wasn’t quite able to reverse their roles entirely, unfortunately, their attacker being surprisingly quick.  Alec immediately thought of Lorraine or David, the two Hounds he’d been worried about earlier – but neither of them had this accent, Lorraine was lighter than this, and if David were attacking them, he’d have chosen sniper tactics rather than a close-up brawl…  Mind rapidly computing information on an instinctual level, Alec managed to twist to his knees, his own weapon in hand.  He didn’t have a lot of ammo, but before he’d even gotten a proper look at his attacker, he was using the gun as a blunt instrument.  Despite how unplanned the motion was, Alec still very nearly clocked 015.  Fifteen was an American import to Eigengrau by the name of Solo, if Alec recalled correctly, and while he was in no way the most vicious fighter of Eigengrau’s Hounds, he was definitely one of the sneakiest.

As was proven a moment later as Solo – a very handsome, black-haired fellow with an expressive face and (usually) a quick smile – dodged Alec’s stroke only to then grip his gun hand.  It became a struggle for the weapon – and then a struggle for another weapon as Solo’s quick eyes somehow saw the knife on Trevelyan’s belt.  Alec had armed himself as much as he possibly could, but suddenly that was becoming a liability as Solo got the knife unsheathed.  Alec had nearly gained the upper-hand by getting above 015, but suddenly he had a knife swinging at him, forcing him to rear back with a roughly barked curse.  Even with 006’s reflex speed, he still felt a slashing sting against the back of his left upper arm, and he heard Mallory bark his name. 

Solo’s blue eyes were very wide, the kind of gaze seen in either in thrillseekers or people who were absolutely terrified – it was a thin line.  Still on his back but now armed with a knife, the American panted, “Hey, I just wanted a weapon, friend.  There’s nothing to get excited about!” 

While Solo had definitely succeeded in getting a weapon, he was still the one bringing a knife to a gun-fight, and Alec responded only with baring his teeth and bringing his gun to bear again.  Solo’s eyes widened comically and he rolled at the last second, the bullet perhaps grazing him but clearly not stopping him, as he coiled his athletic body and leapt right at Trevelyan again.  Alec started swearing in Russian now, because the only time it was useful to bring a knife to a gunfight was when the fight was carried out in close-quarters – now that they were wrestling again, no distance between them, Alec’s gun lots most of its advantage.  Solo was perhaps lighter than Alec by a bit, but with a knife in one hand, he definitely had more bite to back up his bark, and 006 began trying to think of ways to regain possession of the knife before A) getting stabbed, B) also losing his hold on his gun, or C) some deadly combination of both.  The fact that Solo didn’t even seem interested in M suddenly became immaterial.  In fact, if anything, it was going to be bloody embarrassing if 006 died because he was attacked by someone who was just desperate to steal a weapon…

“Alec!” Mallory shouted a bit louder this time, right before Alec heard someone else swearing in Russian.  Solo heard it, too, and actually froze for a second, head lifting.  He’d once again wrestled himself on top of Alec (this time with the blond-haired Hound supine and Solo sitting on his stomach), and hand one hand on Alec’s right wrist to hold back to gun even as Alec mirrored the grip on Solo’s knife-hand.  Suddenly, though, 015 had other problems, as a gun went off and Solo just barely dodged death again. 

“Fucking shit, can’t you just give up!?” Solo yelled, rolling on the floor as an honest-to-god growl echoed own the hall.  Alec stayed where he was, confused and panting on his back, as 015 lost interest in him.  “I swear that whatever I did to offend you, it does not warrant anger like this!”  In response, another shot rang out, and Solo just barely scrambled around a nearby corner in time.  There was a bit of blood smeared on the floor, but it was hard to tell if it was Alec’s or Solo’s – and even if it was the latter, it wasn’t much.  015 was clearly a man with nine lives.  “Can’t we just discuss this like normal people over a glass of wine or something?”

Mallory thankfully wasn’t dead, as proven when a hand grasped Alec’s shirt-collar, making him jolt.  Fortunately, before 006 shot someone out of reflex, he saw M’s strained features, and realize that the man was trying to pull him over to a nearby room.  As Alec scrambled to comply, the new-comer came into view, the emergency lighting catching a scowling, angular face and ashy-blond hair.  It was another higher-numbered, newer Hound, and the only reason Alec knew him was because they were both Russian-born.  Beyond that small connection, Alec knew that the newcomer, 014, was one of the most vile-tempered Hound in all of Eigengrau. 

Getting himself and Mallory out of sight around the corner, Alec gasped at the pain in his arm.  The cut was bleeding more than he’d realized, staining his jacket darkly all around the torn fabric and gashed skin.  M panted next to him, “Was that 014?”

Alec nodded numbly.  They could still hear Solo trying to bargain with the man – although the only responses were either gunshots or words in thunderous, angry Russian.  “If it helps, Fourteen can be a bit single-minded when he’s riled.”  Another gunshot; another yelp from Solo.  Alec almost wanted to laugh, if the situation weren’t so ludicrously dangerous.  “And I think that the American has Kuryakin riled as hell.”

Instead of responding to that, Mallory glanced over at Alec, brows furrowed, and asked, “How badly are you hurt?”

“Not so badly that I can’t take advantage of a spot of good luck,” Alec grunted, and rolled to a kneel.  His immediately got one of M’s arms over his shoulders again, and lifted them both to stand, able to feel the way that M’s body tautened with pain even as Mallory managed to stifle all but a low moan.  “Come on.  I think I know a place where we can catch out breath.  We’ll leave those two star-crossed lovers to duke it out on their own.”

Both men more battered than before, awkwardly stumbling and panting, Trevelyan and Mallory made their escape out another door while the Fourteen and Fifteen continued to try and loudly settle their differences in the hallway behind.

~^~

 “Is this really necessary?” Sherlock asked, eying the cuff around his left wrist, which connected to a plastic-wrapped cable strung between him and John; the Handler was just now hooking the latter end to his belt.

Unperturbed by the clear displeasure in Sherlock’s low voice, John replied without missing a beat, “Until either you magically become low-Pass or your collar starts working again, yeah, it is.”  John looked up from connecting the second cuff, and when he met Sherlock’s angrily narrowed eyes, there was actually an unexpected amount of sympathy there.  The shorter man lowered his volume and tipped his head subtly to the other guards, who were standing some ways away but eying the newly freed Hound warily.  “Mostly for them.  It was either take you out on a leash, or not take you out at all.”

Following John’s gaze, Sherlock looked at the other bystanders… and made a humming noise of regretful understanding.  “People are too predictable,” he muttered almost angrily, and when he looked back to see John’s brows beetled questioningly, Sherlock elaborated at a slow drawl, “Ruled by fear of what they cannot understand.”  Drawing himself up proudly, Sherlock finished, “It’s a reaction that I’ve become accustomed to.”

Perhaps Sherlock’s posturing and tone were pompous, but John didn’t comment.  Instead, he looked at the Hound with perhaps more understanding than one might have expected from a lowly ex-soldier, and restrained a wry, apologetic smile.  “Well, then let’s get moving before they can misunderstand you anymore, hmm?” he suggested helpfully, and while Sherlock only responded by way of an arch, dismissive sniff, something in the air between them seemed to settle and become more comfortable, and the middle Holmes brother fell into step behind John without any semblance of complaint. 

There were still a lot of complaints and arguments even as they were leaving; it was like running a gauntlet just to get to the door.  Everyone kept saying how much they worried that Sherlock would overpower John, take his gun – or that they’d be overwhelmed by the enemy numbers beyond the safety of Holding.  With an impressive amount of patient and calmness, John reassured everyone, and those he could not reassure… he ignored.  Sherlock, who was not a patient man, found this latter response the most sensible.  And amusing. 

However, all of the amusement ended after they left Holding.  The doors shut and were locked behind them with a certain sound of finality.  Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, rotating his wrist in its cuff.  “With communications down, we can’t call for back-up,” John reminded.

“All the more reason for me to be your ally rather than your enemy,” Sherlock snapped back, finishing in a tetchy grumble, “which no one else back there seemed capable of understanding.”  That settled – or at least as settled as Sherlock felt it needed to be – the taller man began striding resolutely forward as if they were in downtown London and late for an appointment.  “Come along now, Watson.  We don’t have any time to waste, and I need to get to the morgue.”

~^~

“When you said that you had a safe place in mind for us to regroup, I didn’t think you meant the morgue,” Mallory said, a bit bit breathless but still very clearly displeased. 

“Hey, at least you know that dead men won’t try to kill you when your back is turned,” Alec volleyed back, helping ease Mallory onto a table before slipping out from under his arm.  M made a face when he realized that he was sitting on a slab of stainless steal usually reserved for autopsies.  Alec for once decided to forego the opportunity to make off-color jokes and instead turn to barricade the door.  Another bonus of the morgue was that it didn’t have a wealth of exits.  After pushing a filing cabinet in the way of one entrance and pushing a broom through the door handle of the other, Alec headed off to begin ransacking drawers and trays, finishing frankly, “Honestly, this is the next best thing to Medical.”

Instead of pursuing the argument further, Mallory actually nodded, subsiding.  He looked exhausted and drained, and the dim emergency lighting somehow served to highlight the age-lines on his face, making him look older than he was.  All in all, as he sat on the edge of the autopsy table, he didn’t look good.  “It’ll be harder to find painkillers, since the dead obviously don’t need morphine,” he quipped without vigor, then said with a bit more focus, “but I imagine that needle and thread might be available for that gash on your arm.”

They’d actually paused along the way to deal with that as best they could.  It wasn’t a life-threatening injury, but it was painful and inconvenient, and after watching Alec gritting his teeth against it for five minutes, Mallory had insisted they stop.  Despite being in pretty poor shape himself, the head of MI6 was a man who was used to getting what he wanted – in this case, that meant removing this tie and relocating the loop of Trevelyan’s arm.  It had stemmed the blood, but would probably ruin the tie for good. 

Alec paused as if he would argue against his logic, but ultimately, he was growing tired, too.  He sighed and nodded, and moments later found exactly that: needle and thread.  It was thicker stuff than a Medical grade suture kit, but he was hardly worried about aesthetically pleasing stitches.  “Think you could lend me a hand?” the Hound asked hopefully.

“Part of me wants to see you try to stitch up the back of your own arm,” Mallory joked, but he was already nodding and beckoning Alec forward.  At this point, Mallory was wincing whenever he moved his torso, but he took the stitching supplies without any noise of complaint and sat patiently while the Hound stripped off his coat.  Beneath, he wore a short-sleeved tee, and the cut was right below where the fabric ended, although the redness had spread and smeared all over the white shirt anyway.

“And this is why I should never wear white,” Alec lamented, twisting to try and get a better look at the wound but also backing up closer to Mallory when the older man grabbed a handful of his shirt and gave it a tug.  Alec went from trying to see his wound to eyeing M expectantly instead, eventually quipping, “This is the part where you tell me that it’s going to hurt, and I reassure you that I’m heroically tough and tragically brave, so I can take it.”

It was surprisingly rewarding to see the usually stoic head of Eigengrau fight a smile.  His eyes were fixed on getting the needle and thread sorted, but he nonetheless deigned to reply, “Even without a local anesthetic?”

“I’d gallantly refuse to take it even if you had some on hand.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I try my best,” Alec volleyed back easily.  Immediately following, however, he braced himself, knowing full-well what a needle felt like when it was threaded through skin without any numbing agent available.  Leaned back against the table to Mallory’s right (his hip flush with the outside Mallory’s uninjured thigh, in fact), Alec gripped his left wrist in his right hand, and focused on staying as still as humanly possible. 

He still shuddered and sucked in a hissing breath at the first push and tug of the needle.  “Huh,” Mallory commented, and Alec focused on his voice, on what word would come next, “And here I thought I’d call your bluff and you’d cry like a child.”

“Told you I was the strong and-” Alec cut off as another stitch sparked another flash of pain, but went on doggedly, “-silent type.”

Mallory snorted.  “Strong I’ll give you, but you’re about as silent as a foghorn on a busy night.”

“I’m choosing to… focus on… the positive parts of that sentence,” Alec gritted out between flashes of pain.  Mallory was moving quickly, which either meant he was more practiced at this sort of thing than anyone would have expected, or he was sewing recklessly and messily in the hopes of just getting it over with quickly.  A bit worried that it was the latter, Alec barely resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder, but did ask warily, “Did your mother teach you cross-stitch, by any chance?”

“The Navy taught me, more like,” Mallory retorted with a hint of amusement. 

“No kidding?”  Anything was a good distraction.  So far as pain went, there were far worse things than being stitched up, but the problem was, there was no adrenaline now to numb the pain – sometimes Alec wondered if he preferred a gunshot wound in the heat of battle to the slow and boring agony of having a sharp piece of metal poked repeatedly through his skin afterwards.  “James – 007 – was in the Navy.”

Mallory replied in a tone that didn’t sound entirely joking, “Maybe if we all get out of this alive, we can exchange sailing stories.”  Perhaps it was just exhaustion and not empathy that softened Mallory’s tone, however, because after that, the head of Eigengrau signed and the pain stopped.  “Okay, that’s stemmed the bleeding.  Since I couldn’t exactly disinfect anything, you’ll probably have to deal with infection in the long-run – but considering we only have, what, two more days?  Two more days until C’s deadline runs out, I suppose that there is no ‘long-run’ to really worry about.”  He finished in a slightly maudlin tone that made Alec a bit worried, but he could understand where it was coming from, especially when he turned around to see M grimacing in pain and sagging where he sat.

Twisting to finally look at his arm as best he could, Alec made a pleased sound when he saw stitches instead of gaping skin.  He couldn’t see how neat the stitches were, but he wasn’t picky.  He continued to sit still as Mallory unexpectedly removed his own tie, looping it around Alec's arm and then tying it off, ensuring that the stitches wouldn't get snagged on anything. “I’ve always been a proponent of living for the moment anyway,” he chose to respond lightly, hoping it would lift the mood.

Unfortunately, at that moment, Mallory nearly folded in half with a sharp groan, arms clasped around his middle.  Despite the fact that there’d been no love lost between them only twenty-four hours ago, 006 immediately moved forward to grip the other man’s shoulders, steadying him with a gentle grip.  By the time the pain ebbed, the leader of Eigengrau had his head pressed against the Hound’s sternum, his breaths shallow and quick.  M had lifted a hand to grip one of Trevelyan’s elbows, and for a moment, the two just stayed that way, like two ships finding safety in the same harbor for a time. 

“We need to get you some help,” Alec murmured.  For once, there wasn’t an ounce of humor in his voice.  Physically, Mallory was a strongly built man, but now beneath his hands, Alec could feel the weakness in him.  Before, Alec might have seen that as something to exploit, but somehow he’d lost the taste for it, and he wasn’t sure if it was purely because the Quartermaster had given him logical reasons to protect this man. 

Mallory sucked in a slightly deeper breath, then winced.  “I’m fine,” he rasped.

“That is the most pathetic lie I think I’ve ever heard,” the Hound informed M bluntly, then used his grip on the older man’s shoulders to start easing him down onto the table.  Not surprisingly, M struggled against the movement, but all of the running and the pain had taken a lot out of him.  If he’d ever been a match for 006’s strength, he most certainly wasn’t now, and ultimately gave in with a grimace of distaste.  “Change of plans,” Alec said, once Mallory was lying on his side with a look of resignation and displeasure, “You stay here.”  He waved a hand to cut the other man off when M opened his mouth with obvious intentions of arguing.  “I can make better time on my own, and defend myself better.  Sorry to break it to you, King, but you’re a deadweight.”

Perhaps it was the use of the nickname, but Mallory’s frown twitched until it almost looked like a very crooked almost-smile.  Alec was beginning to realize that Mallory very rarely moved his face in what most people would call a smile – and if he did, it was only a political move, an upward tilt of lips designed to please peers and higher-ups.  This wry twisting of the man’s mouth was his actual smile.  “I’m not sure which I prefer: when you’re insulting me or when you’re inappropriately complimenting me,” the man had just enough energy and spirit to say in return. 

Alec rewarded Mallory with a wink.  “Watch, eventually I’ll start doing both at the same time.  That’ll really make things interesting.  In the meantime, though-”  Alec took his discarded jacket and spread it over Mallory, then found one of the sheets usually used on corpses.  He dragged it over despite M’s unhappy expression.  “-Play dead as if your life depends on it.”

Ultimately, Mallory ended up covered to his chin with strict instructions to lie flat and pull the sheet right over himself if he heard anyone coming.  There wasn’t any particular reason why someone would think to come to the morgue, but if they were perhaps looking for low-grade medical utensils like Alec had been, there was no way that Mallory was going to be able to bar the door after Alec departed.  Hiding and hoping for a lucky break was all they could do. 

Just as Alec got to the door, he called back, “King?”  Mallory, who had closed his eyes in growing weariness, lifted his head and fixed his gaze back on the Hound, who finished with a mixture of humor and sincerity, “I know I’m not the promptest Hound on the payroll, but I will be back.”

There was a long and heavy pause in which Mallory just stared at Alec, something unreadable in his gaze.  Then, unexpectedly, he cleared his throat and said solemnly, “I believe you.”

Honestly, Alec had been expecting a witty retort, and the genuineness of the answer caught him off-guard.  Unbalanced – and with an unexpected warmth blooming in his chest – Alec gave a stiff nod, turned, and left.  He picked up speed almost immediately, a new sense of purpose giving energy to his limbs.  He didn’t give a second thought to Mallory’s tie, which he was now wearing like a knight wore a lady's favor. 

~^~

Sherlock’s genius wasn’t just that he was able to look at particular situations and take them apart in his head – not, the real power of Sherlock’s mind was that it was always taking in data.  He analyzed everything, and even though it didn’t always make sense at the time, it meant that he inevitably began to see larger pictures that others didn’t.

“While some of the damage we’ve seen is directly the fault of high-Pass agents run out for revenge, there’s too much killing to be caused solely by that,” Sherlock said, as he and John came upon yet another string of bodies.  John was kneeling next to a middle-aged woman who’s neck had clearly been snapped; he draw his hands slowly over her eyelids, closing her sightless eyes, as Sherlock stood next to him and coolly observed everything.  “Considering the pure size of Eigengrau and the usual ratio of high-Pass agents to other employees, the only way that this body-count makes sense is if C has seeded quite a large number of vicious allies throughout Eigengrau’s regular workforce, probably over the span of months.”

John was still kneeling, head down.  Sherlock noticed this belatedly, and seemed to come back to himself, going from aloofly analytical to slightly-less aloof and bewildered.  “John?  Is it your knee?” he asked, but quietly.  Even as he asked, he had a nagging sense that that wasn’t it. 

When John replied, he didn’t answer Sherlock’s question, but instead said something in a voice so soft and low that Sherlock didn’t catch it.  Shifting his weight uneasily but also coming a bit closer, until he was standing right over the other man, the line between them completely slack, he said again, “John?”

John repeated himself a bit louder, and this time the words were audible as he said, “The Sybil System was supposed to protect us from this.”  Sherlock stiffened, because now that he could actually hear his companion, he knew that it was rage that had driven John’s voice to such a low pitch; the anger was like an anchor tied to John’s voice, dragging the volume down into someplace dark and cold.  The lanky consulting detective actually found himself sliding back a step, missing the irony of it as he became slightly frightened by something he didn’t quite understand.  John lifted his head, surveying the other two deceased individuals in the hallway and going on with chilling fury, “This kind of mindless killing is exactly what Sybil was created to stop!”

Since John’s voice had risen to a shout at the end – and Sherlock was exquisitely aware of how much they did not need to draw attention to themselves – the Hound got over his initial fear and hustled forward again, now bending down to sort of hover his hands over John’s shoulders in an effort to distract him without actually initiating physical contact.  “That’s why we’re out here,” he soothed quickly and quietly, “To find out what’s wrong.  You’re right, the Sybil System should be stopping this, but it’s not, and I promise you that I’ll get to the bottom of that.”

Sherlock was better at reading old evidence than he was at reading contemporary body language, but he still got a tingle of unease up his spine as he noticed the way John froze suddenly.  From this angle, standing behind John and leaning over him, he couldn’t read the man’s expression, but the sudden stillness and silence was full of foreboding.  Sherlock straightened uneasily, even as John turned to look at him with narrowed, shrewd eyes.  Sherlock knew that he wasn’t going to like what John said before the other man even opened his mouth.  “You said something about this, before.”  Canny eyes scanned Sherlock’s face, and John must have seen something despite Sherlock’s best efforts at appearing nonchalant, because soon Watson was continuing with more fervor in his words, “We were talking about how fucked up it was that Sybil wasn’t catching madmen, and you said you knew something about that – but then the Quartermaster started talking on the comms and everyone suddenly had other things to worry about.” 

By the time John had finished speaking, his tone was beginning to sound accusatory, and Sherlock was having a hard time meeting his eyes.  Up until now, Sherlock had tolerated the leash that kept him and his Handler connected, but now he was all-too-keenly aware of it, and how it made sure he couldn’t escape his increasingly angry-looking companion.  True, John was an exceedingly short man by Sherlock’s standards, and not immediately intimidating, but something about John’s fiery expression right now made him a scary sight even while kneeling. 

“Spill, Sherlock,” John demanded, and stood up – or, rather, tried to stand up.  He’d been moving well enough on his right leg up until now, but the fact remained that someone had been bandaging that knee only hours earlier, and now it was showing.  John didn’t even make it up out of his kneel before his face creased in pain and he was sinking down again.  This time Sherlock did touch him, coming forward as if the leash had yanked him, grabbing John’s arms to ease his descent.  Sherlock ended up crouched while John sat, both of them a bit flustered. 

For a moment, silence ensued.  It was hard to tell if John was closing his eyes and breathing through the pain – or breathing through his anger.  Sherlock hoped for both, but just incase… he gathered his courage, and after a moment of clasping and unclasping his hands between his knees, he slowly spoke: “I do not make a habit of anthropomorphizing technology, and I do not believe in true artificial intelligence.”  John cracked one suspicious eye open, and Sherlock expected to be interrupted, but surprisingly, Watson stayed silent.  His other eye opened and his face settled into a guardedly expectant look that urged Sherlock to steeple his fingers uneasily and go on, “My younger brother, however – the Quartermaster, as I mentioned – is of a different mind.  He’s a technological prodigy, and has at times called us – our third brother as well – favorites of Sybil.”

John was looking almost worried now, and like he wasn’t sure how to process what he was hearing.  “What are you saying, Sherlock?”

“I’m saying…”  Habit halted Sherlock’s tongue; no matter how much he disagreed on the reasoning behind his and his brother’s situation, he did agree that it was not something to be spoken about.  It was perhaps the only secret that Sherlock had never been driven to dig at and drag to the surface.  Now, though, as he looked up from his hands and saw the openness of John’s expression – all of his emotions so clear to read, his very thoughts almost distinguishable to Sherlock’s keen mind – he found the key to unlock his voice again.  It felt as though, if there were ever a time to talk about this, and a person to talk to about it, it was now with John Watson, ex-Army doctor, and the kind of man who willingly ran out into a warzone to help people even now.  “I’m saying,” Sherlock backed up and repeated more strongly, meeting John’s gaze unflinchingly now, “that the Sybil system occasionally allows certain distinguished individuals access to her systems.  Whether this is due to actual ‘favoritism’ of some form, or a glitch, I know it to be true because my brother has been able to access Sybil’s systems for years now.”

John’s brows lowered, and Sherlock literally saw the moment the other man’s brain jumped to the wrong conclusion.  “So you’re saying that your brother is behi-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.  “No, I’m saying that if Sybil allowed access to my brother, he may not be the only one – and all it would take would be one moment of ambition to take advantage of that open door…”

~^~

Chapter Text

“What the hell, Sherlock?!”

While Sherlock was quite accustomed to being yelled at when he presented information not to people’s tastes (or above their understanding), he was slightly less used to the sensation of being slammed into a wall by a man so much shorter than him.  Despite being smaller, however, John had a surprising amount of power in him, and his grip on Sherlock’s shirt-collar was like a pit bull’s bite.  It was all really quite impressive… and inconvenient.  Sherlock realized the necessity of calming the blond-haired man down before further discussion could happen. 

Before Sherlock could gather the appropriate words to mollify his companion, John went on, snarling up at him, “You’re saying that there’s a breach in the Sybil System’s defenses?  How long have you known about that?”

Awkwardly, Sherlock fumbled the truth around in his mouth, trying to voice it in a way that would be most socially acceptable, “I’m not actually sure how long Siger has had access-”

“Dammit, Sherlock!” John cut him off.  Apparently, no, that wasn’t an acceptable answer.  Fortunately, after that last outburst, the smaller man seemed to cool.  Watson’s snarl because frustrated, then stiff, and then he dropped his head with a growl followed by a gathering breath.  Sherlock waited motionlessly as the hands in his shirt flexed, the fisted weight of them pressing against his collarbones until he felt as much as heard John exhale a slow sigh; the warmth of it hit Sherlock’s breastbone before John raised his head.  Warily, Sherlock noted that the Handler (his Handler) still looked mad, but there was a keenness behind John’s blue-grey eyes now.  With a spark of pleasant surprise, Sherlock realized that John was listening now.  He felt the need to voice his wonderment, head cocking as he observed, “So many people let themselves be blinded by anger when they’re surprised.”

“Yeah, well, it’s tempting,” John huffed, but after searching Sherlock’s face for a moment (whatever he was looking for, he must have found it), the shorter man let go and stepped back.  He didn’t go far, though, the cable between them still slack and John’s eyes still razor-sharp on Sherlock’s face.  “So you’d better bloody explain yourself in finite detail, before I decide to drag you right back to Holding.”

“Come now, John, that would hardly be productive,” Sherlock chided even as he deduced that the last sentence was all a bluff.  He read situations better than he read people, but right now, he could see that John’s anger had burned out – or at least it had collapsed in on itself, leaving only a small, banked ember that Sherlock thought that he could safely avoid.  Betting on that, Sherlock moved away from the wall and looked alertly around him, judging their location and already thinking a mile ahead while his words helped out those who were a mile behind, “While all three of us – Siger, myself, and our eldest brother Mycroft – are all geniuses in one way or another, Siger-”  Sherlock cut himself short, having caught a befuddled look from John out of the corner of his eye.  Signing, Sherlock realized that he’d lost his audience already, but strangely didn’t feel too much frustration as he sought and found the probable source of the confusion.  “Siger, your Quartermaster,” he elaborated with barely a hitch before plunging back into his explanation, “excels particularly in technological fields.”  They had to go this way; Sherlock turned his feet down the hall, and began walking.  He felt a tug against his wrist after two steps, but only for a moment, and then he heard John’s footsteps following after him.  “As much as it pains me to admit,” Sherlock grumbled, glowering, “I didn’t ask for details when first my brother brought up the topic of Sybil.”

“So you’re saying,” John said, from somewhere behind him, his tone curiously dry, “that this brother of yours mentioned that he could hack into the Sybil System, but you weren’t even curious?”

In reality, Sherlock had been consumed by curiosity.  The problem was, Siger had shortly thereafter started spouting technobabble, and the discussion fell so far outside of Sherlock’s wheelhouse that he’d ended up dropping the conversation out of sheer frustration.  Sherlock liked to think that he was a prodigy in all categories, but the maddening truth was that there were some gaps where he did not exactly excel.  It was reassuring to know that Mycroft was even worse with computers than he was.  Walking a bit more proudly, Sherlock made a little dismissive noise before replying archly, “It did not seem important at the time.”

“How the hell was that not important?”

“Let’s focus on the task at hand, John,” Sherlock reminded quickly.  He’d gotten distracted enough that his mental map had slipped, but fortunately, Watson was not entirely useless – in fact, he was perhaps more intuitive than Sherlock gave him credit for, because the shorter man appeared like a compact, suntanned ghost at his side and mutely pointed to the left as they came to a turn.  Sherlock’s map immediately reoriented, and he felt himself relax.  “What matters now is that the possibility exists of someone getting into Sybil’s systems and meddling with them.  Siger will know more, although finding him may be difficult.”

“Let me ask this then,” John said, walking just a step behind him and slightly to the right, seeming comfortable there even if his words continued to hold a hard edge, “If your brother has already proven that he can meddle with Sybil, then how are you so sure that he’s not responsible?  I know when he arrived.  The timing is pretty suspect, you have to admit.”

“I know that Siger didn’t do this because I know my brother,” Sherlock replied simply, “Out of the three of us, he’s probably the only one with a legitimately low Psychopass.”  Ignoring for a moment that he’d subliminally admitted that he himself had a high Pychopass (and therefore probably deserved to be here), Sherlock finished, “If I had to guess, I’d say that Siger’s here to free me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see that John was watching him closely now, his expression full of questions.  The only thing the smaller man ultimately said, however, was, “I don’t know, Sherlock… this seems a lot like a breakout.  Are you sure your brother didn’t just got a bit too far in his efforts to free you?”

For the first time, a niggle of doubt crept into Sherlock’s mind.  Siger was arguably the most moral of the Holmes brothers, but Sherlock also knew that his youngest brother could be intensely protective of those he felt kinship to – a condition strengthened by the fact that Siger had never made a lot of friends.  He valued those close to him all the more because of that.  At the same time, however, Sherlock was having a hard time consolidating the image of his prim, proper, cautious younger brother with the absolute chaos that had now consumed Eigengrau.  “I think,” Sherlock started slowly, growing more confident as he spoke more, “that it’s safer to assume that the madman at the center of all of this is the same madman who’s been glorying in this situation from the beginning.”

“C,” John filled in the blank. 

“Indeed.”

~^~

Sherlock wasn’t the only one having some directional issues, but for Harold, those issues were a lot more life-threatening – and his own ‘John’ wasn’t around to assist. 

“Mr. Reese, I sincerely hope that you’re doing better than I am,” Harold panted to himself as he hustled down the hallways, cursing his bad leg as well as the tendency of his thoughts to scatter under high-stress situations – like now.  Considering the circumstances under which he’d left Reese, however, it was highly likely that the Hound was faced with far worse than a bit of disorientation, and H felt bad for complaining, even if it was just to himself. 

He’d moved far enough that any gunfire he heard was distant, and he couldn’t even be sure that it was between Reese and Root anymore.  All of Eigengrau was in chaos.  To make matters worse, the place looked different under emergency lighting, and H was having a difficult time finding his way to the branch that he usually could find in his sleep.  It didn’t help that he kept thinking about Reese’s warning not to take the direct route – of course, by now, H was no longer sure whether he was taking the direct route or not, which was just plain bothersome… 

“Hey, Harold, long time no see,” a voice rang out from the shadows ahead, startling the older man and making him realize just how lost he’d gotten in his own thoughts.  It was terrifying to realize that this habit of mental pondering was very likely to get him killed.

Possibly within the next few minutes.

There were a limited number of people who knew that Harold Finch was called anything other than ‘H.’  John Reese knew his whole name, but there was one other Hound who worked closely with Reese, and who had overheard just the surname once: Sameen Shaw.  It had taken a lot of convincing to make her realize that Harold didn’t want his name spread around, but after a few talks (if any conversation with Reese could really be called a ‘talk,’ taciturn as he was), she’d realized that it was a secret.  Still, Harold had realized early on that Shaw was not exactly selfless by nature, and as was the case with many Hounds of Eigengrau, secrets were currency.  Shaw had been convinced not to spend that currency.  Now, though, the rules had changed – and her easy use of H’s first name made that implicitly clear. 

Harold came to an awkward stop, old injuries flaring up in his leg and causing him to stumble even as Shaw came into view as smoothly as steel sliding out of a sheath.  Shaw rarely hid what she was: dangerous.  Even those who looked at her deceptively slim, feminine frame tended to instantly realize that this woman wasn’t easy prey, as she carried herself with a self-assured determination.  She was like Root, in a way, but where Root glided like a cat or a snake, Shaw had the unapologetic stride of a Doberman Pinscher. 

And right now she was most certainly off her leash.

“Miss Shaw,” Harold greeted her back, his hands clutching his shoulder-bag in an effort to hide their shaking as he tried to think of what to do.  There would be no calling for help.  “I’m glad to see you doing…”  He looked her over, noting the gun in her hand, and the fact that her other arm was coated with a suspiciously dark substance all the way from her fingertips to her elbow.  Gulping, he finished unsteadily, “…well.”

Shaw raised a raven-dark brow, volleying back, “Are you, Harold?  Are you really happy to see that I’m still alive?  Because I was pretty sure that you’re playing for the other team.”

“There are no teams, Miss Shaw,” Harold firmly stated, with only the thinnest hopes that his words would make any difference.  He started trying to edge back, thinking of a turn a few strides back, and the fact that he’d thought he’d seen a doorway partway down it.  Doorways meant possible rooms to hide in, and maybe enough furniture to pile up against the door between himself and Shaw.  “This is a very chaotic situation, and I believe that it is safe to say that both you and I are ultimately interested in nothing more or less than surviving it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the woman pondered, looking upwards and shaking back a stray strand of dark hair.  Efficient as always, she’d tied the bulk of her long hair back into a neat tail, but rough fights tended to knock bits of it loose.  Shaw had clearly found a few such fights, and looked eager for more.  “Maybe you don’t want anything more than survival, but I’m finally starting to set my sights a little higher.

Reese and Shaw were both American, having been transferred together to Eigengrau.  That wasn’t the only reason that they were often paired together on jobs, however: besides that, both of them had a sort of ruthless efficiency about them that meant they were capable of working their way through messy situations with all the proficiency and steadiness of machines.  Shaw, though, Harold knew, had a bit more of a tempter than Reese.  Harold could hardly remember an occasion when he’d seen John Reese well and truly angry, and even then, it had been a quiet and controlled sort of anger. 

Shaw… burned a little hotter and a lot faster.  And she held grudges.

“I don’t know about you, Harold, but I’m pretty mad about this SmartBlood,” Shaw continued saying, starting to stalk forward, “But you wouldn’t know anything about that because you don’t have any of it in you – instead, you just sat back while that fucking Quartermaster put it in.”

As Harold stumbled again, he finally admitted what he hadn’t wanted to admit thus far: there was no chance of him running to safety before Shaw could catch up with him, especially not now that he’d heard the growing anger in her voice.  Reese had taken the injection of the Smartblood and all that it entailed philosophically, as he took most things; Shaw didn’t have a philosophical bone in her body.

She also had a disturbing habit of shooting first and asking questions later, Harold reflected even as he started to stutter out, “Now, Miss Shaw, there’s no need to-”

Harold cut off because despite the dim lighting, he’d seen a drastic change in Shaw’s expression.  Her dark eyes had whipped past him, and suddenly her temper had disappeared to be replaced by startled wariness, and her free hand had dropped down to her gun.  She didn’t raise it, but Harold could read the preparation for battle in every inch of her lean body, and somehow that was more terrifying than any horror-movie monster could be.  Stomach feeling as though it had dropped into his shoes, Harold stopped backing up, realizing with a growing sense of fatalism that running had just become even more improbable than before.  For a split-second, he hoped perhaps that it was Reese behind him – but no, Shaw had never really feared Reese. 

There was one entity that virtually everyone in Eigengrau feared, however.

Hannibal’s voice rolled, low and sweet, from roughly four paces behind Harold’s back: “Good morning, Miss Shaw – or, at least, I do believe it’s still morning.  Without consulting a clock it's hard to tell.”  Harold could just imagine the blandly polite expression to match the cultured tone, even though he knew that Lecter’s eyes would be as flat and emotionless as a reptile’s as he spoke.  “I sincerely hope you don’t intend to direct that gun at me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Shaw replied bluffly, although her eyes were bright with tension, “It’s been a slow morning, so there’s definitely a part of me that just wants to liven things up, you know?”

“How lively do you want it?” came a second low, male voice, and Harold jumped so badly that he nearly lost his footing entirely.  This was James Bond, his voice appearing like magic from even closer but more to the right – the hallway that Harold had been planning to desperately escape down.   This time H did manage to overcome the fear freezing his body, turning his head, only to bite back a whimper at the sight of 007 padding into view with a Walther already raised and ready in his all-too-capable hands.  Looking back, Harold saw that Shaw now looked downright uneasy, her survival instincts more than capable of evaluating the rising danger to her person.  Shaw was rash – but she wasn’t stupid, and like any good, lightweight predator, she was keenly aware of the repercussions of even a minor injury. 

If Bond and Lecter had teamed up, there wasn’t going to be anything minor about any injuries they inflicted.

While Harold’s blood froze in his veins, realizing that he had no hope of escaping this situation, Shaw looked rapidly back and forth between the two other Hounds – then looked at Harold with what might have been, if this weren’t Shaw, pity.  “Nice chatting with you, Harold,” she dismissed him, and it sounded a lot like she was actually saying, ‘Nice knowing you.’

With nothing more than that, Shaw turned and disappeared like a wolf back into its native dark.  Hannibal and Bond let her go, neither saying anything nor following her with gunfire.

Which left Harold to deal with them…

Slowly, heart in his throat and fear making him shake, Harold turned around.  Despite having known what he’d see, he still had to fight the urge to gasp at the sight that greeted him: two of Eigengrau’s deadliest Hounds, teamed up and standing only a few meters away.  A morbid part of Harold noted that they were oddly well-matched, with their self-assured and outwardly charming natures, rough good looks, and blond hair.  Hannibal’s broader and more imposing build was counterbalanced by the capable way in which Bond still held his weapon, looking terrifyingly competent.  Perhaps all of the recent events in Eigengrau were proof that Hell existed – but 007 and 003 teaming up was practically one of the signs of the Apocalypse.  War and Death riding in without the need for horses…

Suddenly, though, a new voice appeared – one that made H lift his head alertly, a spark of surprise and hope piercing through the crushing fear.  “H?  H, is that you?”  Suddenly another figure appeared out of the shadows of the hallway, the Quartermaster’s dark hair almost blending in so that he seemed to pop out of nowhere.  The most ludicrous thing, however, was that he didn’t spare the Hounds a second glance.  In fact, while Q kept his distance from Hannibal, he actually came up to 007’s side, placing a hand on one muscular shoulder.  It took Harold a shocked second to realize that he recognized that familiarity: he touched Reese in much the same unthinking, companionable manner.  “H, are you all right?” Q asked with more anxiety when his previous queries garnered no response.

“I think he’s a bit in shock, Q,” Bond quietly murmured with the kind of patience usually only seen in patient teachers or experienced mothers.  It was so strange to hear it from 007’s mouth that Harold nearly choked on air. 

Then, to make matters even odder, Hannibal – without actually taking his unblinking eyes of Harold – tipped his head a bit to call behind him, “Will?”

Obediently, a voice answered from further back, “There’s no one on our tail.  We’re safe for a bit.”  A bit more sarcasm entered the voice, “If you guys feel like having a family reunion in the middle of a warzone, be my guest.”

While Hannibal smiled an eerie but seemingly amused smile, Q darted forward and 007 relaxed out of his ready stance just a little.  Harold felt like he’d stepped into an alternate dimension somehow, one which may or may not have been more unsettling than the nightmare-zone that Eigengrau had recently become.  Q’s hands on his shoulders were comforting, however, and the Quartermaster’s expression held sincere worry.  “You’re safe,” Q said - very belatedly, H thought.

That somehow jumpstarted Harold’s tongue, although what jumped out of his mouth perhaps wasn’t the best opening statement, “Considering the company you’ve arrived with, that is perhaps one of the more questionable statements I’ve heard today.”  Harold immediately flushed with mortification, and stared over Q’s shoulders at the two Hounds – but neither seemed insulted.  In fact, Hannibal had turned to view the last member of their party, a medium-sized young man with dark hair almost as messy as Q’s.  “Nonetheless,” Harold smoothed out his last sentence, getting his wits slowly back, “I’m very grateful for you timely arrival.  I was afraid of what Shaw might do.”

“But you’re not hurt?” Q pressed, brows beetling beneath the fall of his hair.  For the first time, Harold noticed that Q himself looked a bit worse for wear, scuffed around the edges and with at least one bandage peaking out around his left wrist.  The fact that he was bandaged, however, said that he had someone taking care of him – Hounds, apparently.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Harold belatedly assured.  He gestured exasperatedly at his leg, however, adding, “Just the usual infirmities.”  His gesture seemed to get the group to relax a little (or perhaps Will’s assurance that they weren’t under attack was the cause of the easing of tensions), and the two Hounds lost some of their overt lethality.  They still lurked like sharks in the background, though, and when Bond also turned to regard Will for a moment, Harold leaned a bit closer to Q.  Dropping his voice, he asked, hushed, “Are you all right?”

“Oh... well,” Q started, looking more embarrassed than worried.  At first, he seemed to be checking over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching them, but then it turned out he was just indicating an injury with his chin, “I got grazed by a bullet, actually, but mostly I’m just bumped and bruised.  Nothing mortal.”

“I was actually referring more to your companions,” H elaborated.  He watched as Q’s eyes widened belatedly in understanding. 

“You’re wondering how I’ve come to be traveling with 003 and 007, and whether I'm an unwilling hostage,” Q stated more than asked.  The latter Hound’s head swiveled the moment his numerical designation was said, despite Q having spoken in a voice that Harold would have sworn was too quiet to carry.  It made H tense, eyes wide with alarm, but Q sounded very at ease.  Unaware of the Hound now focused on him from a few meters behind, the young Quartermaster finished, “It’s a bit of a long story – but I can assure you, we’re all working together at the moment, voluntarily.”  Seeming to truly notice Harold’s fear for the first time, Q said a bit more softly, one hand returning to Harold’s right shoulder, “We’re all safe.”

“We might not be for much longer,” Bond’s voice cut in.  He was standing between the two groups of Q and H, and Hannibal and Will, and was apparently eavesdropping on both.  He tipped his chin in the direction they’d come, “There’s a bit of noise getting louder from behind, and I don’t trust Shaw to just disappear for good.”

“To be fair,” Hannibal added, tone diplomatic, “she has highly qualified survival instincts.  She might have sped to safer waters.”

007 angled his head, considering, then abruptly conceded with a nod.  “True.”

Not wanting to get bogged down in a philosophical debate about relative wisdom in a homicidal madhouse, H gripped his courage in both hands and raised his voice to state all at once, “I need to get to Q-branch.  I deeply appreciate your intervention, but I really must get there.  If you could point me in the right direction, I’d be very grateful.”

Q’s expression brightened unexpectedly.  He smiled and looked back to Bond of all people, although the Hound merely narrowed his eyes in mild wariness.  “We can do you one better,” Q said, turning back to H, “We’re heading there ourselves.”

“Great.  Now it’s a party,” Harold thought he heard the one called Will mutter.

In response, Hannibal reached out a hand, placing it on Will’s back as he murmured, “Hush, Will.”  Surprisingly, despite a bellicose look, the dark-haired man complied, seeming to sag back for a moment against the hand.  It was officially the eeriest and most unexpected interaction Harold had seen in his entire life.  He wondered if perhaps no one had thought to tell this Will character that Hannibal was a cannibal. 

Now those approaching noises were evidence to everyone – shouting and gunshots.  Bond tensed up again, and while Lecter remained outwardly calm, a coldly violent light lit his eyes as he turned an ear towards the sound.  It seemed that Bond was in charge, at least at the moment, since he was the one who frowned and finally spoke in a quiet but commanding tone, “Q, go on ahead with Will and H.  Hannibal and I will deal with this and catch up with you.”  Just as Q opened his mouth, 007’s eyes turned to him with the uncanny accuracy of laser-sights, and the Hound cut him off, “Don’t argue.  Go.”

Q’s mouth snapped shut, and something complicated clashed across his eyes behind his glasses.  Whatever he was feeling, however, it ultimately settled into acceptance, as he pursed his lips and turned.  “Come on,” Q whispered, circling over to Harold’s bad side and silently offering support.  Usually self-conscious about his limp, H gladly accepted the help now, having had his fill of being disabled.  Will didn’t catch up immediately, and seemed to be talking to Lecter again, but this time Harold didn’t catch the substance of their discussion.  He was with them after a few steps, however, coming up alongside Harold but for some reason only lifting his eyes to the level of Harold’s shoulder.

“I’m pretty handy with a gun, so I’ll go on ahead, I guess,” he murmured, his words stable despite the almost shy demeanor he was presenting.  Harold suddenly realized that Will hadn’t made eye-contact in this whole encounter – but the man was holding a handgun like he knew how to use it, at least.  A muscle in Will’s stubbled jaw flexed in determination as he gritted his teeth, then finished, “Just in case Lecter and Bond are wrong, and Shaw didn’t go far.”

“She’s a good shot, and patient enough to ambush her prey,” Harold felt the need to inform, and for a second, Will almost looked at him.  Big, dark eyes flicked up to his and then away, but the words were acknowledged with a serious nod.  Then he proceeded on ahead of them, gun leading and pace measured but quick.

“He’s a profiler,” Q supplied in an undertone, noting Harold’s bewildered looks after Will, “He worked with the FBI in the States before shipping out here, so I think he knows what he’s doing.”

“What I want to know,” H whispered flatly as he leaned against Q as little as possible while also limping along as quickly as possible, “is how he ended up so closely in league with Hannibal Lecter.”

Q was watching Will now, too, a pensive expression on his face that wasn’t exactly encouraging.  “He was with Hannibal before James and I teamed up with them.”

“And how did you end up with 007?”

“That-”  An entirely too clear gunshot echoed behind them, causing Will and H to flinch and Will to momentarily turn around, body tense.  Q quickly got them moving again, finishing swiftly, “That is a long and fucked-up story that I will gladly tell you if we survive all of this.”

~^~

Watson wasn’t actually the most terrible partner to be tied to, Sherlock had decided.

While John sometimes jumped to stupid conclusions, as proven in their conversations thus far, he was a thoughtful listener overall.  Sherlock didn’t really envisage his thoughts being worth terribly much, but that was to be expected from anyone who wasn’t Sherlock.  To be fair, even when John didn’t have any particularly brilliant comments to add, he did seem capable of being appreciative, which Sherlock realized was more than he usually got from an audience.  It was… surprisingly flattering, simply to be listened to in an interested manner.  And maybe John wasn’t even totally stupid: when next they found corpses, and Sherlock pointed out how this was definitely the work of a high-Pass non-agent, John was able to follow along decently well, at least insofar as the body’s wounds were concerned.  Having a military medic background made John quick to understand when Sherlock pointed out various nonlethal wounds, and how they had been inflicted for no other purpose but for the pleasure of the executioner.  Showing how Sherlock knew that this wasn’t the work of an Eigengrau Hound was a bit more complex, and John’s sadly normal level of acuity showed more, but that just meant that Sherlock got to show off a bit.  Despite the fact that they were talking about a dead body, John soon looked gratifyingly awed by Sherlock’s deductive skills.

That in and of itself was almost rewarding enough to make the subsequent gunfight worthwhile. 

“Get down, Sherlock!” John snarled, grabbing Sherlock by the metal collar around his neck and exerting some of that unexpected strength of his to ensure that he was obeyed.

Irked at being yanked down like a dog, Sherlock nonetheless had priorities, and therefore instead of getting mad he just tried to get back up again, complaining, “But I want to see-!”

“If you want to see something, ask me, and I’ll describe it to you,” John barked back, and somehow his iron tone kept Sherlock down where his grip hadn’t.  Both of them were behind a toppled table in the mess hall, and John leaned over the top just enough to get off two shots.  Despite the fact that he only popped up for a few seconds, fired, then ducked back down, Sherlock heard a cry that said at least one bullet had hit its mark.  John was back to relative safety by the time anyone returned fire, but his eyes were alive with excitement masquerading as temper as he turned his focus back to Sherlock and finished his statement, “You’re not going to be an idiot and stand up just to get shot.”

Very, very few people called any Holmes boy an idiot, and Sherlock rankled at it.  However, there was logic in John’s words… and he was handling this in a decently competent manner.  Therefore, Sherlock decided to acquiesce, hunkering down where he was before demanding, “What do the shooters look like?”  He quickly added, “Any details will do,” realizing that this wasn’t exactly a situation where John could leisurely observe – and, surprisingly, Sherlock found that he was averse to the thought of John getting hurt just to gather him information. 

John straightened up enough to shoot again, and despite having to immediately duck down to avoid an answering hail of bullets, he came back with information: types of weaponry he identified easily, moving on to general body-types based on what he could see.  What Sherlock was most interested by was the clothing, however.

“They’re dressed like guards,” he deduced from the bits of data gathered. 

John’s jaw tightened, and he was at least pretending to be so focused on their attackers that he couldn’t look Sherlock in the eye.  “I guess so.”

Because Sherlock couldn’t help but needle, he asked his Handler in a low, slow tone, “You don’t find that odd?”

Sherlock could feel how all of this was destabilizing John’s world: the Handler wanted to believe in a clear line drawn between good and bad, preferably drawn by the omniscient entity known as the Sybil System.  He was being forced to see that it wasn’t that simple, however, and Sherlock could see how John was balking at the information.  “How many opponents have you faced dressed in the fashion of Eigengrau guards?” Sherlock pressed, not allowing John to ignore the rising truth.

Sherlock knew the answer by the clenching of John’s jaw, even before it unclenched to allow the stilted answer, “I don’t know.  A few.”  Another brief uncoiling of John’s posture, just enough to get off one shot; he was conserving ammunition, but still keeping their enemies at bay.  A wise if defensive move.  “I just assumed that I was dealing with Hounds who’d gotten their hands on some uniforms.  With none of the locks working, it wouldn’t be difficult to get a disguise.”

“But why bother?” Sherlock pressed on inexorably.  “There’s no need for subterfuge.  No need for a high-Pass individual to hide their intentions or who they are.”  Seeing that John was uncomfortable, Sherlock softened his tone; he wasn’t even sure why he did it, but he took the time, even amidst the pressing danger, to give the final blow gently.  “We are in Pandora’s Box right now, John – and there’s more than one danger seething here.  Regardless of how it’s happened, Hounds aren’t the murderous individuals hunting people through Eigengrau.”

For a second, it looked like John would yell at him and argue.  Angry, troubled eyes were now fixed on Sherlock, but the middle Holmes brother just met those eyes steadily, having watched John enough by now to suspect that he was a very empathetic individual – and therefore capable of reading the sincerity in Sherlock’s gaze.  Sherlock wasn’t lying.  He also trusted that John respected his intelligence, meaning he’d known that Sherlock wasn’t wrong either. 

Finally, John looked away, and in his sharp exhale Sherlock could see grudging acceptance.  “Dammit,” John muttered.  A ricocheting bullet made Sherlock flinch mightily, but John didn’t seem affected. 

“So what now?” Sherlock asked, reluctantly leaving that in John’s hands – because if John was willing to trust in Sherlock’s deductive reasoning, then Sherlock could in turn trust in John’s ability to handle their physical situation.  That was what John was there for, after all. 

“Well, according to your metaphor-” John grunted, reloading his gun, the movement of his jacket proving what Sherlock had already suspected: John Watson had come very much prepared.  There was a lot of ammunition on his person.  More intimidating than John’s forethought and competency, however, was the steely look of determination that had filled his eyes.  “-We’re that last little thing called Hope, and I for one would like to make sure that this Pandora’s Box doesn’t open up on the world.”

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

“I still don’t know what you expect to learn in the morgue,” John said a bit disparagingly.  They’d managed to extricate themselves from the last firefight by the skin of their teeth, namely because John had done one thing their enemies had not: planned ahead.  Holding had a very respectable armory, and John had grabbed a very large amount of spare ammunition from its stores before leaving.  Their attackers had run out of bullets before John had.  When that had happened, Sherlock had realized it barely a beat before John, both of them exchanging significant looks.  Watson had proven himself an agile thinker at that point, and Sherlock was actually quite impressed: instead of wasting more bullets, or trying to take the fight to their enemy, John had started a verbal assault which was actually quite intimidating.  Despite being a rather small man, standing only as tall as Sherlock’s shoulder, John Watson was capable of leveling some very sincere and unsettling threats.

It wasn’t until they’d gotten their enemy to back down (John having made it very clear that any other option would end in an amazingly painful and bloody fashion) that Sherlock realized that single most terrifying thing about John Watson: he’d stayed calm the entire time.  It was quite impressive, and probably one of the main reasons their attackers had ultimately decided to leave this encounter at a draw, both parties grudgingly and warily drawing back.

Still marveling at the wonders of this seemingly simple person, Sherlock pushed aside his usual annoyance at stupid questions, deciding that John deserved at least the respect of an answer, “You’d be surprised what answers a body can give – more than a living person, I’d imagine.  Live informants tend to lie.”

John was giving him a look that mingled worry and a growing amount of jaded acceptance, and it felt like a win when the shorter man just sighed and shook his head.  Sherlock smiled, glad that Watson was learning to see things his way.  “Tell me again why you didn’t get a job as a coroner?” he asked resignedly as they continued to walk forward.  John was leading, but half-raised and ready, moving along so smoothly and surely that it was impossible to tell that he’d injured his knee.

Trailing behind at about half the full extension of his leash, Sherlock replied easily, “Because coroners are required to investigate both the interesting corpses and the uninteresting ones.  As a consulting detective, I can pick and choose.”

“And then get conscripted to Eigengrau?”

Sherlock made a face.  “Apparently,” he admitted sourly.  He waited patiently as John stopped them at a corner, peeking carefully around the edge before giving the all-clear and moving them forward again.  If nothing else, John was sensible and efficient, and since most people tended to waste their time and energy in utterly illogical ways, Sherlock had to appreciate the qualities John was showing.  Sure, Watson still wasn’t as smart as he, but then again, who was?

“We’re here,” John said, then tested the door they came to.  It didn’t budge, and he frowned.  Sherlock watched as tension subtly sewed itself through his companion’s body, and took that as a sign to be more alert and wary himself.  “And someone’s been here before us,” John added more grimly.

“This door has the same electronic locking mechanism as the majority of this facility,” Sherlock thought aloud, eyes taking everything in with a few quick glances.  He tested the door himself with a little shove, concluding, “Considering the small amount of give, I’d say it’s blocked by something heavy and solid, like a cabinet – as opposed to an inconveniently placed body, which would be more likely to give way.”  While John looked a bit bothered by that assessment, Sherlock simply saw it from its most logical viewpoint, adding, “With that in mind, I doubt that more pushing and shoving will yield results.”

“There’s another door,” John said after a moment, taking Sherlock at his word.  Considering that most people insisted on constantly questioning or challenging Sherlock’s deductions, this quick acceptance was both surprising and heart-warming.  It was with slightly more spring in his step that Sherlock quickly followed after his partner-in-crime once more, a few more hallways taking them to a second, less-used door.  No one bothered them on the way, which was perhaps not so surprising – the morgue was hardly a destination that was in high demand, even when everything was calm in Eigengrau.  This door opened as expected, although by this point, John was radiating the kind of quiet energy that Sherlock had come to associate with slow but dangerous chemical reactions.  With this in mind, Sherlock reached a long arm past John, propping the door open.  When John looked at him with a wary, questioning look on his face, Sherlock calmly indicated the dim entrance with a tip of his chin.  “I’d rather you be able to enter with both hands on your gun, without worrying about the door,” he murmured quietly but simply.  John, perhaps surprised that Sherlock could be so sensible in such mundane ways, blinked once in bewilderment, then nodded and turned back to business.  There was something thrilling, Sherlock was realizing, about watching John Watson when he was focused on a task like this.

Proceeding under Sherlock’s arm, John entered the morgue with all the wariness that an unknown situation deserved.  The emergency lighting wasn’t exactly ideal for observation, but Sherlock’s eyes had long since adjusted, and he looked around keenly as his leash tugged him along in John’s wake.  He’d never been in Eigengrau’s morgue before, but his gaze immediately noted things out of place: open drawers, a discarded sewing needle.  He saw some blood, too, but had the good sense to realize that talking was not in keeping with their present sneakiness, so he instead came closer to tap John on the shoulder.  When he had his companion’s attention, he merely indicated the few, sporadic drops.  They looked like speckles of ink in the present darkness, but there wasn’t much else besides blood that they could be.

“I don’t think anyone else is in here,” John said at that point, voice nonetheless careful and soft, gun still up, “and of all the places for blood, I guess the morgue isn’t the most shocking.”

“Corpses don’t bleed,” Sherlock replied, but didn’t press.  Technically, fresh enough corpses did tend to drip, and while he was curious about the freshness of this blood, he had more pressing matters.  “Where is the body of Captain White?”

John didn’t have the faintest idea, which was disappointing, but Sherlock decided philosophically that this man had already impressed him more than enough.  Taking the lead now, with John following behind and mostly watching the one unblocked door (the other did, indeed, have a filing cabinet pressed up against it), Sherlock began assessing and moving at the same time.  There were multiple cabinets, all closed, but only a few labeled – and therefore likely to have a body in them.  There was also one covered body on the autopsy table, which was a bit odd, because while White’s death was recent, surely it hadn’t been so recent as to warrant his body still being out…

Sherlock had been approaching the sheet-covered corpse even as he’d been thinking, his curiosity overcoming any caution – more and more, he was letting John be the cautious one.  Therefore, he was at the furthest reaches of his leash and right at the side of the autopsy table almost without consciously deciding to investigate.  “John-” he started to say, head cocking as it gathered data that he couldn’t fit into a neat, orderly sort of understanding.  That was about the moment where he realized that the drops of blood also ended at the side of this table, a combination of incongruities that was a bit too much to ignore.

Unfortunately, Sherlock didn’t get to finish either this sentence or his thoughts, because the corpse on the table suddenly exploded into motion, surging up at Sherlock with enough momentum and weight to drag them both to the ground.

“Sherlock!” John’s voice cut through the air as Sherlock hit the floor hard, immediately winded.  By and large, none of the Holmes boys were fighters, so Sherlock wasn’t particularly surprised when he found himself on his back, a heavy weight on his stomach and hands around his neck.  At first he’d been too dazed to react, but soon he’d probably be too to oxygen deprived to mount any kind of defense, which was just plain bothersome.

He had enough of his brain still un-rattled to realize that John wasn’t shooting, though, and that was confusing – surely John was a good enough shot to take out one target at close-range when said target was sitting on his Hound.  “John…!” he croaked, wanting to request that Watson at least attempt to posture and threaten his attacker as he had their foes from earlier.

Instead (after entirely too long for Sherlock’s tastes) John barked out in a tone that was subtly different than what Sherlock had gotten used to, something more formal and professional, “Sir!  Stand down!  We’re allies!”

The person on top of Sherlock froze.  Finally given an opportunity to blink his eyes open and focus properly, even if the pressure hadn’t really let up enough to allow proper breath, Sherlock coughed upwards into hard, deepset eyes, an unforgiving brow, and short hair beyond a receding hairline.  He probably would have recognized the face, some small part of his brain told him, if he weren’t seeing spots at the edge of his vision.

The man above him had turned, looking to Sherlock’s companion.  Fortunately, he seemed to recognize him pretty quickly, “Watson!  What the devil are you doing here?”

Thankfully, John hadn’t forgotten about the oxygen-deprived person in the room.  “Escorting him, actually.”  Sherlock felt a tug at the cuff around his wrist, linking him back to his Handler.  “He’s with me.”

Sherlock’s attacker seemed to be considering the leash.  “So it would seem.” Fortunately, that appeared to be reason enough to end the confrontation, as the hands around Sherlock’s throat abruptly fell away.  Sherlock had been trying to pry them off up until now, and had been making pathetically little headway; now his hands lifted to massage his own throat as he gasped and choked in air.

John (who had taken entirely too long to secure Sherlock’s release, in Sherlock’s opinion) stepped forward to greet the man still sitting on the consulting detective, “It’s good to see you still in one piece, M.”  Usually it was Sherlock who observed things first, but this time, it was John who made a discovery, almost instantly coming closer and saying with caution and concern stiffening his words, “Sir, are you all right?”

It actually seemed like Sherlock’s attacker, the much-vaunted – and much-hunted, as of late – M, was having a hard time getting up.  Sherlock recovered a moment longer, eyes closed and throat still feeling like a crumpled straw, but taking in data with his other senses: M was still crouched over him, but now with a hand on Sherlock’s sternum for support; a pained groan could be heard, following but a frustrating and self-deprecating, “ ‘All in one piece’ might be a bit of wishful thinking.”  Sherlock immediately read into those words, putting them together with what he already knew of the head of Eigengrau’s, and finding the unsurprising picture of a man who didn’t like not having control of a situation, or being weak.  By the time John had helped M dismount his hapless victim, it was clear that M was most definitely weakened in some way.

And Sherlock had had time to catalogue the man’s movements, eyes slitting open to watch the proceedings.  “Injury to left thigh, probably with the inclusion of damaged muscle,” he started rattling off with only a slight, lingering wheeze.  Two sets of eyes snapped to him from where M was trying to stubbornly get up and John was trying to get him to stay down while he looked him over.  Sherlock felt the urge to tell M to give up, because his Handler was an even more stubborn man than he was.  “Judging by his movements, I’d guess outer thigh.  As to internally injuries, I’m sure he has some, but as I’m still recovering from a strangling, I can only guess as to the specifics,” Sherlock finished cuttingly and then sat up.  His head spun but quickly settled; the profound ache in his throat was far less accommodating.

M looked gratifyingly surprised, and Sherlock shot him a mean, smug little smile.  John seemed less startled, and quickly redirected M’s attention before Sherlock’s angry smirk could ignite any sparks.  “Is Sherlock correct?  Where are you injured?”

“Of course I’m right,” Sherlock muttered under his breath even as M began to grudgingly answer John’s questions.  The answers were what Sherlock had expected, albeit with more detail – still, it was uninteresting enough that soon the Hound was pushing to his feet, attention on more important things.

Namely, the fact that he’d just read the title on the nearest morgue drawer: ‘Captain Connor White.’

~^~

Another John was also faced with a fight, but one less likely to be resolved with a few exclamations and revealed identities.

Root’s voice echoed down the halls, sharp and musical but also definitely filled with annoyance by now, “Come on, John, it doesn’t have to be this way!”

“So long as you insist on hunting Harold, it does,” Reese grumbled to himself as he checked how much ammunition he had left.  He’d stashed away a decent amount, and had carried it with him when he’d left his room with Harold, but Root had already forced him to waste quite a few bullets.  He wasn’t out yet, but he’d have to be careful, especially since it would be unwise to forget that Root wasn’t the only dangerous entity he’d possibly have to face in Eigengrau – far from it.  More loudly, he called from around the corner, pseudo-helpful, “You could always give up and walk away.”

He thought he heard a small, angry snarl, then Root was snapping back, “Not a chance.”

“This obsession will get you killed.”

“So will your loyalty, John.”

That was probably true, but Reese zeroed in on Root’s voice anyway, slipping out of cover just long enough to aim and fire, feeling the kick of the shot against his shoulder and then hearing a furious shriek.  He wasn’t sure if he’d actually hit the dangerous woman, but he’d at least given her something to think about.  There was a bit of silence after that, although Reese trusted his instincts, which were telling him not to hope for too much – he very much doubted that Root was dead.

He was proven right a few heartbeats later, when she growled petulantly, “That really wasn’t very nice.”

Affecting a blithe tone, John replied, “Well, the only person who ever says that I’m a nice man is Harold, and we both know how unrealistic he can be.”  Even as he finished off the sentence without a hitch, Reese tensed, hearing another sound.  He swore within the confines of his head, realizing that they were possibly about to get company, unless his ears were playing tricks on him.  Before he could assess the situation, however, Root opened fire on him – he wasn’t hit this time, but he knew instantly that injuring him wasn’t her goal.  Ultimately, Root wasn’t out to kill him: her goal was to get to Harold.  So all Root really wanted to do was get past, around, or through Reese, and right now she was trying to drive him back and distract him so that she could give him the slip.  When Reese had asked her to ‘walk away,’ this wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping for.

Braving the tail end of the projectile barrage, Reese tried to picture this section of Eigengrau in his head: Q-branch (and therefore Harold, hopefully) was still quite a ways away, so besides Medical, the only geographic features were the usual warren of hallways and storage and abandoned offices.  That meant that there were unfortunately a few ways that Root could outmaneuver him, but if there was anything John Reese did well, it was hunting people.  Each Hound had their skills, and some were good at spying, some at killing people – some at cooking up their bodies after the fact to make stew.  Reese, though, was one of the Hounds Eigengrau sent out when they wanted someone found and/or run into the ground.

Now, it felt natural to pause a moment, head swiveling back and forth slightly as he got his bearings, and then immediately take off down a hallway to his right.  This wasn’t the way Root had gone, but Reese was aware of that.  Good hunters followed in their prey’s footsteps; exceptional hunters preempted those steps, and cut them off.  The only potential hitch was that Root was also very good at hunting people – it was why she and Reese had often been paired up on missions.  They were both American, sure, but their comparable skill set more than their similar origins was what made them a perfect pair on missions.  It had never been definitively found out which one of them was the better tracker, however, and goodness knows Root had claimed to be Reese’ better on more than one occasion.

Reese couldn’t afford to be deterred, however.  Unintimidated, he picked a steady but swift pace, his every movement rigidly controlled as he reminded himself that failure here meant danger for Harold.  This wasn’t just Reese’s life on the line; this was also the life of someone he cared about.  And the list of people John Reese cared about was a very, very short list.  He couldn’t afford to lose a name like Harold’s.

Before Reese could find Root, however, someone else found him instead: Reese heard footsteps just seconds before a door to right swung open, and only reflexes on his part allowed him to swing his weapon around before the newcomer could get the drop on him.  It wasn’t Root; even in the shadows, the silhouette was bigger, more male.  The newcomer also had reflexes like Reese’s, however, and just as John brought up his weapon, he sensed more than saw another weapon rising to train on him as well.

Shots rang out, but no cries.  Reese flattened himself against the wall to the left of the doorway, the only cover available, and weighed the pros and cons of entering the room to fix the problem.  Usually, he’d have preferred waiting for his opponent to either leave or come to him, but he didn’t have the luxury of time right now.  Root would right now be doing everything possible to get back on Harold’s trail.  Just before Reese could decide that a bit of recklessness was worth it, a voice called out from right inside the door, “Fuck, is that you, Reese?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” Reese replied a bit wearily.  Gunfights were already messy enough without the addition of conversation, but alas, the talking had already started.  He thought he recognized the voice, however: 006, Trevelyan.  The man was best known for his joking manner, but Reese was more than aware of the fact that 006 was a monster in a fight.  Like a shark, he hid a lot of lethality behind a toothy smile.

A moment later and Reese’s suspicions were confirmed: “Trevelyan.”  A pause, then another sentence, which was blithe but also held about as much sincerity as any Hound possessed, “Sorry about almost shooting you.  I’m coming out, all right?”

Reese didn’t make a habit of shooting people unnecessarily, and perhaps Trevelyan knew that, and was monopolizing on the fact.  Regardless, the blond-haired Hound stepped out into view, his weapon holstered and hands up, mouth smiling but eyes keen and wary.  Reese kept his weapon in hand because he had bigger problems than running into old colleagues in the dark.

Before Reese could say anything to that effect, his ‘bigger problem’ started shooting at them.

“Shit,” Trevelyan hissed, but at least he was sensible, and had impressive reflexes to boot: in a heartbeat, he’d leapt back the way he’d come.  Reese followed, having no other cover, and actually feeling the heat of a bullet tear through his sleeve near his arm.  He’d been ignoring the graze he already sported along his left side, but wasn’t keen to add on any additional, more threatening injuries.

“I thought it sounded like a bit of a shootout, but I’d been hoping to run around the problem, not into it,” Trevelyan quipped, his weapon back out but no longer trained on Reese.  For better or for worse, they were both on the same side now, not enemies.  Eyes focused on the doorway, where he saw another bullet tear through the wall across the hall, Trevelyan jerked his head behind him to the other side of the room, “There’s another door that way, if you want to clear out.”

Thinking of Harold, and how that doorway would take him further away from the woman threatening Harold, Reese sighed and joined Trevelyan at the door instead.  “I’ve actually got business in the opposite direction,” he said obliquely.

“What a coincidence, so do I,” the other agent replied with a grim smile that said quite eloquently that they were both fucked.  The irony wasn’t lost on Reese: here they were, two men who probably had more survival instincts between them than half the population of London combined, and they were ignoring an easy escape route in favor of facing a rain of bullets.  “Who’s your playmate?” Alex went on to question.

“009.”

“One of the Director-general’s cronies.  Fantastic,” Trevelyan said without any indication of actual humor.  Reese said nothing, quietly trying to pinpoint Root’s location by her gunshots.  She was still shooting sporadically, although Reese knew better than to hope that she’d run out of bullets – because Root liked to come prepared as much as he did, even if she was a lot more frivolous with her ammo, apparently…  “Why is she hunting you?” Trevelyan spared Reese a glance.  “Aren’t we all on the same side?”

Reese immediately felt the tendons between his shoulder-blades tense, instinctively knowing that Harold was not someone he wanted to bring into this conversation.  True, Trevelyan appeared to be on his side now (and was definitely appreciated in this skirmish with Root), but the fact remained that Trevelyan was a Hound, and therefore a potential danger to Harold.  So no, they really weren't on the same side.  The collars Reese and Trevelyan wore no longer served to control them, and it was very likely that 006 was taking the opportunity to wreak some vengeance upon the low-pass rulers of Eigengrau – meaning Harold would be a target.  It was only because of personal feelings that Reese didn’t feel the same.  That meant Reese, for Harold’s sake, couldn’t afford to trust Trevelyan.  Therefore, instead of bringing up this potential vulnerability, Reese replied simply, “It’s a long story.”

“Huh.  Pity we don’t really have time to talk about it.”  Surprisingly, 006 actually did sound a bit regretful, but then again, Trevelyan had always been a rather good conversationalist.  Now he edged closer to the doorway, daring to peak out, only to be immediately chased back in by another bullet.  “Any chance you two could just kiss and make up?  I’m actually in a bit of a hurry, and this was not something I planned to get tangled up in – no offense.”

“None taken,” Reese said easily, “I hadn’t wanted to get tangled up in this either.”

Alec’s teeth flashed in a quick, grim smile.  “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Root’s voice rang out from down the hallway and to the right, crystal clear and honestly too close for comfort – although at least it meant she hadn’t ditched her present quarry in favor of Harold yet, “Come on out and face me like a man, Reese!”  Her musical catcall faded to something a bit more impatient and razor-edged, “By which I mean come out and die like a good boy.”

“She’s charming,” 006 observed with heavy sarcasm.

“You might want to tell your new friend to leave before he gets hurt,” Root added.

Trevelyan’s crooked smirk turned to a frown.  “She’s also very sure of herself.”

“She’s earned it,” Reese admitted without rancor, and was faintly pleased when Trevelyan didn’t argue.  Reese and Trevelyan hadn’t been assigned together very often, perhaps because they had fairly different modes of operation: John was by and large a quiet, thoughtful man, who was very capable of thinking on his feet, but preferred scouting things out and planning first.  Trevelyan, on the other hand, was a loud and reputably reckless man, whose plans were something of the exception rather than the rule.  Now, though, Reese saw something analytical glinting in Trevelyan’s narrowed eyes, and he reassessed his opinions of the blond-haired Hound just a bit.

“Since we’ve both agreed that we can’t take the easy way out-”  006 jerked his chin briefly to the door behind them, which offered an escape that apparently neither of them wanted.  “-Then I suppose the only option is through her.  Ideas?”

Reese was still thinking.  “She’s got us pinned down pretty well,” he hedged instead of answering, even as he edged closer to the door.  As soon as he made to peer out into the hall, a well-placed bullet drove him back.  Root had a crazy-streak in her a mile wide, but she was also a good shot.

“What are the chances she gives up and just goes away?”

‘Very high,’ Reese thought, even as he felt something cold seep through his veins at the thought.  If Root went away, that meant she'd start hunting more vulnerable prey: Harold.  Suddenly realizing that an ally was possibly just what he needed at this moment to contain the situation, Reese limbered up his tongue and said smoothly, “Once she’s fixated, she’s about as hard to get rid of as a malignant cancer.”  It was pretty close to the truth; Reese simply didn’t elaborate on who precisely Root was fixated on.

For a moment that stretched uneasily, like a cold rubber-band, 006 didn’t answer.  Reese purposefully didn’t meet the eyes he could feel on him.  After a moment, though, it seemed like Trevelyan swallowed the half-lie.  There was a nod, then a grunted, “Well, that’s bloody fantastic.”  Another pause, as Reese watched the doorway and tried to listen for footsteps – because Root was usually a fairly cautious creature, but right now she was just about wild enough to sneak up and leap right through the door at them, gun leading.  He also knew from experience that she was as lightfooted as a cat, and just as quick.  

Unexpectedly, Trevelyan went on, “We could try and flank her?”

Reese hadn’t expected the notoriously compulsive 006 to be the one to come up with a plan.  His opinion of the man rose a little.  “It’ll be a little bit hard with both of us in the same room and her taking pot-shots in the hallway," he still had to point out pessimistically. 

“So one of us lays down covering fire as the other runs out,” Alec shrugged, showing that he held his life significantly less dearly than most people did.  Then again, Hounds had rather atypical survival instincts, and even Reese had to admit that the plan had merit – if only because it seemed like the only option.  “Is there another room across the hall, something to duck into?”

“There is,” he said slowly, “if you want to get shot.”

“If our other option is to wait here until your trigger-happy friend pops by, then I’m willing to chance it,” Trevelyan snarked back, and when Reese looked over with a slightly raised eyebrow, he was gifted by a peevish but determined glower.  006 went on, humor finally used up, “Root likes getting shot just as much as the rest of us, so if you can get a few shots off, she’ll at least hesitate.  That’s all the gap I’ll need.”

Reese was slowly developing a new respect for his unplanned ally.  He gave his weapon a quick check, the tool moving easily in his hands.  “Fine.  If you’re the one risking your neck,” Reese agreed laconically, and quickly raised the weapon to his shoulder again with intent this time.  Another, better man might have felt a bit bad for misleading 006, and letting him think they had to act before Root inevitably closed in on them – but Reese had realized long ago that he never regretted lies that served a purpose.  Right now, that purpose was protecting Harold, and it was causing Trevelyan to come up with plans that were stupid, and daring… and just might work.

~^~

Chapter Text

“Now!” Trevelyan said, in such a calm tone and with so little warning that for a second Reese merely frowned at him – and then suddenly 006 was leaping into the hallway with a roar.  Fortunately, 006 was capable of laying down his own cover fire for the split-second it took Reese’s body to react, and then it was total chaos.  Reese thought he saw a flash of movement further down the hall that might have been Root, but at the moment, he wasn’t trying to aim like a sniper.  Keeping as much of his body still out of sight in the doorway, he shot blind, more of his attention on Trevelyan than on their attacker.

For a man of his size, 006 could really move.  There also wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in him, and Reese had a moment where he wondered if Trevelyan’s brash rush from cover had been born of a trust in Reese’s capabilities – or if Alec Trevelyan was simply insane.  Reese had dealt with people on both sides of the spectrum, and decided he wasn’t one to judge.  He stopped shooting and gave a small shrug to himself, the second his impromptu ally was out of sight in another room across the hall.  He was closer to Root this way, although Reese was already worrying about just how long it would be before Root simply turned tail and escaped to hunt Harold by another route.

Or, at least, that was what Reese was worried about for all of three minutes – in which time Root catcalled him twice more, but there was otherwise no noise to indicate that anything had changed.

And then he started smelling smoke.

It was coming from further down the hallway – on the other side of Root from Reese, in fact, and the smoke began to block the emergency lights at about the same time that flickering flames began to provide their own orange glow.  Root snarled out a curse and Reese thought he heard laughter, a deep chuckle that sounded positively hellish in the increasingly fiery environment.  Trevelyan must have ducked into a room that had multiple exits, and had used that to his advantage not only to get behind Root… but to somehow start a fire along the way.

“John…!” Root called, stretching out his name in that warning tone she often got – when she wanted to threaten him, but right now it sounded like she was deeply unsettled.

To be honest, so was Reese.  He was honestly at a loss as to how 006 could have started a fire that fast.  It clearly wasn’t a small fire either, because now he could hear it, a throaty sort of crackling that matched the increasing, flickering light.  Deciding to take advantage of the chaos that had taken all of them (minus Trevelyan) by surprise, Reese quickly cleared his throat and called back, “Now might be a good time to surrender, Root!”

“Not a chance,” was the snippy reply.  But it was followed by choking.

006’s own voice joined the conversation like some sort of demon from its native turf, “If you think I’m bluffing and won’t gladly burn this whole place to the ground, then you haven’t been in Eigengrau long enough to understand how much I hate this place.”

There was silence for a moment, then another cough from Root, even as Reese’s eyes began to water.  He had no idea how Trevelyan was coping, because he had to be even closer to the flames.  When Root started snarling very sincere expletives at 006, however, the pyromaniac gave as good as he got, his voice a bit harsher than usual but still loud and strong.

It was swiftly becoming clear that Root was growing desperate – this wasn’t a stalemate that any of them could hold forever, but with her only exits blocked by fire and/or enemy Hounds, Root was in a particularly bad position now.  The smoke had also grown thick enough that everyone was on an equally bad playing field, so far as shooting one another went.  “John!” she called out again, making it clear that she was done verbally abusing Trevelyan and interested in talking to a less volatile person now, “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“Oh, I think I do,” he rasped back.  Pulling his shirt-collar up over his mouth and nose, he coughed into it, silently hating 006 a bit for turning this into a literal fire-fight.  Still, he could play tough like everyone else.

Since Root’s reply happened at the same time as more coughing, 006 wasn’t completely immune to the smoke either, “Do you really think that Harold can save you – from this?  From yourself?  You know what we are, John Reese.”

‘Harold knows what I am, too,’ he said silently, but didn’t open his mouth.

Root went on, “If you kill me, you’re slamming the door on freedom.  Have you really been in this cage for so long that you’d rather roll over like a good dog for the people who put these collar-?”  Suddenly her voice cut off and there was the sound of frantic struggling, the kind of nearly silent thrashing and scrambling that came with only the most desperate, intense fights.  Reese stayed where he was, his gun still firmly in his grip but his mind carefully blank, so that he would not piece together images to go with what he was hearing.

Then there was silence.

The footsteps that came down the hallway were heavy, already telling Reese’s keen ears that it was 006 approaching, and making no move to hide it.  Reese stepped into view with his weapon lowered, in time to see broad shoulders silhouette against a background of flames.  Smoke fell away from Trevelyan like silken shrouds falling loose, and there was definitely something of a death-shroud about him – something inhumanely lethal.  His weapon was holstered as if he didn’t even need it, and his eyes were shadowed and unreadable.

“You said you had business to attend to around here?” Alec asked, voice a low rasp.  He’d torn a piece of cloth off to wrap around his mouth and nose, explaining how he’d weathered at least some of the smoky conditions.  His tone was unsettlingly flat when compared to his earlier, boisterous discussion, and Reese recognized the Hound that he’d killed alongside in days past.

Meeting those eyes, John didn’t blink, but said simply, “Not anymore.  You?”  He asked with apparent disinterest, “So what brought you to the area?”

“I was hoping to steal some supplies from Medical, actually,” Trevelyan said with a faint tick of his mouth that might have been a smile, in another circumstance.  Another lifetime.  What Reese noticed, however, was that the only injury 006 had was on his right biceps.  It didn’t look like a serious wound by any means, and hadn’t slowed up the Hound in the slightest thus far.  Notable, however, was the fact that the injury was bound by a tie with the knot facing backwards – an angle that Trevelyan wouldn’t have been able to manage by himself.  The tie itself had also been familiar, before everything had been obscured in firelight and smoky shadow.  “I hope you don’t take it personally when I say I hope we don’t meet up again.”

Reese moved his mouth to shape a smile, something that society had taught him to do even when he didn’t feel it.  “I’d be insulted – if the feeling wasn’t mutual,” he replied fairly.

Now Alec chuffed a very faint laugh.  If either of them were reflecting on Root’s words and feeling the weight of the collars about their necks, neither mentioned it.

In fact, they said nothing more.  They simply turned and parted ways as the fire grabbed for whatever fuel it could find, doomed to eat itself to death.

~^~

In retrospect, it would be ironic: Q was heading to Q-branch because he wanted to take back control of the computers from Root’s virus – while H wanted to keep the electronic key to the collars out of enemy hands.  The joke was that said key was no longer in Q-branch, but instead on Q’s person, waltzing right back to Q-branch.  Unfortunately, neither of them got time to compare notes.

The sounds of the fighting behind them had grown more intense by the second – an inevitable result when you added two more Hounds like Bond and Lecter to the mix – and perhaps that cacophony was part of the reason they heard no sounds of anyone else approaching.  Shaw also moved like a knife through smoke, so maybe they’d never stood a chance of hearing her until it was too late.

Will twisted and cried out, his own noise and the crack of a much closer gunshot seemingly simultaneous.  He went down hard, a heavy puppet with no more strings left.  A beat later and Shaw was stepping into view from an adjacent hallway, the labyrinthine turns of Eigengrau once again favoring the hunters.  Her gun was up and swiveled quickly to the two remaining men, and H scrambled to push Q behind him – because, yes, Shaw was angry at H more than anyone, but she was much more likely to dismissively shoot people she didn’t feel anything for at all.  Will was a perfect example.  Even now, the way Shaw looked at Q was the way most people would look at an inanimate object, and her interest quickly slipped back to H when she realized she couldn’t simply remove that object.  “You know, I don’t think it’s very fair when you bring in other people to fight your battles for you,” she observed.

“I believe it was you, Miss Shaw, who once told me that winning by cheating was better than losing by the rules,” H somehow managed to get out, even as he felt inevitability like a noose around his neck.  The metaphorical noose tightened as Shaw’s dark eyes unexpectedly flicked past him again, and this time when she looked at Q, it was clear when she suddenly deigned to give him her attention.  Harold’s heart sank when Shaw’s eyes widened with recognition.

She regained control of her expression quickly, resettling her weight like she was lining up her entire body behind her raised gun.  “You’re the Quartermaster, aren’t you?” she asked more jovially.

This was very much not good.  Just as Shaw’s attention shifted to Q, however, and before anyone could think of a safe way to respond to her, there was a shift of movement from the forgotten body on the floor – Will, apparently not dead.  H had just enough time to snap his eyes to Hannibal’s mysterious companion, seeing him twitch sluggishly, before suddenly that sluggishness became an almost freakish speed.  The kick caught Shaw so much by surprise that it actually took her legs out from under her.  H was so surprised that he could only stare, unable to recall ever seeing anyone but Reese getting the drop on Shaw.

Will, meanwhile, had rolled up onto his knees.  The whole side of his face was bloody, looking slick and tarry as it caught the emergency lighting and clung to his hair.  It made his eyes seem unnaturally white against it, but there was something empty in his gaze, something wrong that H’s hindbrain could identify but that none of his mind could name.  “Pride goeth before the fall,” Will rasped in a voice that sounded unlike anything H had heard from him thus far.  Glancing back to Q reflexively for cues, he saw that the Quartermaster looked equally confused and unsettled.

This wasn’t normal.

Shaw was quick to recover, and she’d never dropped her gun – but Will had a gun, too, and somehow it was back in his hands.  As Will snarled something more about the ugliness of pride, the two of them both twisted to aim at one another, and it was Shaw who balked first.  Will, his lips peeled back in an animal snarl, didn’t seem to even notice the other gun, his fearlessness making him tenfold more terrifying.  H was actually glad when he saw Shaw switch from offense to defense, flipping over and rolling clear just a beat before Will pulled the trigger.  It was a haphazard shot, but Will didn’t seem to mind.  His eyes had followed Shaw even if his gun hadn’t, and as he got one foot underneath him, he suddenly roared, “You will be purified!” and bodily leapt at the woman.

“Holy shit, Hannibal, what kind of person did you team up with?” H just barely heard Q gasp as Shaw and Will devolved into a chaotic, desperate brawl.

~^~

As a rule, Hannibal was picky about who he voluntarily spent his time with.  Social events were often necessary evils, and thus exceptions to this rule, but as much as possible Hannibal liked to associate only with those worth his time.  Life was too short to be wasted on rude people.  That was why Hannibal had killed his last handler, and why he’d likewise put even a few fellow Hounds in their graves – he had no choice but to work for Eigengrau, but he could at least influence who kept him company.  Some, like Hart, he tolerated well enough, because while the man could be insufferably proud, he was polite; some, like Bond, he appreciated under specific circumstance, such as now, as they fought together like efficient, twinned machines.

Some, like 016 and 018, he dearly wished he’d eliminated earlier.

The pure power of 016’s punch knocked Hannibal off his feet despite his efforts to dodge.

“God damn, Frankie, I love to watch you work,” 018 hollered from further down the hall, his American accent almost as irritating as his wild joviality.  Both Sixteen and Eighteen were American imports, and Hannibal had asked himself on multiple occasions why Eigengrau had bothered with them.  Hounds were more than just mindless individuals who happened to have high Psychopasses – they were intelligent, useful.  Hannibal had never been impressed by the mental acuity of either of these men.

Now, though, he was beginning to understand why Eigengrau kept them.  016 fought like a tank, and 018 just goaded him on.

“Shut your hole, Russo,” 016 growled back in his canyon-low, avalanche-rough voice, even as he stalked over to where Hannibal was recovering.  Lecter could taste his own blood in his mouth, and he fancied that he had at least a few bruised ribs and loosened teeth thanks to Sixteen’s powerful fists.  Sixteen was probably the biggest high-Pass agent in Eigengrau, and just for a second, Hannibal saw his own mortality in the man’s flat, narrowed eyes as their gazes met.

Eighteen, a smaller man but still very dangerous, was wearing a grin that never warmed up his eerily dark eyes.  He was just opening his mouth to respond to 016 when Bond barreled into him from behind.  Perhaps it would have been a fair fight, but Sixteen and Eighteen had come with some of C’s men, and Hannibal knew that even Bond was having to work to hold his own.  Now, bloodied and bruised round the edges, 007 and Eighteen tangled, and Hannibal accepted what he’d already known: that he had to deal with his monsters on his own.

The thought made him smile.

He’d been doing that since he was a child.

Rumor was that Sixteen and Eighteen had tried to kill each other more than once, and had to be regularly split up when they got into fights – despite that, however, Hannibal was unsurprised when Sixteen’s scarred face turned the second Eighteen and Bond crashed together.  Hannibal had made a living out of reading people, and therefore he was ready to act when Sixteen’s attention was dragged away for just a heartbeat.  Lecter had been on his hands and knees on the floor, head ringing, but he leaped up with all the speed of a snow leopard, using his position to his advantage to ram his shoulder up into Sixteen’s middle.  To 016’s credit, he made no noise of surprise, even as Hannibal’s momentum sent them both surging into the wall.  Hannibal disengaged before Sixteen could recover and grab him, knowing instinctively that he wouldn’t survive a brawl with Sixteen quite as well as Bond was surviving a brawl with Sixteen’s smaller, black-haired counterpart.  Hannibal was a big man with an athletic build, but Sixteen was a bull – he’d actually taken a bullet already, and while his arm was now streaked with blood, it hadn’t seemed to even slow him.

As Hannibal backed up, adrenaline a storm in the bottle of his body, he heard a gunshot from behind him.  The resulting, undignified shriek was from one of their opponents, however, and Eighteen’s snarled curse a few moments later said that 007 was proving to be a handful.  Hannibal entertained a small smile even as he kept his focus on the man in front of him.  It was probably for the best that the two of them had quickly ended up weaponless, because Hannibal recalled seeing Sixteen’s skills with a gun – he was no sniper like Shaw or Percival, but he could end a man quite quickly regardless.  While the lack of finesse made Hannibal want to curl his lip, he had grudging respect for the pure efficiency his opponent practiced.

Falling back on a trick that Hannibal had used before, when he’d been on missions with 007, Hannibal switched fluidly over to Russian and called over a quick phrase.  Sixteen’s eyebrows twitched downwards and he froze in place warily.  When 007 made no response, however, Sixteen began wading forward again, canny, deep-set eyes turning impossibly colder.

Hannibal braced himself, feeling his injuries and acquainting himself with the reality of things: Sixteen could kill him right now.  Hannibal was a predator, but he was not invulnerable, and some prey-animals were very dangerous indeed.

~^~

At first, Bond was so startled to hear Russian that he thought there was something wrong with his ears.  It was a trick that he and Alec used quite frequently, but he’d only made use of the shared language occasionally with Hannibal, and almost exclusively on missions.  This might not have been a mission, but the danger level was much the same, so after a split-second’s lag, James’ mind latched onto the words.  He was still trying to handle two attackers at the moment (there would have been a third, but he'd just shot one fellow in the stomach, leaving James faced by just Russo and another violent stranger) and had already missed the start of Hannibal’s sentence, but he still got the gist of it.

‘Hurting your enemy will hurt mine.’

James didn’t hesitate, and perhaps later he’d look back and ask himself why that was.  Hannibal’s words were gently said, but 007 treated them like an order, easily translating what the other man wanted.  Suddenly the only person that mattered was Eighteen, and Russo actually looked startled when 007 suddenly went for him with redoubled fervor.  Giving up the gun in favor of dropping it and freeing up his hands, James startled the black-haired young man enough to create an opening – but instead of going for a knockout punch to the jaw, or a suffocating blow to the throat, he threw all of his strength into a relatively harmless punch to Eighteen’s shoulder.

Harmless, but far from painless.

James began to feel every point of his high Psychopass, listening dispassionately as Russo cried out in alarmed pain.  As Eighteen twisted away, James aimed for the kidneys next, his mind narrowing to a more singular purpose: to cause pain.  The part of James that had sat next to Q in the locker rooms and who had eased Q out of a panic attack when he’d first rescued him from C’s cronies faded away into the background, replaced instead by a man who had no compunction about doing what he had to in order to survive.  If Hounds knew any one thing, it was this: sometimes survival was messy.  Someone ran up behind him and tried to grab him in a bear-hug, but it wasn’t a Hound, and James didn’t feel afraid.  In fact, it was hardly more than a knee-jerk reaction to jam his head back, hearing the crunch of cartilage being smashed.  He stomped back on his attacker’s instep next, simultaneously ramming an elbow back, and just like that, he was free and wading back into the fight with Eighteen again.  Russo looked shocked – and hunted, like he hadn’t truly realized what kind of predator he’d tangled with until now.  His unsettlingly dark eyes were widened, and he backed up instead of attacking again, his previous bravado fading as his survival instincts began screaming at him.  James took no notice, simply stalking forward, scooping up his dropped gun as he came.

That finally got Eighteen’s attention again.  With James now armed, the scales were dangerously weighted in the blond-haired Hound’s favor, and Russo’s lips immediately pulled back from his teeth.  He looked like something wild, and he charged immediately.  Guns were long-range weapons, so it made sense to get in close, to reduce the weapon’s efficiency.  James didn’t need it to be efficient, though – after all, he didn’t want to kill Eighteen right now.

He wanted to make him scream.

The sounds of Hannibal and Sixteen’s fighting had started up again, deceptively quiet grunts and snarls as both men went at each other with brutal stoicism.  Shouting wasted breath.  As James sent a bullet into Russo’s right shin, however, the air was dominated by a shriek.

James didn’t look to see if his tactics had served the purpose Hannibal needed them to – truth be told, he had his hands a bit full.  Even injured, Russo was shockingly dangerous.  If anything, the pain seemed to unhinge him, unshackling something demonic in him that turned the scream into something hellish and hateful.  He couldn’t put weight on one leg, but Eighteen was already close enough to use his momentum to bowl into James’s middle.  They both went down in a heap.  Russo cried out again, sharp and animal, as the impact jarred his injuries, but then he roared out a vicious curse and tried to pound Bond’s head in.  Sixteen yelled something from across the room that sounded very threatening, but James didn’t have time for him.  Sixteen was Hannibal’s problem.

As the sounds of fighting grew more heated, James managed to throw Eighteen off him for long enough to firm up his grip on his gun, raise it, and shoot the same bastard whose nose he’d broken just minutes ago.  By this point, James was just about out of ammo, but it was worth it to finally level the playing field.

Bond’s grin was small, vicious, and came from a cold place in his soul that he rather hoped Q would never have to see.

~^~

In terms of pure strength and enduring power, Sixteen had the advantage.  However, as soon as Eighteen cried out in agony, Hannibal gained an advantage of his own: focus.  Hannibal had never been overburdened with sympathy for others.  In fact, it was safe to say that the only person alive that he presently held any iota of affection for was heading towards Q-branch now, away from the present fight.  Sixteen, though, despite his frequent fights with his dark-haired companion, apparently had some inconvenient feelings that were now serving to distract him.  Back in the days when Hannibal had been a surgeon, he’d learned all the weak points in a human body, where everything attached and where it came apart – when he’d transitioned into life as a psychiatrist, he’d simply reapplied that knowledge to human minds.  Sixteen was an absolute monster of a man, but Hannibal had seen the weak point in his psyche, and had dug into it like a thumb into an eye-socket.

It was clear now that Sixteen was distracted, his heart having gone out of the fight.  He was still absolutely lethal, yes, but now only a portion of that dangerousness was turned towards eliminated Hannibal – more of Sixteen’s focus kept shifting over to where 007 was trying to kill Russo.  From a purely analytical standpoint, Hannibal wasn’t entirely sure that James had the upper hand, but he was still doing his job: posing a threat to Eighteen that Sixteen couldn’t ignore.

Rolling around on the floor now, fighting over the gun, it was anyone’s guess whether 007 or 018 would win.  However, while Hannibal would only feel a small, mild regret at 007’s passing (a useful ally was always an unfortunate loss), it was becoming increasingly clear that Sixteen would be torn apart inside if the next bullet tore through Russo’s pretty skull.

Bond kicked out and connected with Russo’s ruined lower leg.  Eighteen’s black-haired head arched back in a scream.

“Billy!” Eighteen bellowed in return, and his attention slipped entirely away from Hannibal for the first time.

Just as Hannibal prepared to take advantage of that opening, however, he heard something else.  A gunshot from the other direction - in Will Graham's direction.  Already panting from holding his own against that oxen of a Hound, Hannibal spun around, and it was only due to equal distraction on Eighteen’s part that Hannibal didn’t immediately pay for his diverted focus.  Will, the Quartermaster, and the other Q-branch employee were out of sight down the hall, however, stymying Hannibal’s sudden desire to know what was going on.  He thought he heard something else – voices – and turned more completely in that direction as if a magnetic force were pulling him.  Only as an afterthought did he realize that there was still a fight going on in his immediate vicinity, glancing back and relaxing a little as he saw that Russo was down and barely moving, and now it was just James versus Sixteen.  Watching for just a moment, mouth curling upwards in a slow, appreciative smile as he watched 007 work, Hannibal felt some of his usual, detached calm return.  There were still pains in his body, but they were swiftly being compartmentalized.

Right until he heard the words “You will be purified!” being bellowed from down the hall.  It sounded very much like Will, but at the same time, nothing like him, and something in Hannibal’s chest gave a leap – he couldn’t identify the feeling.  Worry? Fear?  Excitement?  Elation?  Because even as he heard Will’s voice, he knew what he was really hearing: someone else, someone dangerous, rising up behind Will’s soft, shy eyes.  The wolf behind the sheep’s clothing.

James had heard it, too, but was drawing different conclusions, not knowing enough to understand the true scope of the situation – not knowing enough to realize that he’d just heard a god being born again, beautiful and bloody.  “Hannibal!  I’ve got things handled here!” James grunted, even as Sixteen did his level best to prove that statement wrong.  “Go – see what the others ran into!” 

Hannibal didn’t envy 007 his present position.  Actually, he wasn’t even entirely sure that 007 would survive this.  But that wasn’t particularly important.  Briefly, Hannibal contemplated asking whether James really wanted to put his precious Q into Hannibal’s hands – but, then again, seeing as he hadn’t killed Q before, it would be capricious of him to go and do it now.  Without any words to indicate the thoughts behind his cool, steady eyes, Hannibal turned on his heel, only wincing and holding a hand to his bruised ribs once he went from walking to running down the hallway.

‘Are you worried that you won’t get there in time to save Will?’ someone might have asked him.

And Hannibal would only have smiled, and answered, ‘Why do you think I want to save him?’

~^~

Chapter Text

Ever since C had taken over Eigengrau, Q’s life had been something of a conscious nightmare, but somehow that all paled in comparison to what he was seeing now.  There was something monstrous going on in front of him, something wrong, and no matter how much he told himself that Will getting up and fighting was a good thing.  Q had never been much for zombie movies, but watching someone he’d thought dead spring into sudden and rabid movement – still bleeding, the red smearing everywhere from his head wound – was like being in a zombie movie.

And everyone knew that zombies didn’t distinguish between enemies and allies.

“Oh my god,” H said quietly, but neither of them said or did anything else, simply watching, fixated.  Will had lost his gun, and it was clear that Shaw was trying to go for it, but Will was like a wolverine in her arms – a hungry one.  Will was still bellowing religious phrases, and Q tried to figure out how he’d missed the fact that Will Graham was a religious zealot.  All he kept concluding, however, was that there had been absolutely no warning, and that he couldn’t even recognize the man in front of him. 

He also kept concluding that he felt very, very sorry for Agent Shaw.  By this point, Will was quoting phrases from Genesis, quickly making his way to the inevitable story about Eve and a certain snake, and it was hard to tell if Shaw was snarling out of effort, fury, or actual fear.  She was still the better fighter, Q thought – at the very least, her file indicated that her combat training was extensive – but Will was an absolute madhouse of movement.  Determination and fervor could win out over knowledge and skill, Q knew. 

When Shaw got in a smashing hit to the side of Will’s face and Will in return recovered to grab her throat, spitting in her face, Q decided he had to do something. 

“Q-!” H yelped – once again dropping the honorific “Mr.”, a definite sign that things had gone tits up – when the boffin darted closer.  Thankfully, H’s bad leg kept him from pursuing, and Q evaded the hand that grabbed for him.  His heart was hammering so heard that he could feel it throbbing in each of his wounds like an echo, and a tiny voice in the back of his head was screaming at him to just back off and leave well enough alone.  In all honesty, Q wasn’t even sure what he’d do once he had the gun in his hands – but, if nothing else, he figured that it would be better off in his own grip than in the possession of Shaw or Will.  True, Shaw had threatened them, but Will did not seem like a person who needed a gun right now.

Blocking out H’s continued please at him to come back and “let them sort it out themselves!” Q kept edging forward. 

“Holy shit, what is wrong with you?” Shaw hissed, and Q wasn’t sure whether she was talking about him or about Will.  Deciding to at least mitigate his own rising stupidity, Q backed off just enough and just long enough to unslung his satchel from his shoulders – surreptitiously tucking into it the little metal key for the Hounds’ collars.  Having a sense that things were about to get crazier, Q slid the whole thing back across the floor to H.

“Go!” Q snapped at him, above the rising fervor of Shaw and Will’s scuffle.  “You said you needed to get to Q-branch - I’ll meet you there!  Just don’t let anything happen to that.”  Q cut his eyes meaningfully to the bag, and at first considered telling H what he’d snuck in there just now, but apparently 007’s secretive habits were rubbing off on him.  Q held his tongue, deciding that all that mattered was that the collar-key was safe.  Seeing as H, thus far, had the strongest survival instincts of all of them, it seemed a safe bet.  “Take the hallway to your left and keep going.”

H looked very much like a deer in the headlights, but at least he wasn’t visibly hyperventilating.  In fact, after a moment of just staring fixedly between Q and the satchel that had been pushed his way, H’s mouth set in a firm, hard line and he braced a hand on his bad leg, bending.  It was clearly uncomfortable, but the older techie managed to scoop up the bag, setting it over his own shoulder with care.  His expression was grim but determined as he straightened again, met Q’s eyes – spared a more panicked glance for the fight beyond – and then nodded. 

“Good luck, Mr. Q,” he said only but sincerely.  Then he turned and limped away. 

Leaving Q to fight and sort out the mess that was Will Graham and Sameen Shaw. 

“Bugger all,” he muttered under his breath, suddenly tempted to turn around and leave them there, and just follow H.  Because whatever further chaos H might walk into on his travels, it had to be less disastrous than this

~^~

Eggsy hadn’t gotten a text from Harry in awhile, and it was making him nervous – and the fact that it was making him nervous was making him annoyed, because Eggsy wasn’t used to giving a flying fuck about what other people were doing.  He was independent, dammit, and his list of important people was short. 

But apparently longer now by one person, despite how short of a time he’d known Harry Hart. 

“Come on, you fucker,” Eggsy growled at the absent Hound, even as he sent another text, keeping his hands hidden on the off-chance that any of C’s men would get curious about what he was messaging.  ~Moran took some of the men and left the hanger.  Not sure where they went~  It was actually possible that they’d left to try and sort out The Mystery of the Missing phone.  Good luck to that, since said phone was hopefully still with Harry somewhere deep within Eigengrau.  Theoretically, that meant that this was the best moment thus far to take over the hanger, but Harry wasn’t bloody texting back, Eggsy didn’t like his chances alone. 

Namely because there were two Hounds still in the room.  Besides Harkness, there was another, younger high-Pass agent in the room – a smaller, slimmer fellow who nonetheless had such a look of murder about him that Eggsy wasn’t about to discount him for his size.  All in all: bad odds.  Three cronies, two Hounds, Ianto Jones (who might be an ally, but who was also pretty cozy with Harkness), and Eggsy with nothing but his knife and AWOL back-up. 

The phone vibrated in his hand.  Eggsy immediately flipped it over, peering at it in the lee of his body.  It took physical effort to hide the resulting smile that wanted to crawl all over his face as he read ~Headed your way~  It was such a simple text from a man who’s first actions towards Eggsy had been to attack him, yet Eggsy found his mood soaring without hesitation. 

Feeling a bit fiercer now, a bit less destructible, Eggsy simply sent back a smiley-face and slipped the phone into his pocket.  He looked back over the room with more hopeful eyes, strategizing again – but this time, with a Hound of his own factored in.

~^~

“Well, that wasn’t too difficult,” Merlin opined, as their little trio entered Q-branch.  He made a show of brushing imaginary dirt off his hands.  All around them, Q-branch looked like a subterranean cave, with darkened cubicles instead of stalagmites growing in it.

Roxy shot him a withering look, her weapon still occupying both of her hands.  “We had to kill people just to get in here.  C’s men are multiplying like rats in here.”

“Only three people,” Harry chimed in, referencing their brief fight at the entrance to Q-branch, “Hardly enough to remark on.”  He exchanged glances with Merlin, adding thoughtfully, “I think that I might have heard a skirmish occurring to the north of us, which might have drawn away the worst of it.”  Merlin nodded, instantly agreeing.  Roxy sighed gustily in hopelessness and dropped it. 

Although she did mutter under her breath as he moved forward, “Working with you two is like dealing with an old psychopathic married couple.”

Both Hounds heard her and immediately fixed her with innocently bemused glances.  “We haven’t been a couple in years,” Merlin murmured to Harry, frowning and a bit offended, “So that’s hardly a fair assessment.” 

If Roxy heard them, she didn’t say so.  However, she did raise her voice a bit and harden it as she quickly commanded, “Come on!  Let’s find this signal jammer that you say is here, so that Merlin can reprogram it.”

It wasn’t hard to find.  Whatever ruckus has drawn most of C’s men away, it had left only three guards around Q-branch – dead now, earlier noted.  They hadn’t been Hounds, so they hadn’t stood a chance.  While Roxy and Merlin hunted up flashlights to shed a bit more light on the situation so that Merlin could get to work, Harry kept watch, all the while with his hand itching towards the phone in his pocket.  He wanted to text Eggsy and let the boy know that they’d reached their target, but at the same time, he knew that it was stupid to share more information than necessary over such an insecure channel.  He’d been trained better than that.

He wanted to do it anyway.

“Oh, now aren’t you lovely...” Merlin hummed, kneeling next to the signal jammer.

Roxy’s voice was wry, “How come you never talk to me in that tone?”

While Merlin sputtered and tried to come up with some sort of gentlemanly response (and Roxy just let him suffer, something patient and slightly vengeful in her eyes), Harry turned abruptly back to them and said as lightly as he could, “Do the two of you have things handled here?”

The other two fell silence, heads whipping Harry’s way.  Roxy was the first to speak, “You’re heading back to Oxford, aren’t you?”

Keeping his face bland and tone reasonable, Harry nodded like it wasn’t’ a big deal.  “Considering his strategic position in the hanger, it would be unwise to leave him without back-up any longer than necessary.”

Roxy bit the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, but ultimately, all she said was, “All right.  Yes, we can handle ourselves if you leave.”

Not wanting to waste time or words, Harry gave a perfunctory nod and turned to leave.  Merlin’s voice stopped him: “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Back to them, Harry paused and smiled.  “Why ever would I do something stupid?” he called back jovially because continuing on his way again, out of Q-branch and back into the darkness of a besieged Eigengrau.

Roxy and Merlin exchanged looks when he left, and despite their antagonism of a moment before, there was understanding in both of their eyes.  Merlin was the one who belatedly answered Harry’s question, sighing almost sadly, “Because Harry has a terrible habit of doing stupid things when he cares about someone.”

~^~

It should have been very simple: Shaw had threatened them, and Will was now attacking her, so all Q had to do was side with Will.  Unfortunately, it was not that simple, as Will was a raving maniac who continued to shout Bible verses and hatred in a vitriolic mass.  He wasn’t even speaking in the same cadence and tone as he had been before being shot in the head, although up until now, Will hadn’t spoken much… and head-wounds were pretty good excuses for sudden personality changes.  Either way, Q found his loyalty torn, because as grateful as he was for Will saving them from Shaw, Q now found himself wanting to save Shaw in turn. 

No longer burdened by his messenger bag, Q focused on the gun – still lying on the floor, Will uninterested in it and Shaw unable to go for it without turning her back on the psychotic mess intent on killing her.  Will had blood completely coating one side of his face and it was unlikely that he could see out of one eye, but the eerie skill which which he was holding his own indicated that he must have been fighting on instinct.  Not wanting to add guns to those instincts, Q took a deep breath, steeled himself, and bolted forward.

His various bruises and battered ribs didn’t appreciate the movement, but Q gritted his teeth through it.  He also blocked out the fight next to him, knowing that he’d lose his nerve if he really thought about how close he was getting to it – unfortunately, ignoring something didn’t make it go away.  Just as Q was about to swoop down on the gun (his ribs were already screaming in pre-emptive protest), a body collided with him.  It was so sudden that Q didn’t even know which fighter it was at first, and he couldn’t react, the impact not only knowing him off his feet and into the wall, but jarring his injuries.  The flair of pain along his left side was like a fire coming to life; Q was a lit match, recently struck.  He was aware of crying out, but he didn’t know how long it was before he opened his eyes, struggling to breathe past ribs that suddenly felt like glass shards. 

When he blinked, focusing again, he found himself staring at Will’s bloodied figure – free of Shaw now, gun in hand, and weapon pointed straight at Q.

“Will – Will, stop!” Q rasped out, voice reedy from the barely fading pain.  He held out empty hands in a gesture of harmlessness, but nearly drew them back at the unsettling look of non-recognition in Will’s eyes.  That prompted the Quartermaster to go on, “Will, you know me.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You cannot hurt me,” Will said with almost unsettling steadiness, “For I am a messenger of God.  His left hand.”  The steadiness cracked, but only to give way to fanaticism, blood visible on Will’s teeth as he smiled.  “The right hand advises – the left punishes.  And I am honored by my task-”

Before Q had to think past the pain for a way to respond to that, and before Will could complete his ‘task’ (verbally or otherwise), Shaw suddenly re-entered the picture.  Will had honestly never been so relieved to see a Hound who wasn’t 007, and he sagged down against the wall as she jumped on Will’s back.  Unfortunately, instead of going for the gun, Shaw instead used her arms for a choke-hold, leaving Q to swiftly re-calculate and then scramble back as much as he could.  There was nothing but bare hallway at his back, however, so it was really only luck that kept him from getting shot.  Will couldn’t seem to decide who to shoot, so when he pulled the trigger, it missed both of them, and before he could make up his mind, Shaw’s efficient choke-hold was having an effect.  In seconds, Will’s wild eyes were rolling up in his head, and his dark-haired, blood-smeared form was sagging in Shaw’s grip.  For a second, it looked like she’d keep her arm locked around his throat until he went from unconscious to dead, but when Q forced himself to his feet and looked at her, she read something in the Quartermaster’s features that made her rethink that.  She let Will’s limp body slide to the floor and instead fell back to sit on her arse, panting and a bit wild around the eyes herself.  “So this crazy shit is seriously a friend of yours?” she got out between breaths, indicating Will with clear disbelief all over her face.  Shaw was not known for beating around the bush.

Sitting down again himself, feeling the drop of adrenalin like an impending dizziness at the base of his skull, Q nodded helplessly.  Then, he had to ask in return, more hesitantly, “Thanks for the save… I think?”

Shaw just leaned back on her hands and waved a dismissive hand.  When she proceeded to drop her head back, relaxing and catching her breath, Q dared to come forward for the sake of checking on Will.  The high-Pass agent didn’t even bother to raise her head, Q apparently not enough of a threat to garner her attention right now. 

“So… you’re not going to kill me?” Q had to ask, because the uncertainty actually made him more nervous.  “You know who I am.”  The last wasn’t a question.  Kneeling now at Will’s side, he switched his attention between watching the dangerous woman and checking on his rather scary companion.  Will was breathing and his pulse was good, and Q was quick to find where the blood was coming from on Will’s head – the bullet looked like it had just grazed his skull, above his left temple.  His hair was already matted over it, but Q tore a strip from the other man’s shirt anyway to create a compress. 

Shaw had silently shaken her head.  Not one for lots of words, Shaw. 

Q, however, lived off words, so despite the fact that it was probably a very foolish question to ask, he found his mouth and vocal cords shaping the words, “May I ask why?”

“Maybe,” a new voice said cheerily, piping up from the kink in the hallway behind Shaw, “it’s because she realizes that you’re worth so much more alive!”

Both Q and Shaw jumped, the latter twisting around and into a crouch – although her movements were just the tiniest bit sluggish, a testament to the fray she’d pulled herself out of so recently.  Q, still aching and presently busy stemming the blood-flow from Will’s head-wound, could only kneel, frozen, as an all-too-familiar, grinning figure strolled around the corner and into view.  C.

And it got worse, as other people spilled into view: Hounds, their strides unmistakably dangerous even if Q hadn’t already seen them all face-to-face.  Eleven, Twelve – even Seventeen, her darkly-kohled eyes already slitted in obvious amusement.  Then Q saw another face that he’d only gotten brief glimpses of, when the tall, lean man had been chasing him out of Q-branch on Day 1 of the siege: 'Seb,' he thought he’d heard C call the man.  He, too, radiated lethality on a level that told Q there was no way this man was low-Pass.  There were three others, too, but they didn’t even register next to this all-star team, and Q found his heart dropping. 

He thought he heard the faintest noise in the hall behind him, but when Q glanced back, he saw nothing.  Telling himself that he couldn’t depend upon his own team of Hounds to rescue him now that shit had well and truly hit the fan, Q turned back to C again, who was smiling so broadly it looked like his face might tear.  Q realized the possibility then that C had more men, in the hallway behind – and that those men might have just killed Hannibal and James.  The thought made Q’s world shatter in a way it hadn’t until now.

By this point, Shaw had gotten to her feet, but she looked uncertain as to what to do.  She was effectively in the middle of things, and by the tension Q could see in her back and shoulders, she didn’t like it.  Shaw was, before all else, a woman with strong self-preservation skills, and a keen eye for threats – and by the way she and the other Hounds were visibly measuring one another up, there were threats aplenty waiting in the wings. 

C, apparently immune to it all, despite the fact that he was physically the opposite of intimidating, stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked forward and back on his feet.  “How nice to see you again, Quartermaster!  Or can I call you Q?” he greeted brightly, rolling right along, “I’ll call you Q.  I feel like we know each other after you and I ran into each other at Q-branch… when was that?”  He pulled a hand back out of his pocket to tap thoughtfully at his lips.  “Was that a whole week ago, Sebastian?” he asked to the man who had loomed up behind him like his own personal shadow.

Sebastian’s eyes were on Q, as flat and emotionless as the gaze of a shark, and just as cool.  “Days,” he corrected absently.  Where there was a live-wire electricity in C, there was an absolute-zero stillness and cold to Sebastian.  The contrast was both uncanny and utterly unsettling, that two such different people could end up so tightly in league. 

“R-r-r-right!” C dragged the word out, stabbing a finger up in the air as if to pin it down in his excitement.  Then his attitude mellowed to something sweet and poisonous as he turned his full focus back to Q.  “And yet it feels like I’ve known you for years.  Shall we do some real introductions?”

A feeling of deep, uneasy sickness was starting up in Q’s stomach as he crouched where he was, breathless and still.  He didn’t remove his hand from Will’s bleeding head, or answer, having the sinking feeling that talking would only make things worse.

For a moment C just watched him, his large, dark eyes narrowed to pleased slits and his smile fixed.  Then, just as the tension began to make everyone uncomfortable (except maybe Eleven, a blonde who looked like she could be Bond’s sister with an extra dose of ‘unflappable’ mixed in), C suddenly rolled his eyes expansively and said, “Okay, I guess that that can wait until a good old-fashioned frisking!  Seb, see if our new friend has that toy we were looking for.”

Q tensed and felt his heart skip a beat, feeling trapped even as his eyes skipped over to Sebastian.  The man was giving his eyes a more subtle roll than what C had given, but as he stepped past his boss, Sebastian could be just barely heard to mutter, “Do you have to say ‘toys’ like it’s a sex object?”

C’s face collapsed into a scrunched glower.  “So rude!”  Seb ignored it, and kept walking towards Q as if nothing else in the world was worth his interest. 

Q almost bolted then, his body actually tensing and twitching as if to leap to his feet and away – but then he felt Will’s blood against his fingertips, and recalled the head beneath his hands, the touch connecting them like a leash.  True, Will had tried to kill him, but they'd also been allies, and right now Graham was more helpless than even Q.  Looking helplessly down at the unconscious profiler, Q didn’t end up moving until he was forced to, Sebastian’s big hands catching him by his shirt-collar and dragging him to his feet.  The man was not gentle.  Everything was just a blur of motion for a bit as Q found himself jerked away from Will and backed into the wall, all of it jarring his shoulder enough to make him yelp.  Distracted by the flare of pain, he didn’t put up any fight as C’s man ran rough but efficient hands over him, spinning Q around a moment later and repeating the process from behind.  It was thorough, embarrassing, and deeply intimidating, but at least Q knew that he didn’t have anything to hide.  He had literally nothing on him at this point – not even his little scalpel, which he’d forgotten in his satchel. 

When Q was released to turn shakily around again, he was met with dispassionately cold eyes almost as pale as 007’s, and then Seb was dismissing him, looking back to C.  “He’s clean.  Nothing on him, unless you think he’d be bold enough to swallow it.”

“Tell me, Q, would you do something foolish like that?” C teased, walking away from the rest of the group to stride closer to Q.  Despite Sebastian’s disinterest in Q just a second ago, the tall man immediately put a hand on Q’s shoulder – a belaying grip, as if Q might be stupid enough to attack Seb’s boss at close range, even if Q apparently wasn’t stupid enough to swallow a technological device.  Unfortunately, it was Q’s left shoulder, close enough to his stitches to make him hiss and wince. 

But before C could come any closer, he paused next to Will’s head, looking down.  Q’s mouth went dry. 

“I sure hope you weren’t that stupid,” C continued to say, but now it was mumbled, as he looked down and even gave Will a little nudge with one foot.  Q clenched his hands until they hurt, trying not to react.  Everyone else just watched, only Shaw seeming the faintest bit troubled, and that was probably only because she feared C would wake Will up again.  “Because if you were, well, then you have nothing to offer – and then you and your little friend here will have to die.”  C looked up, pushing his lips together and widening his eyes in a jarringly puppyish look of bemusement as he asked, “You are friends, aren’t you?”  At the same time that he asked, he moved his foot to press the toe of it down across Will’s larynx. 

Q couldn’t help it; he jerked forward, starting to demand that C stop.  He was cut off by Seb suddenly moving, catching Q’s throat in a calloused, capable hand.  Pinned to the wall and struggling, Q at least took some small comfort in seeing that C had lost interest in Will and was approaching again.  Q panted against the uncomfortable squeeze but forced his eyes open so that he could meet C’s unblinking stare from up close when the shorter man stopped right in front of him.  Seb growled, clearly wanting C to back off, but was ignored.  Apparently C didn’t really listen to his bodyguard much, if that was what these two even were to teach other.

“You-” C said, reaching forward and walking two fingers up Q’s chest.  When Q went to bat the hand away, Seb caught Q’s wrist and pinned it up next to his head, warning in every line of his big, rangy frame.  C went on, unperturbed, “-Are going to give me the little key you stole from under my nose.  It was cleverly done, but now you’re in my way, much like a certain other person was in my way.”  C’s eyes glinted and Q felt that flash of panic go through his heart again.  There was a whole different conversation going on between the lines here, and Q wanted to keep as far away from it as possible. 

Trying to think while also trying to get enough oxygen, Q squirmed a bit and closed his eyes for a second.  He wanted to say that he didn’t know what C was talking about, but the problem was that he possibly did.  Some pieces were falling together in his head, forming an unpleasant puzzle.  Q needed to keep C on the line, though, and for that Q needed to stay useful, so by the time Q opened his eyes again, he had a fumbling answer on his tongue.  “I-I don’t have it on me-”

“Well, I know that,” C huffed dramatically.

Q hurried on in a reedy gasp, “-But I can take you to it.”

“How about you just tell us where it is?” Sebastian countered, even as he moved more into Q’s line of sight.  He didn’t hesitate to shoulder C (gently) out of the way, filling up Q’s entire vision with his remorseless expression.  It was a handsome face, but it was carved out of something unfeeling and cold, something so unrelentingly inhuman in his eyes that Q started trying to escape again instinctively. 

“Now, now, boys,” C cut back in again.  He and Seb had definitely worked together for sometime now, for there was no other explanation for how unhesitantly C pulled and tugged at Seb’s shirt to make the larger man back off again.  Seb made an annoyed face but otherwise complied until he was just holding Q by his one wrist against the wall.  Coughing and panicky, Q tried desperately to keep his thoughts in order, knowing that he couldn’t slip up now.  C continued pleasantly, “I’m sure we can all get along.  And Q, you’re smart, aren’t you?”  There it was again: that knowing look, that singsong tone that said it held secrets.  Then C shifted tactics to instead put on a sickeningly sympathetic face, squeezing Q’s cheeks in between his hands without warning.  “You’re afraid we’ll do away with you if you give up the information, aren’t you?  You poor thing.” 

Q ripped his head back, but said nothing.  C had hit the nail on the head, so it saved Q from having to make the point himself – although he could have done without all he touching.  When C grinned broadly again, clearly taking the silence for agreement, Q got his mouth working to say as firmly as possible, “If you want me to lead you to your prize, you have to keep us alive – both of us.  Me and Will.”

“Okay then,” C gave in surprisingly quickly.  “Percy,” he yelled over his shoulder, the sudden volume actually making a few people jump.  C frowned, paused, then said in a more normal, thoughtful volume, “It is ‘Percy,’ right…?”

Agent 012 - David Percival - stepped forward with a long-suffering, exasperated look on his face, muttering, “Close enough,” under his breath.

“See that Mr. Will doesn’t bleed out on the floor, will you?”

While Q already knew Twelve to be the belligerent type, he apparently knew what was good for him, because after fixing a grumpy frown in place, he stalked forward and dropped down onto his haunches near Will.  Q watched, nervous, but was relieved to see the high-Pass agent performing efficient first-aid instead of making matters worse.  Of course, right when Q started to relax the tiniest bit, C added, “Oh, and tie him up, too!  A little bit of bondage is good for the soul!” 

Optimism falling back down to more sensible levels again, Q sighed and sagged back against the wall.  Perhaps it was for the best; Will was apparently a pretty dangerous sort of ally, and as liable to kill Q as help him get out of this mess. 

“You know, I don’t think that this is entirely fair,” C said suddenly and expansively, stepping away from Q to stride about amongst everyone.  Q had started to notice that the Director-General was quite a showman, and it was worrisome to see him drawing everyone’s attention again – like a ringleader right before the final act.  “I mean, I’ve given you some very important things right now, out of the goodness of my heart.  I’m helping your little friend and might even let him live through all of this, and I’ve promised your safety, too – in return for what?  A little gadget?”  C scoffed like that was nothing, although the Hounds seemed not to quite agree.  Standing a bit apart from everyone, Shaw even lifted a hand to touch her collar, affixed to her neck until they found that ‘little gadget.’ 

C was just warming up, though, and he knew his audience. 

“I think I want more from you, Quartermaster.”  His voice slipped to a pleasant but completely fabricated tenor as he turned to face Q from across the hall.  His smile was beatific.  “I want M.”

Q blinked, startled.  This was not where he’d expected this talk to go.  “What?” he said back, lacking anything else to say.  Sebastian still had hold of his arm, but suddenly Q was a bit too bewildered to care.  “How am I supposed to help you with that?”  He meant it to sound defiant, but instead it came out sounding more sincere – because he had honestly no idea.

By C’s growing smile, that was exactly the response he’d been hoping for.  All eyes were now on the exchange, even Percival’s, as he finished wrapping Will’s head with bit of Will’s own torn shirt.  C let the dramatic pause stretch a moment more, before clapping his hands and saying, “How right of you.  Because you’re right, Q – or should I call you Holmes?” 

The bottom fell right out of Q’s stomach.  His entire body went cold in a way it hadn’t even when Eigengrau’s heat had been turned off. 

“You can give me part of the puzzle, but ultimately, you’re useless,” C dismissed Q without compunction.  In fact, something like disgust curled his lip, and suddenly all of his previous fascination with Q was shown for what it was: a façade.  C was as cold underneath as Sebastian was outwardly.  “Your brother, though…”  Some of that interest came back, but it was so razor-sharp that it was like a different expression altogether.  It made Q flinch just to look at it.  Something fanatic lit C’s eyes as he stepped back up to Q again, actually putting the toes of his shoes on top of the toes of Q’s.  Seb’s grip on Q’s wrist became crushingly tight, but Q barely felt it, all of his attention on the grinning maniac he was nose-to-nose with.

“What do you say, little Holmes?” C hissed in Q’s face, “Is it time to give a shout out to that bloodhound brother of yours - and see if Sherlock can hunt down M as well as he tried to hunt down me?”

~^~

Chapter Text

C knew… C knew that Q was a Holmes.  C knew about Sherlock.  The pieces of an old puzzle, long in the making, slid fully into place in Q’s head, and he accused in a whisper, “You’re Moriarty.”

The Director-General’s eyes glinted.  “Sometimes,” he drawled, pleased as punch.  No one else got the significance of this, and before Q could demand more information, C spun around again to face his cronies, hands lifted dramatically.  “Guess what, everyone?  Q here is related to one of your brethren!”

Twelve, standing now over Will like a British buzzard over an American kill, immediately frowned and asked, “Who?”

“Oh, that’s right,” C snapped his fingers, “From what I heard, Sherly got himself into trouble before he could make friends instead of enemies.  But he was given the number ‘Ten,’ right?”  The man turned to Q conversationally for an answer, to which Q stubbornly clenched his jaw.  Undeterred, C waved him off with a flap of his hand and continued, “Nooooo matter - you’re all free now, and I must admit that Sherlock is brilliant at finding things he shouldn’t.”  If Q wasn’t mistaken, C was fangirling…  “I can’t believe I didn’t consider this earlier!”  

No one else seemed to be following this line of thought; even Seb had a dangerously bored look on his face, and he sighed loudly from where he kept Q’s right wrist pinned to the wall at head height.  It fell upon Twelve to again speak up, saying with barely restrained exasperation, “What the hell are you talking about?”  From his strained tone, this wasn’t the first time he’d thought this, or perhaps even the first time he’d said it.  

C made a frustrated noise in his throat that was massively theatrical, and he looked at the ceiling as he swung around on one heel to face the man who’d spoken.  “I’m saying,” he dragged the words out as if talking to idiots, and for a second, it was so like Sherlock that Q was emotionally jarred, “that even if Q here doesn’t know how to find M, his brother will, so all we have to do is use him as…  What’s the word, Seb?”  Suddenly C’s smile turned beatific and playful.

Expression long-suffering but eyes cold, Seb answered from Q’s side like a death-knell tolling, “Leverage.”

“BINGO!” C roared, the sudden volume making even some of the Hounds startle in surprise.  “This is everyone’s lucky day - Q, you get to be useful enough to live, and everyone else, we get someone besides ourselves to do the hard work, because laziness is fun.”  The female Hounds 011 and 017 exchanged glances, shrugged, and nodded, being in general agreement about this.  C calmed down suddenly to drum the fingers of one hand against his lower lip - again, a gesture that Sherlock was known for, and Q suddenly wondered if this psychopath was doing it on purpose.  “Let’s see, let’s see…  What’s the best way to do this?”

“We’re not far from a guard-station,” Seb stepped in.  Q got the sense that Sebastian was a patient man, but that even he had limits, and C’s showboating was draining him.  “If the Quartermaster was able to use the comm systems earlier, I’m sure he can get another one working and we can get the word out to his brother.”  

Things were swiftly spiraling out of control.  Vainly, Q tried to derail this plan, or at least this train of thought, speaking up desperately, “No, that-!”  But before he could say anything more, Sebastian’s grip on his arm changed, and with a hard yank, Q was dragged forward and off-balance.  Before he could catch himself, his arm had been twisted up behind him.  Further argument came second to struggling, although all that got him was a hard kick to his calves that sent him to his knees, one of Seb’s hands still on his forearm and the other now fisted in the hair at the back of his head.  

C made a whining noise of regret.  “And here I was hoping you two would be friends,” he pouted, then sighed and snapped his fingers impatiently.  “Well, kiddies, there’s no point in wasting any more time.  To the guardhouse we go!  It’s finally time that Sherlock and I connected, don’t you think, Siger?”  

Q hadn’t heard his given first name in so long that it almost didn’t register.  He managed to set his face into a glare, however, to hide the fact that he was terrified.  In return, C merely smiled at him, slow and sly and full of a wicked mirth like poison.

~^~

Alec hadn’t managed to find as much in Medical as he’d have liked, but he’d still managed to scrounge up a messenger bag and fill it with a few things that would hopefully prove useful.  He was at once regretful and glad that he hadn’t dragged Mallory along with him - because perhaps they could have found out what was ailing M if he’d physically come to Medical, but that would have meant stepping into that firefight between Shaw and Reese.  A firefight that had become rather literal in the ‘fire’ category, although Alec had only himself to blame for that…  The scent of smoke still clung to him, and he purposefully didn’t think about Root, the wild, animal look in her eyes highlighted by flames.

These were the days when Alec totally understood why Eigengrau existed, and why he was locked up in it.

Managing to avoid trouble on the way back, Alec circled unhesitantly towards the morgue’s back entrance, pace speeding up a bit as he got close.  “Get a grip on yourself, Alec,” he muttered to himself, slowing his footsteps with effort, “It wouldn’t do to seem too eager, would it?”  Joking aside, Alec wasn’t really sure how to justify the feeling of camaraderie that he’d developed towards Mallory, the man who was essentially his jailer.  Perhaps it was because Alec was one of those few Hounds who looked at himself in the mirror, eyed the permanent collar around his neck, and didn’t necessarily feel a boiling anger.  Acceptance was easier, and he’d accepted the torc long ago.

Regardless of how aware Alec was of his loose morals and dangerous disposition, he did feel the need to do the honorable thing and make sure the head of Eigengrau survived this.  Why did Alec feel this way?  He told himself that it was because the Quartermaster had made a strong logical argument in favor of that idea.  Yup.  That was totally what governed Alec’s decisions: logic.

Still struggling not to look too closely at his new loyalties, Alec opened the morgue doors and stepped in, immediately freezing.  All he saw was Mallory, but the man was sitting up on table instead of lying down as Alec had left him, and something about the steady but strained look on his face set off uncertain warning bells in Alec’s head.

The warnings bells became a helluva lot less uncertain when Mallory said placatingly, “Just take it easy, Alec.”

The Hound was immediately reaching for his gun, but before he could, a small but determined-looking blond-haired man stepped into view, weapon already trained on target.  His attire and lack of a collar identified him as a Handler, and Alec found himself immediately categorizing him as an enemy.  “Hands where I can see them, 006,” the Handler said, stern and forceful.  The tone also said that he’d definitely shoot, and Alec’s eyes were trained enough to see two pounds of pressure on a three-pound trigger.  The Hound still refused to obey, a fuck-you sort of growl rising in his throat instead.  The Handler knew rebellion when he saw it, and firmed up his stance, commanding levelly, “If you don’t take your hand away from your weapon and lie down on the floor right now, I’m going to have to shoot you.”  His tone and eyes still spoke of very little hesitancy, the gaze of a man who’d done it before.

Well, Alec had shot and killed people, too, and he was willing to bet that he had more experience being at the business end of a gun than this bloke did, so-

“Alec.”  Mallory’s voice again, this time sounding a bit pleading.  “Alec, he’s an ally.”

“Do all of your allies aim guns at you, King?” Alec shot back with his best approximation of devil-may-care humor, cracking a smile that was all teeth and no humor.  His eyes never left the Handler – who, sadly, was smart enough to realize that guns were best used as distance weapons, and was far enough away that Alec didn’t like the odds of charging him.  He preferred the idiots that liked to walk the gun right up to you, meaning to intimidate when really all it did was give Alec an opportunity to disarm his opponent.  That’s how James had eventually gotten the drop on his last Handler, although at the time, Hounds had had to worry about their collars being set off, too.  The odds were a bit better now.

Alec was in the middle of weighing the pros and cons of different modes of attack when Mallory again repeated his name, “Alec, they’re here to help.”

“ ‘They’?”  Trevelyan was too smart to take his eyes off the Handler, but his other senses stretched out, taking in everything about the room.  He didn’t hear anything, but the morgue was L-shaped, so he couldn’t view all of it from here.

“John Watson came here with another Hound from Holding, Sherlock,” Mallory tried to explain patiently while Alec continued to level death-threats at this Watson character with his eyes.  “And Watson had medical training – he’s a doctor.”

“Funny, he looks like a Handler.”  Alec was not in a mood to be charitable, and his hand was still tensed to go for his gun the second Watson gave him even a sliver of an opening.  By now, he’d watched the smaller man’s body language enough to know that Watson was dangerous – not high-Pass, but someone with killing experience nonetheless.

“He is a Handler,” Mallory explained patiently.  He sounded exhausted and strained beneath the calm, and it worried Alec more than he wanted to admit – worried and distracted him.  “He’s Holmes’ Handler.”

Alec recalled the name in an instant.  His grin returned, lopsided.   He spoke now to Watson in particular, drawling, “I met him.  My condolences.”  Now he heard an affronted noise, and pinpointed it in a heartbeat.  Raising his voice to something more carrying, Alec threatened with all of the remorse of a tropical storm, “And if you so much as think about joining in the fun here, I’ll rip you open and use you to mop up your own blood, Holmes.”

“Charming, but unnecessary,” came the low-voiced rejoinder from around the corner.  “I’m handcuffed to the main doors, which someone so effectively barricaded.  Your work?”

Alec didn’t answer, but Mallory was quick to step in and speak up before Alec or Watson could start at each other again, “It’s safe, Alec, I promise.”

“Really?”  Alec pointedly looked at Watson’s gun and raised one eyebrow.

This time Watson got a word in edgewise, “Oh, like you wouldn’t have shot me on sight.”

“I still might.”

“Trevelyan!” Mallory snapped, and immediately regretted it, clutching his middle and struggling not to double over.  Alec heard him mutter “dammit” under his breath before going on in a manner more befitting the head of Eigengrau, “I need you to trust me right now, and do what Watson says.”

Alec was torn.  He’d refused to so much as glance away from Watson until now – even when he’d heard Holmes pipe up – but at M’s pain, he couldn’t help but sneak a glance.  Mallory wasn’t dead, but he was in bad shape, and if Watson really did have medical training, than he was sorely needed… even if he was also Alec’s natural enemy.  Although, to be frank, Mallory should have been Alec’s enemy, too, but he’d decided to trust him…  “I’m not doing this because it’s what Watson says, I’m doing it because it’s what you say,” Alec decided stubbornly, but then did indeed raise both hands.  When Watson barked for him to get down on the floor, Alec looked at Mallory first, who gave a pained sigh and then a nod.  Only then did Alec obey.  The Hound snarled as he was disarmed, and as his hands were effectively dragged up behind his back and zip-tied, his ankles restrained as well.

“Is that really necessary?” Mallory asked tiredly.

“From where I’m standing,” Watson said, from where he had a knee on Alec’s back and could hear the nearly subsonic growling the Hound was emitting, “Yeah.”

Instead of letting it go, Mallory surprised everyone by defending Alec, “He’s the only reason I’m still alive right now, I’d like to point out.  If he was really out to kill us all, he’d have done me in already – or at least left me to the wolves.”

Watson’s knee eased off Alec’s back, and while the zipties didn’t disappear (and his gun remained confiscated), there was a discernable easing of tensions.  Still, the doctor/Handler took in a bracing breath and stated, “Yes, well, I’d like to point out that he’s in Eigengrau for a reason.”  Leaving it at that, Watson nonetheless did haul Alec up so that he could sit more or less comfortably against the wall.

Sherlock, not to be forgotten, called out lazily from out of sight, “Oh yes, because we’ve deduced that Sybil is so good at-”

“Shut it, Sherlock!” Watson cut him off.  It sounded like he did this often.  Leaving Alec and standing up, Watson rubbed at the bridge of his nose like he did that pretty often, too.

Alec’s messenger bag had been removed from his shoulders before he’d been restrained.  Watson noticed it.  “What’s in here?”

When Alec belligerently refused to answer, Mallory sighed defeatedly and chimed in, “Alec left to fetch medical supplies.  I assume he found some.”

Watson had already opened the bag and proven that for himself.  His eyebrows jumped up, and he looked back at Alec was more respect now.  There was perhaps even the slightest hint of remorse over tying him up like a criminal.  To be fair, Alec usually was a criminal, but it felt good to be vindicated this one time that he wasn’t.

“John!” Sherlock whined from around the corner, and there was the rattling of a cuff.

“Sherlock, you are not the injured party right now, so you can wait!” was John’s response.

Holmes immediately replied with evident exasperation, “Yes, but you already ascertained that said injured party isn’t dying, so I don’t see why you can’t spare half a minute to release me and let me do my work.”

That was music to Alec’s ears.  “He’s not dying?”

Watson looked very harried, between his own Hound who wouldn’t shut up and this new Hound who kept surprising him with moments of humanity.  Finally, though, Watson just turned to the task at hand, bringing the medical supplies he needed over to Mallory while replying to Alec, “I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure M here just has a bruised kidney.  It’s painful and has some intimidating symptoms, but it’s not life-threatening.” In his hands he now held a bottle of pain meds that Alec had procured, as well as a bottle of water.

It was only after chasing down some pills that Mallory paused, sniffed the air, and then looked at Alec more closely.  “Why do you smell like a smokestack?” he asked with suspicion heavy on his tongue, although there was concern, too, “Are you all right?”

Shifting to get a bit more comfortable against the wall, Alec rolled one shoulder, feigning carelessness, “Just your average walk in the park.”  He paused for effect, then added a bit more morbidly, “When the park is full of madmen.”

“Calling the kettle black,” he thought he heard Holmes mutter from where he was leashed.  The fact that Sherlock was also included in that statement was not addressed.

“I may have started a fire,” Alec went on, while Watson continued to see to M.  Trevelyan kept a keen eye on the proceedings, even though he had to admit there was little chance of Watson hurting Eigengrau’s leader – if this Handler was willing to defend M against Alec, then he couldn’t be all bad.  Really, now that things had calmed down, Alec couldn’t fault Watson for his reactions.  “I also killed Root.”

Now Mallory and Watson were both looking at Alec, and the place filled with the sort of deathly quiet befitting a morgue.  Even Holmes had the good sense to say nothing.  It was Mallory who finally commanded, “Start from the beginning.”

While Alec ‘gave his report’ (something that came easily to him, surprisingly so), Watson kept working.  Apparently there wasn’t much to be done for a bruised kidney, although Alec’s supplies were put to relatively good use, making him feel inordinately pleased with himself.  Eventually, Watson left Mallory to instead go and check on Sherlock, and by then, the tensions between everyone had eased to manageable levels.  When Watson was out of sight, though, Mallory did take the time to silently mouth ‘I’m sorry,’ eyes flicking meaningfully to Alec’s bound limbs.

No one had ever really apologized to Alec before – except other Hounds, perhaps – so he was momentarily startled, his story stumbling off his lips.  After a moment of bewildered blinking, however, he gave an awkward nod of acceptance and went on again, about how he suspected Reese of protecting someone.  He didn’t have anything but a hunch on that, but he needed something to get his story started again.  Once more on topic, he concluded with his killing of Root, parting ways with Reese, and proceeding from there with no more excitement.

“A pity, as Root is perhaps the most knowledgeable person besides C himself,” Sherlock’s baritone entered the conversation, from closer this time.  He and John walked back into view.  Sherlock was now standing leashed to John, a condition that made Alec very, very tempted to laugh – because being zip-tied was far less humiliating than being attached to someone like a reckless child in an airport with their parent.  Sherlock was staring at his cuffed wrist as if thinking the same.  He went on like it was obvious, “Since she’s the only Hound who’s made an appearance over intercom and, if I remember correctly – which I always do – has the necessary computer skills to engineer the malfunctioning of our collars, I can only conclude that she’s been in on this for some time.”  Everyone was staring at Holmes now, trying to digest all of this and follow Sherlock’s line of thought, but the tall Hound was already pivoting away.  “Come on, John, I need to look at the body.”

“The bod-?  What body?” Mallory tried to keep up.  He also tried to get up, but was still in too much pain, and subsided quickly.  Alec eyed him with concern, troubled by the fact that he couldn’t catch the man if he fell.

“Captain Connor White’s body.”

“The man Lecter killed?”

Sherlock merely scoffed and kept walking towards his goal.  Watson, tugged along in Holmes’ wake, was left with the job of awkwardly explaining, “Sherlock doesn’t believe that Lecter did it, and… has some exhaustive explanations as for why.”  After a pause, John was good enough to add, “I believe him.”

Sherlock actually halted and turned.  “Thank you, John.”

“Don’t mention it.  Please don’t.”  Watson made shooing motions to get Sherlock back to his task, the two of them soon pulling open a drawer to reveal Captain White’s body.  By this point, Alec was starting to find Watson and Holmes’ relationship incredibly amusing.  The short Handler kept talking while Sherlock got to work, the line between them thankfully long enough to allow a bit of independent movement.  “Sherlock is hoping that by looking at the body, he can learn more about exactly what kind of person did kill Captain White.”

“ ‘Hoping’?” Sherlock scoffed, and then went into a muttered tirade about how there was no hope to it, that a corpse always yielded up valuable information, and John crossed his arms awkwardly on the other side of said corpse and bickered back.

Alec, meanwhile, began to subtly test his bindings.  He caught Mallory watching him shrewdly a moment later, but when Alec flashed a big, innocent smile, M didn’t say anything – although he did roll his eyes and go back to questioning John and Sherlock about what they were discovering.

~^~

Having his arms tied behind him was not pleasant, and Q could feel the strain on his stitches as Moran marched him forward.  At the ungentle way that Percival had picked up Will, Q had put up a fuss – also dearly hoping that James, or even Hannibal, were still alive to hear him – but all that resulted in was the boffin being gagged now.  He found himself hoping that Graham would wake up and go psychotic again, because suddenly that looked like the only option to turn the tables.

Q tried desperately not to think about how James must be dead, instead focusing on the one good thing in this situation: they were moving away from Q-branch, away from H and the collar-key.  At least one of their little party had made it out of here alive, and surely H would check through Q’s bag before long, and realize what he had.

The walk to their destination didn’t take long, although by then, Moran had definitely imprinted a bruise on Q’s right upper arm from gripping so hard.  It had kept Q from falling on his face, true, but the man wasn’t sparing any consideration for the strength of his grip – or, more likely, wasn’t taking any chances with Q slipping free.  Moran’s other hand held a gun now, cocked and ready, and just by the look in his eyes, Q could tell that C’s right-hand-man was equally ready to shoot Q or to shoot forward to where Will was slung over Twelve’s shoulder.  Q didn’t doubt that Twelve would be considered acceptable collateral damage when the bullet went through Will and hit him, too.  

‘How are men like this not locked up in Eigengrau?’ he found himself wondering in numb horror.  The horror only deepened when he recalled that he’d had a conversation about this, what felt like eons ago, with 007: ‘…No matter what the government tells you,’ Q had said to the agent, before the whole world had gone sideways, ‘the Sybil System messes up … Sybil picks favorites…’  Looking around him, at C, and Moran, with their sadism but their lack of collars, Q suddenly wondered if these were ‘favorites’ like himself, Sherlock, and Mycroft.  The realization that what kept Q and his brothers [mostly] free was that same thing that allowed these men to flourish nearly made Q sick right there.  His world view had a crack down its center now, and suddenly his own stagnant Psychopass of 66 felt like a poisonous lie that he’d nurtured all of these years.

‘Am I just like them?’ he found himself wondering despite himself.  He’d always known that Sybil was quirky, and clearly didn’t catch every high-Pass individual out there, but it had always seemed less like a flaw and more like a… flexibility to the rules.  It had made Q actually like the Sybil system more.  Sybil was a god who knew there were exceptions to every rule, and was willing to follow the spirit of the law more than the letter of it – thus allowing relatively harmless (but questionably high-Pass) folks like the Holmes boys to continue on with their lives.  But now it was clear that Sybil was seriously flawed – if not downright evil – because these men had never been caught either.

If there had ever been a god in Q’s life, it had been the Sybil system… but that god had been dethroned.

Q barely noticed as they reached their destination, a guard-station.  He was pushed forward into the main room, and barely kept his feet.  C was literally bouncing with excitement already, pondering the comm system while most of his cronies remained in the larger anteroom just outside.  Even if Will did wake up, he’d have to fight his way through that whole room.  Right now, though, Will was simply dumped on the floor in the middle of C’s cronies; Q could just glimpse him through the open door, with his skin pale and bandaged head bloody.

Moran grabbed his arms again – both of them this time, already muttering “I know, I know” when C complained about how Q couldn’t help him get the comms working if his hands were all tied up.  And since Q wouldn’t be able to provide any signs-of-life on the comms with his mouth covered, the gag was removed with a rough tug, too, the strip of cloth left to hang around his neck like a terribly ugly little scar – or like the collar Q probably deserved.

“Chop-chop, Siger!” C sang, clapping his hands and indicating the controls before them while Q massaged his wrists, “Times wasting, and I wouldn’t want something to happen to your little friend because of your slowness!”

Q was too shell-shocked by his own internal crisis to argue, although before he could move forward to do as he was told, Moran fisted a hand in the collar of his shirt.  Q’s shocked numbness was shattered swiftly as he felt hot breath against his ear but a voice as cold as ice inform him, “If you threaten Jim in any way, I’ll remove your friend’s head from his shoulders with a pocketknife while you watch.”

There was no question as to the threats sincerity, but the most curious part was perhaps the wording: it wasn’t ‘If you mess this up, I’ll-’ or even ‘If you don’t do as we say, I’ll-’ but instead a very specific ‘If you threaten Jim in any way.’  Jim, Q figured, was Moriarty’s first name – and Moran was apparently more attached to Moriarty than to this hostile takeover as a whole.  Before Q could think too much harder on that, though, he was released again, Moran stepping back as if nothing had happened to instead take up a position by the door.

C – Moriarty – was watching with evident glee.  He rubbed his hands together.  “Ready to have some fun, Siger?”

Beginning to actively hate the sound of his own birth name, Q avoided looking at those black-hole eyes and turned mechanically to the comm system instead.  “Just tell me what you want me to do,” he murmured without inflection.

“Oh, come on, Q, lighten up,” C coaxed, reaching over to squeeze Q’s shoulder companionably, seeming not to notice (or care) how Q flinched out from under the contact.  “Think of this as you calling home after a long vacation – you’ll get to talk to your favorite brother!  Unless Mycroft is your favorite?  Don’t say Mycroft is your favorite, I think he’s terribly stuffy.”

Q felt a shudder run down his spine at how much C knew about this family.  He hoped, in that moment, that Mycroft was still sulking over Q’s decision to hare off to Eigengrau, and therefore wouldn’t get himself involved.  There were already two Holmes brothers living a nightmare; the third didn’t need to be dragged into it, too.  The selfish part of Q hoped the opposite, of course, because as the youngest sibling, he still remembered the days when Mycroft had swanned in to rescue him from various things.  Q certainly needed rescuing now, but he doubted that even Mycroft could fix this hellish mess.

Skin crawling and dread curled up like a permanent condition in his gut, Q and Moriarty worked side-by-side to get the comm system up and running.  The madman was quite good with electronics, and kept up with Q easily, the two of them working sickeningly well together – a fact that Moriarty commented on more than once.  Q just kept this lips sealed, refusing to speak, because that was the one thing he could still withhold for now.  He found himself glancing back frequently, to Moran in the doorway and beyond, to where he could still catch sight of Will.

Q was in the middle of glancing back at Will one last time when Moriarty suddenly hooked an arm around his neck and tugged them both into a seat together.  It was a pretty large seat, but they were still entirely too close, like best friends taking selfies at a sleepover.  Q grimaced and squirmed as he cheek was pressed up against C’s, the arm around his neck surprisingly strong.  Q stopped struggling when he heard a brief, low noise behind him, however, and felt a hand – Moran’s, he knew without looking – fisting in his hair.  In his protectiveness of Moriarty, Moran was not subtle.

“Eeeeee!  I’m so excited!” C cheered in a stage-whisper, the one eye near Q’s rolling his way.  Q’s bad left side was pressed up against the man, ribs and shoulder aching fiercely.  “I know that we’ve both already had our debut performances – but let's do the encore together, shall we?” Moriarty offered with a suggestive waggle of eyebrows, and then pulled the mic close with his free hand.  The sound of it flicking on sent a little crackle of feedback through the air, and the way it echoed from outside proved that the system was working.

“Testing, testing!” Moriarty called in a voice like a sports announcer, before he slipped into something darker and more crooning to amend, “or is it ‘Mayday, mayday’? Depends on who’s staying on the plane and who’s got a parachute, I suppose.  But I bet you’re wondering why I called you all here today again.”  He was so pleased with himself that it was veritably oozing out of him, and Q wanted to crawl right out of his skin – Moriarty’s arm around his throat and Moran’s in his hair kept him still, however, even though only half of his arse was even properly on the chair.  Moriarty had to be in the same situation, but it wasn’t slowing him down.  “Well, I’m here to make a delightful announcement!  I’m here… with the Quartermaster!  Or should I say-”  C’s voice dropped multiple octaves, from a cherubic chatter to a low, almost demonic purr, “-Siger Q. Holmes?”  He paused for dramatic effect, and Q closed his eyes, imagining Sherlock hearing those words – they wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, except maybe M, who had hired a Mr. Quinlen Finch…  “You listening, Sherlock?”

Q knew what was next, even before the mic was shoved closer to his face and Moran’s fist tightened in his hair, controlling the very movements of his head and sending sparks of bright pain dancing across his scalp.  Q grunted, but didn’t say anything until Moriarty prompted, “Come on, now, Siger, how can this be a social visit if you’re not social?”

Q didn’t know what to say, but when Moriarty’s arm around his neck squeezed tighter, it pressed against the stitches and made Q yelp.  He tried to clench his teeth after that, knowing that sounds of pain would only feed C’s theatrics, but then Moran called back to the room behind them, “Hela?  Cut the other one’s ear off.  I don’t care which ear.”

Horror surged through Q’s system even before he heard Hela – 017 – reply, “With pleasure.”

“No!  No – stop!” Q shouted, his voice and struggling both now at full strength.  He thrashed, but both Moriarty and Moran had more than enough hands to hold him still with, and they did it with merciless effectiveness.  “I’ll talk!  Just don’t hurt him!”

There were dark chuckles in the room behind him, but at least Q heard Moran call the others off, ceasing the threat as easily as he’d started it.  Q was left with his heart beating painfully hard in his chest and defeat like a mouthful of nettles he’d just swallowed.  Moriarty was giggling manically, head thrown back.

“As you can no doubt hear, Sherly, I have your dear baby brother.  What do I plan to do with him, you’re no doubt asking,” Moriarty went on, shutting off the laughter so quickly that it was like the noise had never existed.  He leaned into the mic until it all but brushed his mouth, “Well, that depends totally on you.  You see, you and I have been playing games, Sherlock.  Oh, such lovely games.  Games all over London.  Do you know what I’m talking about?  You’d better, because I have another game for you, only this time, there isn’t a body for you to find – yet.  So, here’s my deal.”  Moriarty’s eyes were narrowed in catlike glee as he finished, “I want M.  You want Q.  Bring M to the top floor observation room on the west side of Eigengrau 3pm tomorrow, and maybe we can trade?  I hope you have a way to tell time, Sherlock dear – and I hope that you can find a way to find your target, because I’m afraid there’s no negotiating this one.  Toodle-oo!”

And with that, he turned off the intercom.

Chapter Text

“Oh, that was beautiful, Siger!” Moriarty immediately roared, putting down the mic to grip Q’s jaw and pull him in for an impulsive, wet smack on the lips. It was hard to avoid the kiss with Moriarty and Moran both still holding him, the latter man’s grip on his hair iron-tight.  When Moriarty pulled back to survey Q’s expression of startled disgust, his manic grin turned patronizingly sympathetic.  “Oh, Siggy, are you worried that you’re the bad-guy now?” he lamented, his face still entirely too close.  Q had a very real urge to bite him just for creating that nickname alone, but couldn’t move enough to even do that.  His scalp tingled painfully as Moran minutely adjusted his grip, impossibly managing to tighten it until Q winced.

Suddenly, without warning, Moriary was moving, a leg swinging over Q’s hips until he was straddling the youngest Holmes.  In all honesty, this was probably the only way they could both fit comfortably on this chair, but there was nothing comfortable about having a lap full of grinning psychopath.  “How about I let you in on a secret then?” Moriarty proposed, voice throaty and cheerful, like he had a song bubbling up inside of him that he thought Q would love.  When Q tried to shove the other man off him, Moran yanked his head back savagely while capturing Q’s right wrist.  Q’s other hand fisted in Moriarty’s shirt, but all the madman did was lean into it, fingers dancing across Q’s knuckles.  “You’ve been the villain aaaall along.  It’s deluding yourself into thinking that you’re the hero that’s got you all tied up in knots.”

“N-No,” Q gritted out, baring his teeth in desperate defiance.  He’d have punched the man straddling him, but the threat of Moran at his back was too real.

“Stop being so stupid!” Moriarty groaned with a melodramatic roll of his eyes before leaning in close again, putting his forehead against Q’s so that there was nothing to see but manic dark eyes.  “Don’t you see what we are, Siger?  You and I?  We’re viruses in the machine.”

Q struggled harder, Moriarty’s words as much as his proximity amping up the adrenaline in Q’s body.  “No,” Q repeated, more stubbornly, “No, don’t you dare compare us.  I’m not like you.”  Q’s words turned to a snarl of frustration as Moran, without any particular fanfare, as if this was just something he did every day, moved so that he was leaning in and wrapping restraining arms around Q’s torso.  Now Q was entirely too close to both men, Moran’s breath all but in his ear, Moriarty on top of him.

“All of you Holmes boys, I swear, can be so slow sometimes,” Moriarty huffed, backing off just a bit at least.  His weight settled on Q’s thighs and he reached out to poke Q’s nose.  “It’s a cute look on Sherlock, but on you it’s just sad.  You know what I think?”

“I imagine you’re going to tell me.”  Moran’s grip tightened threateningly; Q shut up.

Unbothered, Moriarty widened his eyes and leaned in again as if imparting the world’s secrets.  “I think that whoever told you that you’re the hero of this story is a sadist.  You were destined to fail, Q.”  This time, instead of booping Q’s nose, Moriarty’s index finger just stroked his cheek consolingly even as the man’s expression morphed itself into something full of sadness and pity.  Q squirmed valiantly but all he got was one of Moran’s arms around his throat while the other remained around his chest, squeezing him back against the chair while Moriarty shuffled even closer on his lap.  It was like being slowly consumed, a python’s swallow.  “Your morals sent you into the lion’s den, Siggy,” said Moriarty with regret, “and there are a lot more lions than you, and I’ve got a lot more teeth.”  He bared them for emphasis.

“I’ve got teeth, too,” Q tried to breathlessly threaten back, although he wasn’t sure if he even believed it now.

Surprisingly, though, instead of scoffing, Moriarty’s expression transformed instantly into an elated smile and he crowed right in Q’s face, “Bingo, Siggy!  Now you’re getting it!  Because you can hack into the Sybil System, too, can’t you?”  Apparently denial or confirmation wasn’t necessary, because Moriarty went on happily without much of a pause, “There’s your set of teeth right there.  Doesn’t it just make you want to rip the throat out of something?”

No, no it didn’t, but now it was undeniably clear that he and Moriarty were entirely too similar, gifted with the same inexplicable advantages.  Did Sybil have a deathwish?  Why the hell had she let a man like Moriarty into her systems?  And if Q was asking that question, then he also had to ask… why had she let Q in, too?

Without consciously deciding to, Q had stopped fighting.  Breathing a bit quickly, body tense and eyes scared, he simply sat with the two other men all around him.

Moriarty, after a slow, sleepy smile – once again changing temperaments in an eyeblink – gave a knowing nod and patted Q’s cheek.  “Finally, now you’re understanding the game.  Let’s hope your brother does, too.”  With that, Moriarty dismounted him, dancing away spryly but calling back over his shoulder, “Bind and gag him, Seb.  The clock says it’s past the bedtimes of all the little girls and boys, so we’re sleeping here tonight.”  His voice rang back, raucous and loud as rooster’s crow, “The game is afoot!!”

~^~

The intercom message had gotten out to everyone… and that included Hannibal.  While he was only mildly intrigued by the revelation about Q’s real name, what caught his attention like a fish-hook through the skin was the third voice that came growling across the feed: “Hela?  Cut the other one’s ear off.  I don’t care which ear.”

Hannibal wasn’t an idiot; there were only so many people that ‘the other one’ could be, when he’d seen both Q and Will get snatched away.

Like any good predator, Hannibal was fully aware of his own limitations, and whenever possible, he liked to limit damage to his person – because even small wounds could cripple a hunter’s abilities to feed themselves.  Therefore, when Hannibal had finally reached Will and Q (the third man, H, no longer in evidence), he’d hung back instead of lunging forward as he wanted to.  A part of him had felt the urge to attack, seeing Will lying there on the ground with blood about his head – but the logical, greater part of Hannibal realized that Will was very likely dead already, and that even if he wasn’t, there was no chance of Hannibal wresting him away from so many others.  So Hannibal had tucked that oddly protective part of himself into the back of his mind, and had held back, trailing the group like a shadow.  It occurred to him that he was still putting himself in danger, hunting a pack that included no less than four monsters of his own caliber, but that threat wasn’t quite enough to get him to leave Will – who was, apparently, still alive.

Of course, when Hannibal heard the intercom message, he realized the likelihood that Will wouldn’t be alive much longer.

But then Q’s voice had rung out, protecting Will, and the Quartermaster had risen a bit more in Hannibal’s mind.  Hannibal respected loyalty.  He respected it even more when that loyalty connected to him in some way – and everything that had to will was intrinsically part of Hannibal now.  When the intercom went silent again, Hannibal cocked his head thoughtfully from where he stood in the hallway just around the corner from the guard-station.  This was all very intriguing.  And troublesome.  And inconvenient, because he found that he wanted Will back more by the second, but there was no conceivable way to do that because he was outnumbered almost ten to one.

Or perhaps ten to two…

Hannibal’s ears were almost as keen as his nose, and a small smile played across his face as he heard someone coming up the hall behind him.  Possibilities already playing in his head, the man spared one last look in the direction of his prize, and then began ambling the other way, to meet the new arrival.

James was late, but better late than never.

~^~

Billy Russo had always been pretty: probably a pretty baby, pretty toddler.  Pretty boy growing up in a group home where parents were the tooth-fairy, because no one believed in them but everyone kinda wanted them to materialize and give out money and the promise that they’d at least cherish the small bones of you.  Maybe it was being a pretty boy in a foster home that had turned him mean, because 'pretty' and 'vulnerable' went bad real quick, and Russo was more than pretty – he was a quick learner.  One set of hands on him that he didn’t want, and he knew he’d have to get meaner.  Barely ten and already he’d been forced to deduce that most kinds of ‘love’ out there in the world were evil.  He didn’t need any all-powerful, all-seeing machine to tell him that, and by the very broken age of eighteen, he hadn’t need any machine to tell him that he was a bit psychotic, too.  Psychotic got to keep breathing.  Ironically, psychotic also got into the military, and that’s where he met Frank Castle.

Frank wasn’t pretty.  In fact, the moment Billy had first seen him, he’d thought the older man was unsalvageably ugly.  By this point in time, Billy had been in the military for a number of years, and had also started to learn that pretty cut both ways – and if he could control who touched him, he could use it to his advantage, and that had allowed him to embrace his vanity as a certain kind of power.  He still wasn’t the biggest, most muscular guy, but he sure as hell was the meanest, and that helped him to look at himself in the mirror and not want to break the glass and use the pieces to cut the pretty right off his face.  By keeping himself looking nice, Billy could get things that he wanted now.  Frank, though… Frank would definitely never be using his looks for currency, and that idea was so novel that Billy found himself following the man around and just staring at him.  He had the kind of curiosity that small children had for amputees, that buzzards had for opossums that stank of death but rolled over and walked away.

“What the fuck are you starin’ at?” Frank asked him bluntly before long.

And Billy grinned at him, all white, straight teeth and the kind of daring that came from being almost as suicidal as he was a survivalist – a dichotomy of temperament that even he didn’t know how to deal with.  Some days he was more dangerous to others, some days more to himself.  “I’m not sure.  My first guess was a side of pounded beef, but it could be dirty cauliflower.  Was your nose born that broken?”  That had been one of Billy’s more suicidal days.  One of the days when he kinda wanted someone to bash the pretty right off his face for him.

But instead of rounding the mess-hall table to punch Billy’s lights out… Castle had laughed.  It was a low, rough sound that should have been unpleasant, like rocks grinding, or the sandpaper rasp of a lion’s tongue.  But Billy found himself shivering, because he liked it.  The sound was quiet, and not as angry as he’d expected, not as mean.  “Do you want to get a beating?” the other soldier actually asked, and the interesting part was that his tone wasn’t threatening – more honestly questioning and a bit surprised.

And he didn’t even call Billy ‘pretty boy’ at the end of his sentence.

Maybe that was why Billy kept his grin in place – but with just an ounce more playfulness – and volleyed charmingly right back, “Nah, that’s just how I make friends.”

And apparently it was, because Frank didn’t punch him, and Billy started sticking to him like glue, even after Billy kept teasing Frank about his looks and after Frank started calling him ‘pretty boy’ from time to time.  It meant something else when Frank said it, just like Billy meant something else when he teased.

~^~

The more Billy Russo and Frank Castle hung around, the more tempted other soldiers were to say that Billy was Frankie’s bitch.  But they never actually said it.  Why?  Because Frank Castle was protective of his friends, and for no reason that Billy could understand, he’d decided Billy was his friend.  Really, though, the reason that no one made sexual jokes about the two men’s closeness was because Billy was scary as fuck.  People who crossed Billy got messed up, and Billy didn’t regret it, not unless Frank found out – because Frank could make him regret it.  It wasn’t an easy process, of course, because while the Special Forces had done a lot to smooth down Billy’s rough edges and make him conform, he still had a problem with authority that liked to rear its ugly, ugly head at the most random of times, and often those times were when Frank tried to berate him about something he’d done.  Billy would get rebellious, Frank would get frustrated, and soon they’d be letting off steam in the only ways their bodies knew how.  Shouting; fighting.  Those were the languages that Billy knew, though, so he never shied away.  Ultimately, Frank was the better fighter, though, and would win – would pin Billy down and holler some sense into his face, or press him bodily up against the wall and burn him with a look of anger and disappointment.  Billy was used to cigarette burns and slow chokes into unconsciousness, though, so he took the lectures like a mother’s kiss to the cheek.  Maybe he learned something.  Maybe he learned that there were infinitely more kinds of violence than he’d previously dreamed, and he kinda liked Frankie’s brand.

Frank always got gruff and apologetic when it was over, but in the end, he was a tough man, too.  And maybe he realized that Billy Russo wouldn’t listen to any other kind of ‘talking.’

The American version of the Sybil System (creatively called ‘the Machine’) didn’t have Psychopass numbers, and maybe that made it a bit easier for the military to bend the rules and let dangerous men like Billy and Frank join equally dangerous men in the Cerberus Squad.  Most people who were a danger to society got locked away or executed – but some were useful, so they stayed.

So Billy Russo made sure that he was damn useful.

The only reason Billy knew that killing people should’ve been harder on him was because he could see that it was sometimes hard on Castle, and Billy was Castle’s shadow by this point.  Still, even Frank’s morals didn’t stand up long to the kind of jobs the Special Forces had them doing below the radar, and it was an open secret that Frank Castle was as close to a human killing machine that most of those military men had ever seen.  Billy idolized him; Billy learned from him.

But Billy had a lot of tricks that Frank Castle didn’t have a whisper of.

Castle could fight his way out of practically anything, although it often ended with him hospitalized with a helluva lot of bullet-holes.  The man was a berserker, but even berserkers could die of complications later, after the job was done and the frenzy had burned away.  So when their team was sent in, and Billy saw a situation that even Castle couldn’t safely brawl their way out of, he got to work.  He had a pretty face and a smile that people wanted to return, and he was just slim enough that his athletic build didn’t immediately set off warning bell’s like Frank’s hulking muscles did.  Billy was a masterful shot and damn good with a knife (Frank had told him so; Frank had told him so and Billy had all but purred), but what made him irreplaceably useful was the fact that he could get their team into places without a single shot being fired.  He was the Trojan Horse – no, he was Helen.  Helen with her fine-as-fuck looks and men wrapped around her little finger, waltzing into a fortress with a war at her heels.  Yeah, that was Russo.  He didn’t like to tell Frankie the details – how he did more than smile and bat his eyes, how he sucked cock and put his ass on the line in whatever way would get the job done fastest.  Yeah, Billy was the kind of pretty that cut both ways, and he’d finally gotten used to just using it.  Now, unlike in childhood, when someone used Billy, it was Billy who still won in the end.

Sometimes it was for the mission, but sometimes it was for other things, too.  Sometimes it was to make sure that Billy stayed useful to the higher-ups, when the Machine started to call Billy’s name; sometimes it was when the Machine started calling Frank’s name, and Billy quietly made sure the other man didn’t get dragged away either.  Yeah, ‘pretty’ got shit done, and if the taste of dick on his tongue made Billy feel gross and ugly inside then, well, it wasn’t any different than how he’d been feeling since he was a little boy.  Survival hadn’t changed much since then.  Billy had just gotten more used to using the tools that Mother Nature had given him. And maybe he'd always been ugly and gross on the inside, to give the prettiness something to stick to.

He always had the sense that Frank would look down on him for all that, but it didn’t stop him.  It meant that Billy hid it, of course, which was harder than Billy had expected, because he found that not only was Frank a lot more perceptive than people thought he was (and a lot smarter), but Billy also didn’t actually like keeping things from Frank.  By this point, Billy had told the older man an awful lot about his shitty past, and had learned a lot about Frank’s more rose-colored history in return – a wife, two kids, a safe place waiting for him when he wasn’t on duty.  It made Billy an ugly kind of jealous, but the fact that Frank invited him into that life even after learning how dirty – how ugly – Billy was… it made up for that.  It made Billy swallow the jealousy so that he’d actually met Frank’s wife a few times and had even played nice with her, putting on his friendly mask and playing the ‘good guy’ for all he was worth.  Billy could respect Frank’s home when they were off-duty, because when they were on-duty... Frank was Billy’s home.  Even as the missions started to get to Frank, feeding the darker side of him, bringing out the viciousness that had always been surface-level for Billy, Frank was still Billy’s home.

And then the head of Cerberus got Castle’s wife killed, and everything went to shit.

But even as Frank became a monster to scare monsters, no longer leashed by the goodness of his family, he still felt, smelled, sounded like home to Billy…

~^~

God, but Billy hurt.  He wanted to rip 007’s guts out for what the man had just done to his leg – but he hated him even more for that last pistol-whip to Billy’s temple.  It had been a lucky blow that Billy had seen coming just a second too late, but now he couldn’t seem to get his body to move.  With a broken leg, he could still fight back, but like this – with his head spinning and refusing to connect with his muscles – he felt helpless.  He was aware that he was lying limply on the ground, able only to clutch at the agonizing pain of his right leg-

Russo’s thoughts were abruptly redirected as he felt a hand in his hair, brutally dragging him into a sitting position.  A twist forced his head to the side, displayed his neck, and Billy couldn’t do anything but snarl in response.

The other Hound, fucking 007, panted from right behind him, “One step closer, Castle, and your partner here won’t be fixable anymore.”

Joke was on him, because Billy hadn’t been ‘fixable’ since his preteen years.  He struggled even as he felt something cold and sharp kiss his neck, growling out viciously, “Don’t listen to him, Frankie-!”  He cut off as James jerked his hair, hard, and then hated himself for being so easily shut up – like a small dog being shaken into submission.  He abruptly felt his temper boil over, and he let go of his leg, even though he logically knew that he needed to keep pressure applied.  He thought he heard Castle bark his name, but Billy wasn’t listening anymore - he was arching his head back to fix dark eyes on startled blue eyes, startled blue eyes that clearly hadn’t expected Russo to be so fast, to get his hands on the knife, too, to state with all the viciousness of a storm in a bottle, “Frankie doesn’t get to make these decisions for me, asshole” and the fight was on.

007 was also stupid if he didn't realize that a Billy was a full-meal-deal of crazy with a side of suicidal, and he'd rather get his neck slashed open than be a hostage against Frank.

~^~

The fight didn't go Billy's way, and hell, maybe he'd never really expected it to.  Billy was used to the world screwing him over like that, and not giving him what he wanted.  

007 was disappearing down the hall.  His footsteps were like rain, and far quieter than they had any right to be.  But Billy had been getting used to that, how all the godforsaken men and women in this place walked quietly, like Death sneaking up on you.  He lay on the ground now and shivered, thinking about that, suddenly scared at the thought of Death sneaking up on him now.  Scared like he hadn't been since he was a child, hearing heavy footsteps stopping outside of his door-

“Fuck, Billy, are you out of your fucking mind?!” Castle’s rasp-and-avalanche voice came from right above him.  Billy got his eyes to slowly focus, giving a few quizzical blinks at the emotions on Frank’s face – because Frank never looked scared, never look worried, but he did now.  He looked angry, too, but Billy was used to that.  Billy made people angry as easily as he breathed; it was a habit, a way of life.  When he tried to close his eyes to ponder that, he was immediately jarred back to reality by a hand clamping over the side of his neck.  Oh yeah, he'd gotten that knife-slash he'd been asking for...  Looked like 007 wasn't half-bad with a blade either.  Billy wondered if Castle would praise him for it...

“No.  No, you do not get to do stupid shit like that and just tap out on me,” Castle snapped.  Billy opened his eyes again, hearing a commanding officer.  Above him, though, Castle looked a bit insane… a bit, Billy flattered himself to think, like when he’d heard his family had died.  Was it messed up to feel flattered by the comparison?  Yes.  But Billy had ‘messed up’ written all over him in indelible ink.  “Put pressure on this,” Castle was ordering, and Billy felt his right hand roughly grabbed and pressed against the side of his neck, where cloth of some kind had appeared.  Frank was missing his jacket now.

Billy winced.  “M’ shoulder hurts,” he complained, but didn’t quite dare to disobey.  Sometimes he disobeyed Frank on purpose, just to make the man mad – because when the man was mad, he forgot his own strength, and that was when Billy got handled like he deserved to be.  Roughly.  He liked it that way, because it was what he knew.  Now, though, didn’t feel like the right time, and Billy had a sneaking suspicion that a bit of roughness just might break him.

“Yeah, well, whine about it,” Castle griped back uncharitably.  Billy opened his mouth to do just that, but then he felt something tightening down around his leg, and that tore a scream past his lips instead.

He didn’t realize that he’d blacked out, and suddenly that was the scariest thing.  Billy’s senses came back online with terror around the edges, an old, animal panic that had been sewn into him when he was twelve and had realized for the first time just what someone could do to you while you were sleeping.  Funny how that fear hadn’t faded away even after decades of time and a good two hundred pounds more of muscle to defend himself with.  Billy was hyperventilating and lashing out almost before his eyes were even open, knowing only that he was missing time that he couldn’t account for, and he was on his back, and things hurt, and-!

“Billy!”

Frank.  Frank was right there, filling up all of his vision and holding his head in both hands like a mother bear cradling a cub in capable paws.  Billy choked on a helpless whimper lodged in his throat, confused and needing Castle to tell him what was going on.  

God, but the man’s eyes were gentle.  He could be as brutal as a force of nature, as a sledgehammer coming down – and sometimes Billy loved that, craved it like masochist needed pain – but sometimes Billy’s weaker side needed this.  Billy Russo wasn’t all teeth and armor and masks, although the creature beneath all of that was a small, ruined, feral thing.  It cried when it was left alone.  Sometimes it asked stupid questions like whether it needed to be hurt - if that was what the problem was, that people had needed to hurt him since the day he was born. 

God, Billy’s thoughts weren’t even making sense inside of his own head…  All he could do was pant and whine softly as Frank leaned down to press their foreheads together.  Billy gripped the other man’s wrists, barely noticing the stickiness of blood all over their skin.

“Goddamn, Bill, were you trying to kill him or yourself there?” Frank asked, still holding them close.  Billy felt his fear fade a bit with every warm rush of Frank's breath over his face, even if the pain didn’t – but Billy could handle pain.  It was the oldest friend he had, and arguably the only one that had stuck with him... besides Frank.  So long as Frankie didn't leave him, he'd be okay.

Swallowing thickly, wincing at the pain that lanced across his neck near his collarbones, Billy replied, “You don’t want to know the answer to that, Frankie, so stop asking.”

And Frank was smart enough, for once, to take that advice.  He called Billy a few unflattering names, but he didn’t take a closer peak at the self-destructive demons that called Billy Russo’s skin their home.  Billy, 018, was just a pretty package stuffed full with self-hatred, anger management issues, masochism, and PTSD, and at moments like this, he didn’t know why Frank stayed with him.

But stay he did.  And even as pain made Billy snarl and lash out – because Billy was made to bite the hand that fed him, because that same hand that fed him had struck him every time – Frank just bandaged him up and refused to let Death come near.

~^~

“Don’t ask,” James grunted, glacial blue eyes the first part of him visible in the dimness as he approached Hannibal.  As the rest of 007 materialized, a fresh cut was visible on his left cheekbone, oozing a swipe of red all the way down to his jaw; there was another one on his left hand.

Despite being told not to, Hannibal felt it wise to confirm, “I take it you disposed of your opponents then?  An impressive feat.”

James was clearly not in the mood, as he continued stalking up to his fellow Hound, grunting, “Hardly.  I damaged the pretty bastard enough that Sixteen had a choice between letting me go or letting his buddy bleed out, though.  We’re both lucky that Sixteen has just enough morals to choose the latter.”  By now, Bond had drawn level with Hannibal, and while his expression was only mildly fractious, there was a humming about him that spoke of a considerable amount of controlled violence.  “Now tell me what the hell happened to Q and the others before I decide how many morals I have.”

Usually, Hannibal didn’t appreciate threats.  However, these were trying times, and after that intercom message, definitely special circumstances.  The fact that James wasn’t attacking him out of impotent rage was already a polite gesture.  James was looking down the hallway beyond Hannibal, not meeting his eyes, so Hannibal mimicked his posture, staring off into yellow-tinged darkness.  “You heard C’s little speech, I take it?”

“Yes.”  There was a low, dangerous, animal growl beneath the word.

Hannibal merely nodded acceptance, then went on quite factually, “I was too late.  By the time I arrived, Q and Will were already surrounded by what looked like a posse of the Director-General’s men.  I’m afraid I don’t know where H is.  It seems as though they ran into Shaw.”  Bond swore colorfully under his breath, but not loud enough to truly interrupt Hannibal’s explanation, “Will looks to be the only one who sustained injuries, but to my knowledge, they’re both still alive.  I couldn’t do anything on my own, so I followed them.”

“Waiting for me?”  For the first time, a blue eye cut Hannibal’s way.  It was a measuring look, all made of scalpels.  Hannibal didn’t look away, because he knew that look.

“Ideally.  I trusted that you’d extricate yourself eventually.”

Bond snorted and looked forward again, the smirk on his lips wry even if he didn’t follow up that comment with anything.  His focus was on more important things than the possibility that Hannibal had left him behind to die.  “How many men did C have?”

“I counted nine, including C himself,” Hannibal answered easily, all of the information laid out and waiting in his head.  “I should warn you, of that number, four are fellow agents.”

Bond’s grunt said that wouldn’t be a problem.  “So you know where they are?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Then lead the way,” James said, “We can plan as we go.”

Now it was Hannibal’s turn to accept the other’s words with just a wordless sound of agreement.  He was… glad… that James hadn’t died.  If nothing else, he was glad that he had an ally, because if James hadn’t turned up, he’d have had to find another solution – or another ally.  And Hannibal was beginning to truly appreciate James as a hunting partner, as unexpected a thought as that was.  In the past, he’d tolerated the man, but now that they were turned to the same purpose, it was like temporarily finding a kindred spirit.  They were twinned sharks, cutting the water now with their fins, the same scent of blood leading them.

Chapter Text

Q hadn’t seen Will in a while, and with a gag in his mouth and zipties around his ankles and wrists, he could neither ask about the man nor try to leave the intercom room to go and check on him.  At least he’d thought he’d heard C, in the outer room, give orders not to kill the other hostage – and the door had been left open a crack, allowing Q to listen for any dissent that followed.  There wasn’t any.  A couple of lethal remarks, but Q had been working with Hounds for a while now, enough that he thought the comments were made in jest.  Since then, things had fallen quiet, soft snores breaking the dimness and quiet.

The only other person besides Q in the back room was Eleven – Lorraine was her given name, Q remembered, although her file had denoted so many aliases that it was hard to tell if even this title was real.  In fact, from what Q had heard about her, she’d accepted her number with more grace than most, assimilating into Eigengrau’s system with minimal fuss.  Perhaps it was because, as Eleven, she didn’t have to upkeep any masks.  Case and point being now: after only a glance at the blonde-haired woman, the only way Q could describe her was as effortlessly intimidating.  He knew from reports and photos that she could be charming and even inviting – and she certainly was beautiful – but in Eigengrau, she rarely put in the effort.  Instead, she surveyed the world around her with cold, efficient blue eyes and a body that somehow radiated a dangerous level of readiness even when she was reclined in a chair above him, relaxed.  Q knew that she was capable of emoting.  He’d seen it, actually, when Eleven’s Handler had brought her in for the Smartblood injection.  The Handler (a young woman named Delphine, Q recalled) had been closed off with Q, but both women had relaxed and softened in each other’s presence.  Q would almost dare to say that they meant something to each other, besides simple working partners.

All in all, Eleven continued to remind Q of a female version of James.  There was possibly something real beneath all of the lethal facades.

Right now, Q was sitting uncomfortably on the floor, and watching as Eleven absently stroked a choker necklace that seemed atypical for a woman of her profession.  In Q’s admittedly limited experience with high-Pass agents, he’d noted that they wore very little jewelry, and specifically avoided fashion statements that could be used as handholds or garrotes.

Before Q could ponder where he’d seen that choker before, the door opened, revealing a smiling Agent 012 – if his expression could be termed smiling.  Percival was one of those Hounds whom, in Q’s opinion, simply wasn’t very good at being charming, and usually couldn’t be arsed to care.  Now he was baring his teeth.  “You know, Lorraine, it seems that every time I see you nowadays, you’re babysitting someone,” he said, in a taunting tone that had Q tensing even if Lorraine maintained her usual, unflappable mask.  Percival leaned against the door and went on with more bite in his words, “I wish I’d realized a lot fucking sooner that you were such a caring soul.”

Lorraine hadn’t so much as twitched, but she hadn’t looked away from her fellow Hound or even blinked either.  Q began to get the sick suspicion that there was some history between these two that he didn’t know about.  “Go back out to your friends, Percival,” she answered after a pregnant pause.  Her voice was soft like smoke, and came out sounding like a tired sigh.  “I’m sure you’ve found someone out there to play cards with, even in this chaos.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Percival sneered.  There was very real anger in his eyes, however, beneath the smile his mouth was shaping – a rabid, barely contained kind of anger.  Q squirmed, acutely aware of his helplessness at the moment.

Eleven was impenetrable, however.  “I would, actually.”  She still sounded nothing but disinterested, as if social interaction in general exhausted her.

Percival’s smile became more of a snarl.  His eyes flashed.  So far as Hounds went, he was more on the lean side rather than muscular, but Q could see his muscles flex threateningly as he tensed.  For a second, Q expected a fight – but then someone in the other room shouted for Percival.  Something about him taking the next watch.  Clearly angry at being interrupted, Percival shouted back over his shoulder, “But Gerald isn’t even back yet!”

“No, but he should be.  It’s your turn,” someone else maintained.  Percival snarled, stymied.

Before he left, however, he hissed one last thing at Lorraine with contempt and danger dripping off his tone like acid, “Just don’t think you’re going to be able to return that necklace, because there’s no scenario here where your little bitch gets out of here alive.  If you try and save her – or that other little fucker – you won’t get so lucky this time.  All you’ll get is eaten alive right along with them.”  And with that, Percival spun and left, slamming the door behind him so hard that it actually bounced open again, letting in slivers of startled voices and Agent 012 stomping away and cursing loudly.  Twelve was a loud man when he was angry – like a tornado, tearing up the world.

Lorraine hadn’t moved.  Her eyes were still on the door, not meeting Q’s gaze, perhaps on purpose.  She did, after a moment, let out a long, slow, purposeful breath as if she’d been holding it and counting to ten.  It was like watching someone put the safety back on a gun.

‘Oh god,’ Q realized, ‘if I don’t remember where I’ve seen that choker before, I might die because of an internal feud before Moriarty’s plans for me even get rolling.’  It actually made him want to break down into manic laughter, because it seemed ludicrous that petty personal squabbles could continue to hold weight when the whole world had gone insane.  Unfortunately, the anger between Eleven and Twelve seemed entirely too real, and Q had read enough of Percival’s records to know that the man was particularly prone to vengeful violence, even by Hound standards.  In fact, Q recalled noticing some preliminary paperwork about ‘retiring’ Percival for being too dangerous to handle – sadly, that report had been penned just in time for Eigengrau to be taken over.

At least Eleven herself wasn’t being actively threatening.  Of course, whenever Q started wriggling or testing his bindings, her stone-cold blue eyes could flick over to him, the dim lighting just barely catching the color of them so that they glinted like an animal’s behind the shadow of her pale-blonde hair.  “If you want me to tighten the restraints, then by all means, keep struggling,” she said blandly at one point, in that sigh-and-smoke voice.  Q, knowing a sincere threat when he heard one, stilled.

Outside the door, he could still hear voices from those who hadn’t gone to sleep yet.  Someone was grumbling that Gerald hadn’t returned yet; someone else added that they’d never liked Gerald anyway; then a voice that sounded distinctly like Seventeen snapped that she was trying to sleep and would gladly eviscerate the next person who spoke.  Quiet fell then, and Q silently gave thanks to whatever higher power had ensured that he wasn’t being guarded by Seventeen.  Hela wasn’t the most unsettling Hound he’d dealt with, but she was damned high on the list.

But then things got a helluva lot more unsettling as loud swearing and cursing rent the air, echoing as if from further away, but getting closer and coalescing into Percival’s furious voice, “Bloody fucking hell, I did not sign up for this!”  When someone understandably asked what he was referring to, the answer was enough to have everyone’s blood run cold: “Hannibal-fucking-Lecter, that’s what!  He’s right behind me, and the reason fucking Gerald didn’t report back is because he’s dead.”

Despite Lorraine’s warning to stay still, Q leaned to the side as much as he could, and widened his eyes at the peek he was able to get through the crack in the door: Percival, chest heaving and eyes wild, blood smeared all down his chest from what looked like a wicked slash at the level of his collarbones.  It looked like he’d narrowly escaped getting his throat cut, and even though Q had previously been allied with Hannibal, he found fear rise up to choke him.

Lorraine leapt up and slammed the door shut, locking it, before Q could see anything more.  When he looked at her and made a confused noise past the gag, she merely looked down on him, and raised one eyebrow to the smallest degree.  “Unless you want that spilling into here?” he asked.

Even if Q hadn’t been gagged, it would have been a rhetorical question.  Even as Q leaned away and shook his head, more shouting and chaos echoed from the room beyond.

~^~

Hannibal had forgotten how hard to kill other Hounds were.  He was sure that he’d had Twelve dead to rights, but the Hound had heard him coming in time to spin around and jump back.  In all frankness, Hannibal found Twelve to be one of the more insufferable agents in Eigengrau, but he made a mental note not to underestimate his reflexes from here on out.  However, it still served the purpose.  Hannibal gave Twelve a head-start, watching as the lean Hound ran.

A shadow detached from the deeper shadows behind Hannibal, ice-blue eyes glinting.  “You know what to do?” James asked, very quietly.

Taking a brief moment to wipe his knife clean on the shirt of the other man he’d killed minutes ago, Hannibal then straightened with a predatory smile.  “I think our plan is simple enough that I can manage it,” he replied with dark cheer.

Then Hannibal began stalking forward, going from a purposeful walk to a ground-eating run in seconds, the smile on his face never fading.

~^~

Harold felt like he’d been going around in circles for entire lifetimes, but in reality he was struggling to keep track of both direction and time, now that he’d been turned around in this seemingly windowless labyrinth.  It was something of a miracle, therefore, when he found himself in front of a door that actually looked familiar – and which led into Q-branch.  Clutching Q’s bag tighter to himself, H leaned against the doorframe before entering, trying to catch his breath.  He also tried (and failed) to rid himself of those last images of Q, Shaw, and Will.  Or… whatever it was that Will had become.  H had worked in Eigengrau for long enough to know just what sort of monsters society could produce, and despite that, he had been unprepared for Will’s sudden psychopathy.  Even now it made no sense.  Sure, H hadn’t known Will for very long, but it had been like watching a switch being flipped, a seemingly quiet man turning into a maniacal religious zealot.

And H had just left the others to deal with that.

“Harold,” he muttered to himself, feelings of self-loathing threatening to engulf him, “you are such a gutless coward.”  Perhaps that was why he was still keeping Q’s bag safe, feeling as protective of it as he would have a child – because that was some small way for him to make up for his leaving.  It hadn’t even occurred to H until this point to question what was in the Quartermaster’s bag-

H’s thoughts ground to a halt, as he fixated on the small window flanking the door to Q-branch.  It was reinforced, and not a particularly clear window, but through it he had seen movement.  Equal parts curious and fearful, Harold limped a bit closer, his bad leg giving a mighty protest at being moved.  Still, the damaged limb had held out this long; it could last a few more steps, as H sidled close enough to peer through the window.

There seemed to be two people moving around some sort of machine, in the middle of Q-branch.  The lighting was as terrible here as anywhere else, and it was across the room from this particular doorway, but if he pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted, H could make out features.  The woman wasn’t instantly familiar, but she had no collar on, which was honestly enough to make Harold go weak-kneed with relief.  He didn’t think the man had a Hound’s collar on either, but it also looked like…  The man was bald.  And Harold knew that hawk-like profile anywhere.

Before Harold could cry out in pure elation at recognizing Merlin, a fellow Q-brancher, and push his way into Q-branch, a hand appeared out of nowhere and covered his mouth and nose.  Another arm locked around his middle, dragging him away from the door.

~^~

The fact that Harry’s mobile was still working indicated that Merlin and Roxy hadn’t reprogrammed the signal-jammer yet.  Harry appreciated the extra time, because he had the sense that this move would level the playing field, yes, but would likely also make the enemy more desperate.  And according to Eggsy’s texts, that could end badly, since the boy was presently outnumbered by Hounds in Hanger C.

Still trying to keep his texts to a minimum, just in case the phone should fall into the wrong hands, Harry had nonetheless asked Eggsy questions regarding just which high-Pass agents they were dealing with – and Eggsy had answered with alacrity, and surprising acuity, too.  It had taken very little time for Harry to recognize Harkness and Arthur.  Knowledge was power, but this knowledge didn’t really settle Harry much, because while Arthur was relatively young and new to Eigengrau, Harkness was well-versed in violence, and would be a dangerous foe.  Hearing that Moran had left was a stroke of good luck, though.  Harry was also rather gratified by how transparently happy Eggsy seemed (even through texts) at Harry’s imminent arrival.

If they could all time this correctly, then soon Harry and Eggsy would be in control of the only way off the island, and C wouldn’t even know that a coup had occurred while his back was turned.  Unfortunately, that relied on so many little moving parts: the signal jammer, which had to be activated before Harry and Eggsy joined forces to attack the hanger, but not so early that C realized something was wrong and ran back to check on his escape route; Harry himself, who had to avoid other skirmishes and trouble along the way if he was to arrive at all; and Eggsy, who was clearly a brave lad, and possibly too stubborn for his own good, but who was ultimately very vulnerable to the kind of violence that a Hound could unleash.

Harry didn’t realize how much that last thought worried him until he found himself taking the phone out to text as he jogged: ~Status?~

The reply was slow in coming, and Harry swore he aged a whole year as he waited.  Had the signal jammer come on?  It looked like his message had sent…

  The little mobile buzzed with a return message a moment later: ~No dif.  Still six against one if I have to start this party without you :P ~

“Cheeky little shit,” Harry chuckled to himself.  ~Start trouble before I arrive and I’ll put you over my knee.~

The text had been impulsive, but the response was unexpected: ~Promise? ;) ~

Good god, this boy really was going to be the death of him…  Deciding that he’d run into something if he kept texting while running, Harry shoved the mobile into his pocket and focused on the simple, physical task of moving.  Moving was good.  So was focus.  Because if Harry got jumped by a random villain because he was distracted by a text, he’d never live it down…  Dying with a hard-on would also be very, very embarrassing and in no way fulfilling.

~^~

It sounded like a warzone outside their door.  Q hadn’t been paying as much attention to the layout as he should have, when he’d been dragged into the intercom room, but it sounded like there were too many people and too few places to hide.  Some tried to hide where Q and Eleven were, but the lock held them off until they realized that they couldn’t afford to turn their back on Hannibal Lecter.  Nonetheless, Lorraine stood, gun out and facing the door, although Q had to wonder who she intended on shooting if they came through – just Hannibal, or allies, too?  She looked coldly determined to shoot just about anyone, and Q thought back to what Percival had said to her, about saving someone (maybe two someones).  Q had the sinking suspicion that those people Lorraine cared enough to save were not amidst the group right outside that door.

There were gunshots, but they were growing more sporadic – ammo was running out.  And from the sounds of things, most of those bullets had been wasted, because there was no sound of anyone cheering on Lecter’s death.  Quite the contrary.  There was in fact enough screaming to indicate that the man was very close, although no matter how Q strained his ears, he couldn’t hear Hannibal himself… which somehow made the entire scenario even more unsettling.  Q tried to imagine it: the darkened hallways, more shadow than yellowed light, birthing forth a silent shadow that walked in lockstep with Death, unhesitant, unrepentant.  Q flinched back against one of the room’s chairs as something heavy hit the door, releasing a hideous scream.  For a while, Q had thought that he could hear Moriarty and Moran trying to maintain order, but it sounded like they’d given up on that.

For there was no order in Hell.

~^~

There actually was a kind of order, but that didn’t make the situation any less hellish.  Hannibal smirked past bloodied lips as he managed to pierce through the bulk of C’s forces, letting them slip past him like fish through a ragged net, knowing that James was waiting for exactly that.  They were the twin jaws of a trap, and while Hannibal had gotten the bloodier end of the job, the reward was worth it: he was pretty sure that Q was just beyond that door, and more importantly, when the last person had ‘escaped’ Hannibal and fled the room, they’d left behind something.  “Will,” Hannibal murmured, dropping down onto his haunches and brushing his fingers against a curl of black hair.  Like Hannibal’s hands, Will’s hair was sticky with blood.  Something dark and vicious twisted inside Hannibal as he began to wonder who had injured Will so.  “Will, it’s time to wake up.”

Killing was something that Hannibal did naturally, and there were bodies behind him now, but his high-Pass counterparts were hard to kill – and as soon as they realized that another vengeful monster blocked their exit, they’d get desperate, and double back to where Hannibal was.  Theoretically, Hannibal was supposed to use that time to find Q, but right now other ideas were bubbling in his mind.  When the survivors retreated into Hannibal’s hands again, he wanted an ally.  

Will was unconscious, but his eyes were flickering beneath his lids.  Hannibal’s smile grew sad and warm all at the same time, and he threaded his fingers into sticky, stained ringlets to tilt Will’s face up towards his.  “Come on, Will.  You can’t hide from the beast forever,” he coaxed gently, his other hand reversing its grip on the knife Hannibal had chosen to wield.  He reached around to slip it into Will’s bindings.  “Sometimes you have to free monsters in order to become free yourself,” he opined, even as the sounds of chaos and horror renewed themselves behind him – James had come into play, with all the fury that Hannibal had expected.  Soon, the survivors of 007’s wrath would come pelting back, and Hannibal would be cornered.  He found it hard to be bothered by this fact, however, as he heard Will groan and saw him grimace, drawing closer to consciousness.  “That’s it,” Hannibal crooned with growing excitement.  Will’s limbs came free, and that seemed to trigger more wakefulness.  Will frowned in distress and whimpered.  Hannibal shushed him gently, speaking a few words in his native tongue and feeling something warm blossom in his chest as Will quieted again.

But Hannibal didn’t want Will to be quiet; he needed him to be alive and whole and howling.  So Hannibal put down his knife so that he could grip Will’s head in both hands, leaning down so that they were almost nose to nose, and he could feel his breath ricocheting back off Will’s face as he commanded, “Wake up, Will!”

Olive-green eyes snapped open.  Dazed, disoriented, they were clearly seeking something to grab onto – and, lo and behold, there was Hannibal to offer exactly that, with his calm eyes, soft smile, and predatory soul.  “You’re in danger,” he informed the younger man calmly, maintaining his grip even as Will thrashed a little, like someone jerked out of a coma by a shot of adrenaline to the heart.  Clammy hands clamped down on Hannibal’s wrists, but Will’s eyes never strayed far from his – except to stare at Hannibal’s mouth as the older man continued, “You’re in danger, but I know how to make you safe.  Show me your fangs, Will.”

Those eyes snapped back up to Hannibal’s, some of the disorientation fading to horror.  “No…” he gasped raggedly.  But his struggles were still weak, and Hannibal’s grip was strong. He’d also caught Will at his least guarded, an unfair move that left Hannibal feeling a little bit guilty – but with the sounds of dangers drawing closer, he pushed that guilt aside.

“Fight your true nature and you’ll die, Will.  We both will.  Use your nature to fight your enemies-”

Will bared his teeth before Hannibal could finished, biting out, “And I’ll probably kill you, too.”  He was trying harder to wriggle free of Hannibal’s grip, but his struggles were notably less than what they could have been.  There was no clawing or punching, no kicking or screaming.  Will was squeezing bruisingly tight on Hannibal’s wrists, but otherwise didn’t seem to be trying as hard as he could’ve to get out from the agent’s looming shadow.

“Is that what you fear?  Hurting me?” Hannibal asked, even as another scream pierced the air – from nearer than before.  It wasn’t clear who it came from, but Hannibal had failed to kill at least C, Moran, and two of the Hounds.  All dangerous.  All possibly drawing closer while Hannibal gently coaxed a wolf out of hiding.  He heard the door nearest to him, the one he suspected Q of being behind, unlock but not open.  One ear metaphorically cocked towards the sound, Hannibal gave Will’s face a soothing stroke even as he watched the expression of torment that twisted it.  “Will, I would take pain from you as a benediction.”  Will still wasn’t convinced, and Hannibal sighed as the younger man tightly closed his eyes and tried to shake his head in denial.  “If you cannot trust yourself, trust me, then.  Your inner demons are hardly the first that I have encountered.  Besides…”  He gave the blood-streaked cheek another stroke, and this time Will seemed to really register it, eyes opening again and mouth tipping into a bemused frown.  Hannibal smiled in return, and pulled Will closer.  By now, the younger man was nearly sitting, Hannibal crouched above his lap, touching him with the care one might show a baby bird.  Hannibal’s fond smile didn’t fade as he stated the brutal facts, “…The men and women about to rush this room are hardly saints.  Is it not your task to punish the wicked?”

At first, Will’s face creased in confusion.  Then Hannibal’s words – as he’d hoped they would – triggered something in Will’s damaged skull.  “Punish… the wicked…” he repeated, and Hannibal began to hear the voice that he’d heard screeching in the hallway before Hannibal could get there.  Olive-green eyes began to haze over, as Hannibal watched in fascination as something else – someone else – began to overtake them.

Will was probably concussed, Hannibal realized.

Making this almost too easy.

So he pressed it a step further.

“Listen to the sound of my voice, Will…  Focus on me…”  Something in Hannibal’s soul roared with triumph and pride as he watched Will’s eyes snap to him again, and this time seem to reach into his very core.  Deep down, Hannibal had always wanted to be caught, but only so that he could be understood.  Now, he was watching as Will’s strange and awesome gift began to understand him on a level that no human being ever could.

~^~

Generally speaking, there were two types of Hounds that worked in Eigengrau: those with egregious anger-management issues, and those who barely had any emotions at all.  Russo and Castle were examples of the former, their tempers being legendary, even feeding off one another until James found it hard to understand why they hadn’t killed each other yet.  Usually, though, James was one of the latter.  He didn’t get angry often, and when he did, it was a deeply buried, smoldering anger, and had been told more times than he could count that he was a cold bastard.  It made him good at what he did.  While wearing Eigengrau’s collar, James had done many atrocious things, but his ‘emotional insufficiencies’ (their words, not his) allowed him to detach from those situations and keep surviving.

Now, though…  Now, James was furious.  It felt like he’d swallowed a bonfire, the heat of it rising up to nearly choke him, and he could feel how it was searing out a lot of his common sense along the way.  And he didn’t fucking care, because from the moment he’d heard Q cry out over that intercom, James had wanted to tear C apart with his bare hands.  That was why he’d suggested this plan.  He hadn’t just wanted to chase C and his men away like jackals from their prey – no, James wanted to close in around them like a snare, and teach them what it really meant to feel fear.

When you took an agent who cared about fewer people in this world than he had fingers on one hand, and then threatened one of those people… well, you didn’t get a chance to make that mistake twice.

Hannibal had already begun the process, leaving two corpses for James to pass by, although that left many of the living still to deal with.  Hannibal’s job had been to act as the stiletto blade, stabbing right through everything to reach and secure Q and Will.  James was the battleaxe coming in behind, which meant sowing a helluva lot more destruction but also meeting more resistance.

Case and point: now, as he faced off against Agent 017.  He just barely dodged the bullet she sent winging his way, but before he could calculate whether it was her last bullet or not, she tossed the weapon aside and charged him, doing more damage that way than she had with a projectile weapon.  Though James was the heavier of the two, Hela’s speed sent him crashing into a desk, the pain of impact radiating up his spine.  She was a fairly recent addition to Eigengrau, and James hadn’t had a lot of experience with her, but was now making a note of her ferocity.  James’ own gun – also low on ammo – became suddenly useless in close quarters, and he snarled as one of the female Hound’s hands latched onto his gun-arm, pushing it back, while Hela’s other hand found his throat and squeezed.  Her fingernails felt like claws against his throat, and he actually felt something hot trickle down his neck before he even managed to produce a knife in his free hand.  She backed off sharply then, avoiding a cut that would have gutted her, but releasing a sound that sounded like a cross between a snarl and a chuckle.

James was about to bring his gun to bear again when he heard a mad, cackling laugh ahead that could only come from C.  Despite himself, James felt his attention straying in that direction.  Hela noticed, but instead of pressing the attack, her eyes narrowed cannily and she darted off in the other direction instead.  With her dark hair and eyeshadow, and clothing to match, she disappeared into the darkness like any good predator.  Hers was a smart kind of bloodlust, James decided, touching his neck and swearing as he felt small smears of blood.  When she’d been leaned up against him with a momentary advantage, he’d seen in her eyes that she would’ve been totally okay with ripping his throat out with her bare hands – but she was ultimately more interested in keeping her own skin intact.  She wasn’t the only one either; another Hound had managed to slip past both James and Hannibal, albeit with more injuries.  Sometimes you had to pay the Ferryman to get to the other side, and the cost could be steep…

But because James had priorities, he paused only long enough to be sure that Seventeen wasn’t planning to double back and surprise him, then moved forward.  Killing every man and woman who had taken Q was a mighty tempting prospect, but realistically, James knew that he’d be happy if he could just put that bastard C in the ground.

Anticipation like a monster in his veins, James skidded to a halt and actually growled as he turned a corner, spotting the very man he wanted so badly to maim.

The problem was, C wasn’t alone.  From everything James had seen and heard of the Director-General, he was not a fighting man – even the smallest Hound had a body that showed more muscle than C did, and nothing had indicated that C had hidden fighting skills.  Unfortunately, he did seem to have at least one ally who wasn’t as interested in cutting and running as Hounds like Hela were.  Now, James only caught a glimpse of the Director-General, because a tall, leanly muscled man was standing in front of him.  Whereas C was actually still grinning maniacally, his guard had eyes as cold and detached as a reptile's, which is what made James take the gun in his hands more seriously – said gun was also pointing at none other than Will Graham.  Hannibal was also in evidence, standing very still, but a few paces away and to one side.

Oddly enough, though, neither Will nor Hannibal seemed particularly panicked.  In fact, they were both eyeing the situation in general (and the gun in particular) with heads tilted at nearly identical angles of curiosity.

Something about the situation had James’ hair standing on end, and he prowled closer more carefully.  He was still noticed, as he stepped out of the shadows and into the room (a fairly open area, with two exits besides the one he’d entered, and a few desks), and C called like a deranged songbird, “Why, Moran, would you look at who’s here!”

The guard, Moran, cut his eyes James’ way, his gun never wavering even as he took note of everything about James in a cool sweep of his eyes.  Ah.  He was well-trained then.  And since Hannibal was presently armed only with a very bloody knife and a cool little smile, Moran had now identified James as the man to watch.  Chances were high that Moran would pull the trigger before James could, ensuring that Will would die even if Moran would be swift to follow.  Of course, that wasn’t an entirely unacceptable order of events for James.  After all, Will Graham meant very little to him.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Hannibal, who hummed quietly and then spoke as if reading Bond’s mind, “Go to Q, James.  Don’t force me to kill you out of vengeance.”

While C cooed something that sounded like “Oooh, complicated!” and Moran’s expression flicked between confusion and irritation, James spared a glance towards Hannibal.

“I believe you also owe me a debt,” Hannibal mouthed, expression steady but stance ready.  James felt his gut twist in remembrance.  He did indeed owe Hannibal… and even if James were to discard that debt, he didn’t like to think what Hannibal Lecter would do once crossed.  He’d threatened to kill James already, but Hannibal was known for being creative with his grudges.  When he paid a person back for damages, he did so with interest.  And he’d most certainly drag Q into it, kicking and screaming.

Will spoke next, and his voice was eerie to listen to.  The dark-haired man hadn’t exactly interacted with James much, but he nonetheless seemed a bit… off… right now.  His tone seemed calm and maybe a bit amused – but with an easy undercurrent of threat to it, like sharks beneath a steady sea.  He sounded, if James were being honest, a bit like Hannibal.  “We all know what you’re truly interested in, Bond.”  Will’s eyes remained focused on Moran and his gun.  When he shifted his weight, it seemed to be a matter of getting comfortable rather than being nervous.  “The intercom room is behind the door on the left.”

“It has opened and closed since we’ve been here, just a crack,” Hannibal went on.

“But I should warn you, we haven’t spotted Eleven,” Will said next.  It was like one person talking out of two bodies.

Hannibal finished it off by adding almost off-handedly, “I heard her while I was hunting, but haven’t seen her since.”  He shrugged.  His eyes had shifted back to Moran now, something supremely lethal slipping into his gaze, a clear deterrent should Moran decide to start shooting while they conversed.  It seemed to be working.  “Perhaps she slipped past me, but I doubt you’ve seen her either.”

James hadn’t, which suddenly made his worry for Q spike almost painfully.  Suddenly, the desire to rip C limb from limb had been relegated to the back of his head,

C was hissing something into Moran’s ear, almost slipping out from behind him.  Moran’s expression showed a bit more emotion now – frustration – as he snarled at the smaller man to shut up and get back.  C obeyed with an audible noise of displeasure, ruining James’ hopes of getting a clear shot at the real target that he wanted.  Instead, James sighed, realizing that he’d been backed into a corner in much the same way that C and Moran had.  He paced slowly into the room, but instead of getting closer, he made his way to Hannibal.  Eyes never leaving Moran’s, he said quietly to the other Hound, “How’s your aim?”

“Good enough to even the odds, in a room this small,” was Hannibal’s pleasant, smooth reply.  He had blood all over his face, and James wasn’t sure if it was from a bloody nose or if the man had bitten someone.

As James began to carefully hand his gun over, it was clear that Moran imagined an opening – but then Will spoke up.  He couldn’t have seen what was happening between Hannibal and James, yet he seemed to have deduced that a hand-off of weapons was taking place, even as he spoke to Moran, “Think of me as a hostage.  Once I’m just another body on the floor, you lose that advantage.”  Despite the fact that it was his life on the line, Will’s dark head tilted.  For the first time, James noticed the blood all over him, and the makeshift bandage on his head.  “What do you prefer?  A stand-off or a shoot-out?”

By C’s insidious little whispers, he clearly favored the chaos of the latter, but luckily, Moran was made of more stable, logical stuff.  His mouth pursed into a thin line, and while something hot burned behind his watchful eyes, he didn’t pull the trigger even as James relinquished his weapon and Hannibal took a second to fit it into his own grip.  James took the bloody knife, adding it to his own.

“You can handle this?” he asked, still torn.  There was something deeply wrong about this situation, but the problem was, he didn’t think that it had anything to do with the gun pointed at Will.  If anything, the danger to Will seemed to be regarded as a trivial matter at the moment, even if Hannibal still clearly valued his companion like a dragon valued gold.

“Oh, I think we’ll be just fine,” Hannibal reassured.  His words were spoken idly – his widening grin gave him away, though, with his canines glinting past a sheen of red.  A monster winking.  “Go and find your wayward brangusis.”

James didn’t know the language Hannibal was speaking, and for a moment he narrowed his eyes, tempted to ask.   Then he realized that he couldn’t afford to waste any more time, especially if the missing Eleven was anywhere in the vicinity of the also-absent Q.  Without another word, James turned towards the door on the left.

C, of course, had to get in a parting word.  He shouted past his bodyguard’s obstinate shoulder, “You should be excited, James!  You wanted to take something pure and corrupt it, didn’t you?”  James nearly missed a step, startled, but forced himself to keep moving without reacting.  He didn’t have time for this.  He couldn’t cover his ears, though, and apparently Moran couldn’t shut C up anymore.  “Well, today’s your lucky day, because your good boy has a dark side!” C’s voice rose in volume until he was shrieking, “And now he fucking knows it!”

James just kept walking, twirling the new knife in his left hand to get used to the balance.  If he frowned, it was only because blood had made the weapon slippery in his grip.

Chapter Text

When the sounds of violence beyond the door had fallen silent, both Q and Eleven had held their breaths.  The imperturbable Hound had even exchanged glances with her captive, although her gaze had remained impassive even as Q gave a helpless little shrug – and when he winced, remembering the injury between his left shoulder and neck.  It was too dark to tell, but he had the sinking suspicion that all of the previous rough-handling had torn out some stitches.  He just hoped that he survived long enough for that to actually be an appreciable problem.

Q would have probably peered out to see what was going on within the first minute, but Lorraine was made of more patient stuff.  She continued to hold her position, gun at the ready, for what felt like eternity.  Her eyes only strayed from the door on occasion to give Q warning glares, when he failed to be subtle in his wriggling against his bonds.  Because Q had a healthy respect for Eleven and wanted to keep on living, he fell still whenever she looked at him – but because he also didn’t think that things could get much worse, he continued his efforts every time she looked away again.  At one point he thought he saw her sigh defeatedly, and she stopped glancing back at him.

Unfortunately, the reduced level of oversight didn’t help Q much, because he’d been tied up entirely too well, and the gag felt like it was cutting into his mouth with its tightness.  Still, he was doggedly working on it when suddenly the noise outside began to deteriorate.  Both Q and Eleven tensed again, hearing voices but unable to distinguish much.  Everything sounded… calm.

Which Q felt in the pit of his gut had to be a very, very bad thing.  The moment C had taken over Eigengrau, everyone had metaphorically stepped through the looking glass – and nothing was at it seemed here.  The things that would normally signal peace were immediately suspect.

Q was proven right only minutes later, as C’s – Moriarty’s shrill voice suddenly cut through the quiet like a firework shrieking off into the night: “You should be excited, James!  You wanted to take something pure and corrupt it, didn’t you?”  Q felt his blood run cold, and then colder still as Moriarty just kept yelling, “Well, today’s your lucky day, because your good boy has a dark side! And now he fucking knows it.”

It was like being punched in the throat; Q sagged where he stood, knees pulled up to his chest and his eyes losing focus as the words echoed in his head.  He barely registered the fact that this definitely meant James – James, Q’s ally – was near, because all that really mattered was that Moriarty had taken Q’s transgressions and shouted them from the metaphorical rooftops.  As C had said: Q wasn’t exactly white as snow.

In fact, maybe he deserved to be in Eigengrau as much as the Hounds did.

That thought made Q shiver, thinking back to the tense and uneasy talks that he and James had had about morality, about how this all would end.  Fuck, James had already hinted that he saw something less than perfectly moral in Q’s reasoning, when he’d mentioned how many rules the boffin was breaking as he tried to break his brother out.  Now C was making it worse, and suddenly Q thought he was going to hyperventilate, because what if C had also brought up the fact that there were two people who could hack the Sybil system: C himself, and Q?

Now it hit Q that James was probably coming for him now… but the new question was: Was James coming to save him, or to put him down?  James already knew that Q’s Psychopass number was frozen, but it was impossible to tell if he’d think of Q more fondly or more hatefully if he knew just how much the youngest Holmes brother was like the madman Moriarty…

~^~

Harold would have screamed embarrassingly loudly, but the hand around his mouth was too good at its job, keeping him quiet.  Thrashing wasn’t doing very much good either, because whoever had grabbed him was damn strong – although, admittedly, it didn’t take much strength to keep a bookworm like Harold Finch contained, as embarrassing a fact as that was.  Still, Harold remembered a few things that Reese had told him, and got his wits about him enough to slam an elbow back.  It connected solidly, and he heard a ground-out grunt in his ear followed by a muttered, “Dammit, Harold,” that was so familiar H nearly sagged to the floor in relief.  As it was, his bad leg did give out, and then there was an awkward moment where Harold was trying to turn around and none other than John Reese just was trying to hold him upright.

“Reese!  John, oh my god!” Harold babbled in nothing short of total elation, and somehow managed to twist around without much help from his bad leg.  He had to grab hold of the Hound’s biceps for balance even as Reese gripped him in turn – the Hound was warily watching Harold’s elbows now, too.  Harold’s terror faded away to excitement and then to bemusement as he wrinkled his nose, inhaling before asking carefully, “Do I want to know why you smell like a chimney?”

“Probably not.  In my defense, it wasn’t my fault.”

Besides the smoky smell, Reese looked much as he had when they’d last parted – although there was decidedly more blood staining his shirt on the left side.  When Harold reached out a shaky hand to touch it, though, he was relieved to find it tacky and in some places even dried.  He withdrew his hand quickly, having never had a stomach for blood; there was a reason he stuck to the tech in Q-branch.

“Just a graze,” Reese assured him, and if Harold wasn’t mistaken, the Hound’s voice sounded more gentle than before.  He was quick to change the subject, though, tone returning to its usual dryness, “I’m glad to see you made it to Q-branch like you wanted.”  Steady brown eyes flicked to the door just behind them.

“Not without significant detour,” H admitted sourly, thinking back to his most recent adventures.  Suppressing a shiver at even the barest whisper of the memories, he couldn’t help but mutter, “Did you know that the Quartermaster is cozy with 007?”

Unexpectedly, Reese’s mouth twitched, the closest he’d probably come to showing what he was feeling – in this case, it looked like something unexpectedly close to humor. Instead of answering, Reese asked back in a mild, measured pace, “Did you know that Trevelyan is probably cozy with M?”

Harold’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head, and he almost lost his balance on his bad leg again.  Thankfully, Reese was already there, and firm hands tightened down on Harold’s elbows.  Once he was balanced again, muttering a polite but embarrassed “Thank you,” Harold went on, “Well, it sounds like we’ve both had some exciting times – which we’ll have to recount later.  Right now, I need to check Q-branch for the key to your collars.”

“Someone’s already beat you to Q-branch,” Reese observed without any particular inflection, eyes on the door that Harold had been approaching.  He was a hard man to read at the best of times, keeping up a mild and disinterested demeanor even when situations were dire.  Harold could feel the Hound’s tension through the hand still on one of his elbows, however, wariness hidden in his raspy tenor voice.

Realizing that Reese must have arrived ahead of him with enough time to peek inside but not get a good look, H was happy to clear things up, “Yes, but thankfully, I believe we’ll find friends rather than foes beyond that door.  I recognized Merlin, a coworker of mine in Q-branch, and the woman with him doesn’t look like a Hound.”

“Harold, you realize that ‘friends’ to you and ‘friends’ to me are very different groups of people, right?” Reese deadpanned with a slightly pained expression.  Harold abruptly flushed, realizing that he’d all but forgotten just who he was traveling with: John Reese, 008, a Hound with a Psychopass of 122.   Suddenly H realized what a hypocrite he was to judge Q for allying himself with Bond and Hannibal. And just as H had struggled to accept Q’s implicit trust of the Hounds with him, H suddenly realized that it could be tricky to enter Q-branch and explain that he himself wasn’t bringing an enemy in his wake.

Mind rapidly going through all of the ways in which that could go wrong, H opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to say softly, “Do you want to stay out here while I reunite with Merlin and his companion?”

Surprisingly, Reese’s expression only showed him at war with himself for a moment; he was looking over Harold’s shoulder at the door, considering his own equations at a speed that nearly matched H’s thoughts.  He ended up replying with a deep, world-weary sigh, “No, I’ll go with you.  You’ve got a bad habit of getting into trouble, Harold, and for all we know, the second you walk through that door, all hell will break loose.”

“It’s probably going to break loose when both of us walk through that door.  Together,” Harold pointed out pessimistically.

In response, Reese flashed Harold one of his rare smiles.  Small, brief, and tight-lipped, it made the Hound look temporarily younger, even as it highlighted the wrinkles at the sides of his mouth and eyes.  “I trust you to handle it,” he said as if it were the most natural assumption.

Harold was about to say “Just let me do the talking,” but stopped, because Reese was never the talking type.  In fact, this conversation he was having right now was probably his week’s allotment of words.  H spared just one deep inhale and exhale to feel honored by the fact that the Hound had spent those words on him.  “Come along then,” he said, turning as smoothly as possible with his bad leg, “Let’s introduce you in the politest way possible.”

“Oh joy,” Reese said in a voice so dry it was arid.  But H thought he caught the barest half-smile before he made his way towards the door – a limping Q-brancher, with a bloodied, fire-singed Hound at his back.

~^~

Q jolted as the door was roughly kicked in.  Apparently James knew that there was no point in stealth at this point – unfortunately, Lorraine seemed prepared for the tactic.  Behind the swing of the door, gun already raised, she lifted a foot and kicked the door right back, and with more force that most people would have attributed to a woman of her size.  Q got a quick look at Bond but couldn’t shout any kind of warning past the gag before the door bashed into the man’s shoulder.  James snarled out a curse but weathered the impact, something wild and determined in his eyes, even as he instinctively dropped low and dodged the first bullet that Lorraine sent winging his way – right through the wooden door.  For the first time in recent history, 007 himself seemed to be without a gun, but the dagger he sent winging Lorraine’s way was cat’s-paw fast, whipping through the air even as James finally shouldered his way in past the door.  It was Lorraine’s turn to duck, although her face remained stone cold.  James matched it, something supremely lethal in the shadowy blue of his eyes.  There was blood on his face and neck.

Q didn’t know what to do.  As terrified as he was for his own safety, regardless of who won – Lorraine was an enemy, but James might not be an ally either, after hearing Moriarty – he saw the high possibility of James getting a bullet through the heart, and that was a more mortifying thought that anything Q could imagine.  011 and 007 were apex predators, creatures that usually avoided one another in nature, because they knew exactly what kind of damage they could do.  Lorraine was literally backed into a corner, however, and the set of Bond’s entire body said that he wasn’t going to back down.  By this point in the siege of Eigengrau, Q had seen James at his deadliest – when he wasn’t trying to put on the skin of a ‘nice man’ or pretend that he was just a regular human being who happened to have a predator’s teeth.  James was unmasked again now, and Q was realizing that it never got more terrifying to witness.

But even while Q wanted to simultaneously cower away and hide out of sight, he also desperately wanted to protect this man, and that was what had him furiously rubbing his cheek against his good shoulder, trying to work the gag off.  Terrors had greased the metaphorical wheels of his brain, and now the Quartermaster remembered where he’d seen the choker that was now conspicuously around Lorraine’s neck.  Her Handler had been wearing it – Delphine, the only person that Q had thus far see Lorraine bother to smile for.

Lorraine had dodged the knife and was already bringing her weapon up to bear, even as James hooked a foot in a chair and sent it careening towards his opponent with a hard jerk of his leg.  That necessitated another dodge, allowing James to halve the distance between them in the meanwhile, until he was on the cusp of the distance where knives would become more useful than guns – but he wasn’t there yet.  He’d probably take a bullet before he reached that point.  The iron set of his expression said that that was a loss he was willing to endure.  ‘Lose the battle to win the war’ was written across the bunched muscles of his back, the frosted glint of his eyes.  Perhaps Lorraine saw the look, too, because Q – as if watching everything in slow motion – saw the way her expression grew grave-dirt-cold, almost resigned.  She knew that even if she won this fight, she’d pay a heavy toll, but the other choice was rolling over and letting herself be killed.

Q wrenched the gag out of his mouth at long last, and gasped out a third option: “Both of you, stop it this instant!  James, let her go!  She doesn’t want to fight you any more than I would!”

The words had come in a frantic tumult, and Q’s heart skipped at least three beats as he feared that he’d be ignored.  Any second, he expected a shot to ring out – and he did.  But even as Q flinched, he saw James jump back and to the side, not forward and through the bullet.  In fact, it didn’t look like he’d been hit at all, as if Q’s words had convinced him to alter course.  The next pleasant surprise that had Q’s heart restarting was when Lorraine didn’t shoot again.  Maybe she was out of bullets; maybe she’d realized that James was in a mood that wouldn’t be easily stopped by bullets.  Either way, the two Hounds were standing warily, barely two long strides apart, panting deeply but quietly in the new silence.  Q realized that they were waiting on him, silently, like two great icebergs poised to collide, depending on the tide’s next whim.

And apparently, Q was the tide.  He cleared his throat quickly and went on, the words rasping as he rushed to get them out, “Neither of you want this fight – and neither of you need it, frankly.  Eleven, if Bond is here, it means that your loyalty to C has ceased to pay dividends.”  God, he hoped he was right about that.  Q wet dry, cracked lips (the cloth gag had chafed his mouth something awful, he was realizing) with a quick swipe of his tongue and kept talking before his uncertainty started to show, “James, just let her leave.”  It took all of the strength Q had to keep his voice from shaking, trying to sound like the Quartermaster instead of just Siger Q. Holmes, hiding behind a fragile alias… which had just been shattered.

Both Lorraine and James had some of their attention on Q now, at least.  They were, in fact, sparing him glances, although still keeping a healthy amount of focus on each other.  Q was counting that as progress.  He shifted his gaze more firmly to Bond, and by the way the man re-settled his weight and tilted his head minutely, he’d noticed out of the corner of his eye.  “James,” he said, infusing as much stern confidence into his voice as possible, as if he had even the faintest bit of control over this situation and this man in particular, “back up and let her leave.” Now Q looked to Lorraine, and actually caught her eye even as he finished more softly, “She has better things to live for.”

Something flickered behind the woman’s cold mask.  Her expression didn’t really change, but her eyes narrowed just a fraction, and Q saw the faintest little quiver of surprise go through her stance.  In that moment, Q could tell that he was being evaluated, and this time not underestimated.

James was the one who spoke next, however, voice a low, rumbling growl like something hungry, “I don’t really give a flying fuck what she has to live for, because she’s the one with a gun, in case no one else has noticed.”

“And you’re rather handy with knives,” Lorraine rejoined smoothly.  Her voice was like smoke and honey, almost melodious but with a rasp around the edges.  She shifted her shoulders just slightly, drawing the eye to the fact that Bond actually hadn’t entirely missed her: there was a tear in the shoulder of her jacket.  It was too dim to tell if he’d drawn blood.  “So I don’t think the odds are entirely one-sided.”

Q spoke to Lorraine before James could reply and make the situation more volatile, “Does that mean you’re interested in what I’m offering?  No fight; you just retreat and pretend we never even met.”

There was a long, agonizing moment where Lorraine made no reply.  Her eyes didn’t even leave Bond, and her gun hadn’t wavered for a second.  She was aiming low, but only because James was poised to move if she dared raise the weapon even a fraction more.  “People need you alive,” Q chose then to murmur, very quietly, feeling that now was the time to push.  Again, Lorraine didn’t so much as twitch.  She may as well not have heard him.  But then, with no fanfare whatsoever, Eleven angled her body… and moved with smooth, gliding steps towards the door.  When James slid back a step to give her room, she obliged to lower her weapon, and with little more than a whisper of sound, slipped past him out the door and was gone.

Q collapsed back against the table-leg he’d been leaned against, absolutely unstrung with relief.    

~^~

Previously: Backstory of 011

~^~

For Lorraine, developing feelings for her Handler Delphine had started with a simple sating of the body – Delphine was gay, and Lorraine was comfortably bi.  They both had healthily active libidos, and as Hound and Handler they were readily available to one another.  Lorraine hadn’t slept with her previous Handler, but to be fair, Kurzfeld had been older and less than physically enticing.  Lorraine figured she was allowed to be picky.  But perhaps sleeping with Kurzfeld would have been easier, because at least the old man hadn’t had any ideals and dreams that he liked to talk about – unlike Delphine.

Lorraine had made the first mistake – staying in bed to cuddle and enjoy the afterglow instead of grabbing her clothes and leaving – and then she’d had Delphine asking her questions in soft whispers about relationships and truths.  And to make matters worse, Delphine hadn’t even been scared away when Lorraine had said that “These relationships aren’t real.  They’re just a means to an end.”  Instead, the younger woman had told Lorraine that her eyes looked different when she told the truth, with a smile on her face that said she liked it better than way.

Despite her better judgment, Lorraine had continued to sleep with her.

She told herself that it was because Delphine was young and supple and gorgeously responsive in bed; she told herself it was because this was the only kind of control a Hound could get in Eigengrau, and that she liked dominating a partner while also giving them every ecstasy they could wish for.  Lorraine was good at sex – she’d had lots of practice – but she was especially proud of her prowess in bedding another woman, because she already had a good idea what felt good, and because it was a simple fact that too many women spent their lives being unfulfilled by male partners.  Men were careless and greedy.  Lorraine liked to think that she was neither, at least when she was easing a hand into the pants of another woman, trying to get her to moan in a way that no man ever had.

But at the end of the day (or night, more specifically), with her Handler lax and happy in her arms, Lorraine knew that those things were secondary.  The real reason she continued to sleep with her was because Delphine’s words lit something bright and pure in her chest, in a place where Lorraine had thought everything dirty and charred long ago.  She liked to hear Delphine talk about the world as if there was a little bit of goodness in it.

Developing a thing for Merkel, Twelve’s Handler, was a slightly more drawn-out affair.  Whereas Lorraine and Delphine’s affair had started with sex and grown from there, Lorraine’s interest in Merkel started when she realized that he was a uniquely useful person to have with you while in the field.  Lorraine and Twelve – David Percival – were paired up often.  The reason was because they’d both had previous Handlers who had worked together.  Whereas Lorraine’s Handler had retired of his own choice, however, as age made him ill-equipped for chasing her around the world, Percival’s Handlers had left Eigengrau’s employ far more violently.  Percival had a habit of going through Handlers nearly as swiftly and brutally as Agent 003 did.  Lorraine wasn’t surprised, since she’d had plenty of time to see just how disgustingly self-centered Percival was.  True, no Hound was exactly a poster-child for community values, but at least Lorraine and others could usually prioritize the mission a bit higher, whereas Percival had a nasty habit of throwing others into the line of fire when it seemed like the mission might get him injured or killed.  At least he threw his Handlers first, before throwing Hounds.

Merkel was different, however.  For starters, he was smart.  Eigengrau hadn’t seemed to realize Percival’s problems quite yet, but it was clear from Merkel’s first day that he trusted his Hound about as far as he could throw him.  Merkel also didn’t really try to control Percival all that much, an unexpected course of action that Lorraine had watched with secret amusement and approval.  From the first mission that the four of them were sent on, Merkel more or less unleashed his Hound and then sat back to provide support – from far enough removed that Percival couldn’t easily throw him into metaphorical (or literal) oncoming traffic.  What really surprised, Lorraine, however, was that Merkel then extended his support to Lorraine and Delphine’s team without an ounce of hesitation.  It was possible that Merkel was, beneath his veneer of jaded pragmatism and obvious youth (an intriguing combo)… a good person.

That realization made Lorraine wary of him for a whole three missions, until a job went sideways and Percival decided to fuck them all over just to save his own hide.

Lorraine had been beaten and bloodied and soaking wet.  Her asset was dead in the river, still buckled into their car, and she had no idea where Delphine was.  Still hunted by the German government, Lorraine had been darting through the shadows of the city feeling like an injured rat clinging to shadows – until someone had spooked her in an alleyway, catching her off-guard because she was freezing and in shock and had taken more blows to the head than she cared to contemplate.  Her first reaction had been violent self-defense, but fortunately her cold body was slow, so before she could lash out, she’d realized that it was none other than Merkel grabbing her and pushing her up against the wall, his large, expressive eyes full of determination and worry.

He’d asked her what had happened; she’d asked him where Delphine was.  Whereas Lorraine’s own answer had been horribly garbled and full of impotent anger, she was sure, his answers had been calm and freely given.  He’d then taken her back to a safe-house where he’d already hidden away Delphine.  While Lorraine had nursed her pain and her fury (with Delphine crouched in front of her, trying to check over her injuries), Merkel had moved around quietly, returning to Lorraine’s side only to tuck a thick blanket around her.  Perhaps, in that moment, the first thread of something was sewn between them – a different color than the threads she shared with Delphine, but tangled up in Lorraine’s cold soul nonetheless.

Percival had been thoroughly lectured for his actions, but as usual, he talked his way out of it and was kept on Eigengrau’s workforce.  For the first time, however, Lorraine viewed that decision with more than just resigned acceptance.  For the first time, she felt a tiny sliver of trepidation.  If Percival remained an active agent, then he’d keep going on missions, and one of these times… he’d get his Handler killed.

It helped a little bit that Merkel was the best Handler that Percival had probably ever had, and even Percival seemed to grudgingly realize that: Merkel trusted in his Hound’s skills and didn’t try to order him round, Merkel stayed out of his way, and Merkel also had a host of honestly useful skills.  He had contacts seemingly everywhere they went, was surprisingly knowledgeable about forging documents and passports, and knew multiple languages.  In fact, he and Delphine often conversed in French, if there was down-time on shared missions.  Lorraine enjoyed watching them together without quite knowing why.

Lorraine had complimented Merkel’s skills one night to Delphine, after a bout of ardent lovemaking, and the darker-haired Handler had frowned for a moment, making Lorraine hold her breath.  She’d never tested to see if Delphine was prone to jealousy.  Instead of getting upset, however, Delphine’s expression had smoothed out into a yawn, and she’d merely mentioned that Merkel’s Psychopass was a bit on the high side for a Handler – and that he’d have to watch himself.  Lorraine silently agreed, although she believed that the Sybil System was the least of the young man’s worries.

By and large, Lorraine had survived by being an island.  She minded her own business and didn’t get caught up in emotional attachments (Delphine was an exception).  So even after Merkel had found and helped care for her after the disaster in the river, Lorraine maintained her usual distance around him like nothing had happened.  Surprisingly, Merkel didn’t seem bothered by that, and remained as helpful and unbothered as even.  He had to have noticed, but apparently Merkel was one of those rare men who didn’t think that, just because he’d been nice to a woman once, that he was entitled to her kindness afterwards.  And perhaps Lorraine mentioned this to Delphine, and almost smiled when her Handler broke apart into warm giggles like bubbles in champagne.

That status quo continued unchanged… for about three more missions.  Then they were all assigned together again for a long-term undercover op, and Percival started acting stranger and stranger until it became clear that he’d realized that his own interests were best served by turning his team over to the Russians.  Percival had actually done this before – but the reason that Eigengrau didn’t know about it was because when Percival turned on people, he made sure that there were no loose ends.  So when he inevitably returned to Eigengrau (whom he respected only because they could terminate him at the push of a button), he was able to play the victim or the tragic hero.  Lorraine knew Percival, though, and Hounds gossiped more than their masters realized.  There was no point in reporting Percival on the basis of hearsay, though, so no one had ever bothered.  What did the higher-ups of Eigengrau care, anyway?  The last time Percival had decided to go a bit rogue, the only one to get a bullet had been a Hound.  And Hounds weren’t human beings, now were they?

This time, though, there were more than Hounds on the line – and what was more, they were people that Lorraine cared about.  So when Percival turned on them, instead of running and getting herself to safety, Lorraine found herself thinking about Merkel and Delphine.

Getting Delphine out of danger had been the less difficult task, but still by no means easy.  The only reason Percival was still around was because he was good at what he did, and that included being good at cleaning house when he wanted to.  He nearly put a bullet in Lorraine and partially garroted Delphine before the two women were able to escape out a window – and that was with Delphine being properly wary of Percival to start with.  By this point, Lorraine had begun to quite freely share her feelings about her fellow Hound, some secrets slipping loose to Delphine late at night, when they were close.  Secrets like how Percival was more a killer than Eigengrau realized, but he kept getting away with it, and bragging about it over drinks when all of the good, low-Pass people were asleep.  Delphine had insisted on reporting him, and the naivetés of that desire had made Lorraine’s heart squeeze in her chest.  Instead of scoffing at the idea, though, she’d merely told her lover that it was useless, and had kissed her softly and held her in her arms until the idea faded away into uncomplicated sleep.

For the first time, however, Lorraine found herself wishing that she’d started confiding in Merkel as well.  By the time she was dodging bullets to try and save the other Handler, Lorraine had to finally admit that she cared about him as more than just a frequent teammate, yet she’d been too paranoid to ever take him aside and warn him that his Hound was about to go rabid.  She’d come close to warning him, even going so far as to sidle up to him while he was working on pasting together new passports for all of them.  Lorraine had stood behind his chair, one hand on the back of it and the other finding its way to Merkel’s shoulder.  He paused in his work, turning his head to regard her out of one eye, but had said nothing.  Lorraine had kept her face a mask, and couldn’t get her lips to move.  She was used to secrets, and to being an island.

And Merkel, because he wasn’t pushy and nosy like most men – even when he really should have been – hadn’t pressed.  Instead, he’d turned back to his work.  Lorraine had walked away, frustrated with herself and battling unfamiliar emotions in her chest.  As a result, Merkel got no warning when Percival sprung his trap, and it was ten times as hard for Lorraine to keep him alive.

In the end, it had been Merkel going into a cold river this time.  Instead of drowning, though, he too was fished out, gasping and sputtering - but by a Hound who was usually more frosty-natured than any winter river.  He’d looked so stunned at being rescued that Lorraine’s heart had torn a little bit.  Merkel had never expected her to be anything but what she was, she realized then: he never seemed disappointed that she was distant and aloof, he never seemed disgusted by the violence that came naturally to her, and he’d never tried to change her in the slightest.  But that also meant that he’d never expected her to try and help him if he got into trouble.

“You thought I’d leave you to die,” she’d breathed, winded herself from her efforts.  Merkel had just stared at her, stunned and probably going into shock worse than she had when he’d been the one helping her.  He didn’t try to deny it, though, and Lorraine found her hands cupping the sides of his face, wanting simultaneously to shake him and scream at him and to reassure him as she’d reassured Delphine.  ‘You’re okay, you’re okay.  I’ve got you and you’re safe,’ she’d told the woman between soft, quick kisses.

Instead, Lorraine pulled Merkel to his feet and ducked under his arm, taking him to a safe-house just as he’d taken her.  This time, it was Lorraine and Delphine who worked together to dry Merkel off – going so far as to wrestle him out of his clothing.  It wasn’t a sexual event, but Merkel still got almost painfully flustered.  He was almost more panicked by Lorraine and Delphine pulling off his pants than he’d been by his Hound trying to drown him.  But soon everyone was safe and in dry clothes.

“I’ll keep watch,” Lorraine had said, her tone as firm as ever, as if she had never known uncertainty in her life (what a lie).  “We can decide our next move in the morning.”

Delphine and Merkel, worn out now that the adrenaline was used up, had merely nodded, accepting Lorraine’s decision without question.  Their trust of her, in that moment, had terrified the fuck out of her.

But the sight of them both - bundled in blankets and warm clothes, falling together into a pile of exhausted, tangled limbs like a pair of worn-out puppies – had warmed her heart as nothing had done in… god, she couldn’t even remember.  Not even as a child.

That was when she’d decided that she cared for these two people, and would protect them with all the ferocity of a mother lion.

When they returned to Eigengrau two days after Percival returned with his sob-story about them all dying tragically, Lorraine had finally accepted that this was what it meant to let people onto her ‘island’ soul.  But before anyone could sort that whole mess out (and probably realize that Percival needed to be put down, or at the least locked up in Holding), C had arrived and turned all of Eigengrau into a madhouse.

And now Percival, instead of being executed for his crimes, was free and on the warpath.  And Delphine and Merkel were once again in the crosshairs.

Yes, Lorraine definitely had something (two somethings) to live for.

~^~

Chapter Text

Q spent exactly three heartbeats – one to close his eyes, one to breathe in, one to breathe out – being calm, before he snapped his eyes open again, aware of the fact that he was still very much in a dangerous situation.  Eigengrau remained a madhouse, and his alliance with 007 had always been tenuous.  Acutely aware of the zipties around his wrists and ankles, keeping him helpless, and the hard throbbing of his exacerbated injuries that was making his entire shoulder feel hot, Q’s eyes zeroed in on the remaining Hound in the room.  James still looked prepped and hungry for a war, the emergency lighting only managing to highlight the blood on him, and the quicksilver gleam of his eyes as he turned to regard Q in turn.  Q shrank back, breathing fast.

In his head, he kept hearing Moriarty’s words, said so sweetly as the maniac had sat like a lover in Q’s lap: “Don’t you see what we are, Siger?  You and I?  We’re viruses in the machine.”

When James moved towards him, Q’s reflexes took over, and he tried to scramble back, shoes skidding on the hard floor even as his bad shoulder hit a table-leg.  Before Q could so much as yelp in surprise at the flair of pain, however, one of 007’s hands had caught hold of the zipties around Q’s ankles and was dragging him forward again, as easily as a dog dragging a rat out of a hole by its tail.  Q tried to lean away as much as possible and nearly tipped over, his balance already compromised.  “James, please…” he got out, unsure how he wanted to finish that sentence but feeling panic like a tidal wave rising up to swallow him.

Leaning over Q and looking like a gory testament to just why he was one of Eigengrau’s best, James tightened his grip even as Q instinctively tried to kick at him.  Blue eyes narrowed and Bond’s already grim expression became an actual frown, brows beetling.  When Q tried to jerk his legs in another kick and his breaths became hyperventilating gasps, something like realization lit the Hound’s gaze, and he dropped down onto his haunches without letting go of Q’s bindings.  At some point, he magicked his knives away, but Q was too smart to think that made the man any less dangerous.  “Easy, Q, just relax,” he murmured in a voice still a few shades too rough to be properly comforting.  Q wasn’t ready for it, and neither was he ready to accept the other hand that then reached for him – he started struggling harder, leaning nearly all the way onto his back.  By now, it felt like his throat had closed up, barely letting in air and making words impossible, and had Q been a bit more clear-headed, he’d have recognized a panic-attack – one that had been, in all honesty, a long time coming.  His futile wriggling ended in him toppling over onto his side, luckily his less injured side this time, although it was still jarring since he couldn’t catch himself.

Bond growled, the sound resolving after a moment into the words, “Fuck, we don’t have time for this.”  Q sucked in a reedy yip of surprise as he felt strong fingers on the bend of his elbow, tipping him fully onto his stomach; surprise and panic became terror.  Q was pretty sure he would have mindlessly screamed if he’d had the breath for it, but as it was, he still couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen, despite how his lungs were working overtime.  He made a thin, reedy noise instead.  Belly-down now, he felt a knee in the small of his back, and that was all it took for James to hold him still.  Twisting his head to try and keep an eye on the threat, glasses askew already, Q nonetheless saw a knife flash into appearance in James’ hand.  “No… please…” Q choked out, but the knee in his back just pressed down harder, making him flinch and press his forehead down against the exceedingly cold floor.  When he felt a hand grip his left calf, he honestly didn’t expect the next sensation to be a brief tightening in the tie around his ankles, and then full range of motion as his legs came free.

“These are staying on until I can calm you down,” James growled, the heat of his hands feeling like a brand around Q’s still-bound wrists.  Somewhere beneath the roughness of Bond’s voice, there might have been reluctance and regret, but Q wasn’t parsing things out very well.  Maybe in retrospect, he’d realize that it had been Moriarty who’d deserved this panic, but that Q had been stubbornly holding it in because he didn’t want to give the maniac the satisfaction… only for his control to slip the moment he’d realized his kidnapping was over.  Then again, depending on how one looked at it, Q had been in something of a hostage situation since the moment Eigengrau had been taken over, so maybe that was why his beleaguered brain was having a hard time differentiating friend from foe.  Q was tired, he was in pain, and he’d been in a state of tension for too damn long.  So, like a rubber band, he’d snapped.  Hopefully, unlike a rubber band, he could be mended again.

Q still kicked and struggled and gasped out breathy, meaningless curses as James got off him only to grip him by the right arm and around his middle to lift him.  Considering the fact that Q probably had bruised ribs at the least, this was by no means a painless process, but it was the best James could do without exacerbating Q’s worst injury – where the bullet had grazed him barely days ago.  “You can be in a strop at me later,” James grunted even as Q regained his feet but proceeded to escalate his thrashing, “but for now, I need you to shut up and bloody do as I say!”  The last was hissed right in Q’s face as James spun him around and managed to get the fingers of one hand buried in Q’s hair, forcibly angling Q’s head so that they were eye-to-eye.  James’ knives had all disappeared again, but his fierce gaze was very knifelike, and Q found himself freezing like a rabbit in the grass.

For a second, in response to that, James just looked tired.  Then his gaze hardened over again and he muttered, “Better,” before lowered his hand from Q’s hair to his nape.  With that grip mimicking an Eigengrau collar (and really didn’t Q deserve one of those, since he likely had a Psychopass far higher than all the records said?), James turned and marched them both towards the door.

~^~

In all frankness, James realized that he’d found Q in much better condition than he’d had any right to hope for: the boffin wasn’t sporting any new injuries, and (most importantly) wasn’t dead.  In fact, Q even held it together long enough to get Lorraine out of the equation, so James decided that he wouldn’t complain about Q’s frenetic struggling now.  After all, what was a teensy little mental break between friends?  All joking aside, though, James was trying to put all of his worries about Q’s mental state behind him for now, because they were still a very long way from safety.

That was proven before they’d even gotten out of the room, as the previous silence was punctuated again by gunshots.  Feeling keenly the absence of his gun right now, James reversed his trajectory and Q’s, ending up with the two of them in the corner where Bond could watch the door and hopefully avoid any stray bullets that might slam through it.  He’d had to let go of Q’s nape, but he had the traumatized boffin wedged into the corner behind him.  Bond half expected Q’s hostilities to resume, but apparently the sound of guns going off had at least triggered a hard reboot of Q’s brain, because the Quartermaster was doing nothing more than what James had instructed: he was silent and still except for his too-fast breaths against Bond’s back.

The gunfire ended almost as soon as it had started, and silence reigned.  James wondered if this had been triggered by Lorraine, but he was pretty sure that when she’d made her exit, it had been with the full intention of avoiding any and all entanglements – and that included gunfights.  He didn’t think she was so stupid as to get into trouble after so soon getting out of it.  After the silence had stretched for a while, though, James called out cautiously, “Lecter?”

He was grudgingly relieved when the cannibal’s voice immediately replied back cheerily, “I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a mishap, but it’s safe out here now, James, if you want to bring your boffin out.  I assume you’ve retrieved him?”

Sighing, James moved forward, pausing just long enough to turn and eye Q: the boffin had his eyes closed, and seemed to be steadying his breathing.  His looked so damned small with his hands still tied behind his back, and James belatedly realized how that must be wearing on his damaged shoulder.  Even as James called back gamely to the other Hound, “What gave away my success?” he was carefully reaching forward, weathering Q’s flinch so that he could turn the younger man and get to his bound wrists.  The skin around them was raw and even slightly bloody from Q’s tugging, and James felt like a right bastard for not noticing before, and making Q keep them on even until now.

“The fact that you haven’t gone on a murderous rampage mostly,” was Hannibal’s frank and clearly untroubled reply. “We also noted Eleven’s swift exit.”  He even sounded amused, although even from here, James could hear the faint roughness in the other Hound’s tone that bespoke exhaustion from all the fighting he’d just endured.  Bond imagined his own voice was no better… which perhaps explained a bit about why Q was handshy as hell around him.  James was careful to extend one of his knives as subtly as possible, so that Q didn’t even notice that he was openly armed again until the last ziptie was falling away.

“There you go, Q,” he murmured softly, trying to dampen down the post-battle edge in his tone, “Just take it easy, all right?  You’re safe now.”  ‘Comparatively speaking,’ he added in his head, but took heart in the fact that Q didn’t immediately try to either make a run for it or take a swing at him.  However, the fact that Q wasn’t calling him on that blatant lie was a bit worrisome, as James had grown a bit used to Q’s moxie.  Bond suddenly hoped that that gunfire wasn’t Hannibal shooting C, because now James wanted to do that himself, after asking just what the weasel-faced little madman had done to Q to make him act like this.  The boffin was acting in ways James was struggling to predict.  “Hold onto my gun harness until I tell you not to,” he went back to giving commands, keeping their interactions simple until he could assess things in more detail.

As James turned, watching Q over his shoulder, he was relieved when the boffin took a deep breath, closed his eyes for what was probably exactly three seconds, and then reached forward with his right hand to do as commanded.  Grunting his approval and placing a knife in both hands again, James led them out of the back room.

What he saw in the room beyond did not please him.

C and Moran were gone.

“What happened?” Bond snarled, only then switching his gaze to the two men who still were there: Hannibal, still gory enough that Q let off a small gasp behind James, kneeling next to the limp form of Will.  “Did Lorraine do this?”

“No, Eleven actually slipped past us as if we did not exist,” Hannibal said smoothly, seemingly untroubled by the situation.  His hands were moving swiftly but clinically over Will, re-bandaging his head with cloth probably torn from a corpse nearby.  “It was very polite of her.  However, I believe that I overestimated Will’s condition – he collapsed without warning, and C and Moran used the opening to make a swift exit.”

Bond swore inside of his head, but externally just growled, “The gunshots I heard?”

“One from me, one by them – both near-misses,” was the other Hound’s calm answer.  Finishing off his doctoring, Lecter belatedly looked up to James, saying with a low and more pained tone, “I’m sorry, James.  I know that you trusted me to keep them here until you could act, and I failed you in that.”

As much as James wanted to be furious, it was hard to, faced by Hannibal’s candid factualness, and the fact that the adrenaline in his system was fading.  He’d been wrathful before – but before, he hadn’t had Q yet, moderately safe and moderately sound.  So James bottled up the sour dregs of his anger and let out a heavy sigh, replying, “At least we’re no worse off than we were before.”

Hannibal hummed and nodded in agreement, even as he shifted Will around.  He got one arm under the fellow’s legs, another beneath his shoulders.  “At times like these, a return to a stalemate can sometimes be akin to victory – a resetting of the board.”  He nodded to Q, as if indicating a salvaged queen on a chessboard, then grunted as he stood up and lifted Will in his arms.  Glance going again to Q, Lecter noted sagely, “It looks like our Quartermaster is a bit worse for wear, James.  If you still wish to travel with Will and me, then I’d be happy to take a look at your companion’s injuries.”

Perhaps before all of this, James would have hesitated to renew his alliance with Hannibal.  As it was, though, he barely paused before nodding and saying, “Somewhere safer than here, though.  I want to quit this area before C gets it into his manic little mind to come back and try something again.”

“A wise plan of action.”  Hannibal nodded for James to go ahead, while also adding, “Your gun still has some ammunition in it, and as I can hardly carry Will and use it at the same time, it might be best if you took it.”  He turned; the weapon was in the makeshift holster of the back of his trousers.  James stepped forward to take it without hesitation, checking it over with reflexive swiftness and then keeping it in his hands.

“The ground level locker rooms by the gym have first aid kits,” he said, and got no argument.  Q had been worriedly silent this whole time, so James looked over his shoulder at him again, and didn’t move until the boffin met his eyes.

Q looked exhausted, and stretched thin in a way that went beyond physical fatigue.  He managed a nod, however, after a moment of eye-contact.  With nothing but a nod in return, James began leading them forward, comforted by the fact that Q’s grip remained as a constant tug on the straps of his gun-holster, and the fact that Hannibal’s hands were too full for him to be properly dangerous.  By this point, if James was sure of anything, it was that Q would obey and hold on – and Hannibal would not drop Will Graham for any reason, not even to take advantage of James and Q’s bared backs.

~^~

Merlin was completely tangled up in tech at the point when Roxy heard the door open, and she realized that whatever was coming their way, it had better not be more than just she herself could handle.  She spun, gun immediately trained on the door.  She was surprised to see a mousy, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and glasses.  “H?” she asked, startled.  Then she saw the bigger figure looming through the door behind him and tensed up again, warning, “H, watch out!”

Before Roxy could get a shot off or Merlin could disengage himself from his work, H raised his hands and waved them in the air – effectively putting his arms and hands in the way of Roxy shooting the collared man behind him.  “Please!  Don’t shoot!  We’ve had enough people shooting at us already,” the Q-brancher requested in a strained voice.  When Roxy paused, gun still raised and ready, H hurriedly went on, “You’re 005’s handler, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she said suspiciously, “Now, you want to tell me why you have a Hound at your back?”

“This is John Reese,” H explained patiently.  He lowered his hands but carefully kept in front of the Hound, who was as unmoving and unreadable as a shadow.  “He’s an ally, and won’t cause either of you any harm – just as he hasn’t harmed me.”

Roxy growled back, “I find that hard to believe of a Hound.”

She was surprised when Merlin – still kneeling by the signal jammer – stretched out a leg to nudge her calf.  “Need I remind you that we had a Hound with us not half an hour past?” he asked in a careful, low voice that made his accent more noticeable but also ensured the words didn’t carry beyond Roxy.

The female Handler accepted that fact with a little sigh, relaxing her arms and shoulder slightly, even if she still had her gun in her hand.  “Fine then.  What are the two of you doing together – and why are you here?”

“Mr. Reese is with me because, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not armed, and would not be particularly formidable even if I were armed,” H replied back with a tone of wryness so subtle that it was very nearly undetectable.  “He’s kept me safe.  As for what we’re both doing here, I’ve come to collect something very important before it falls into the wrong hands.”

Before Roxy could ask for elaboration, Merlin crowed, “Yes!” and the machine he was tinkering with let out a brief, high-pitched whine.  The tall Scotsman sat back with a pleased grin splitting his whole face, and now it was him that everyone was staring at.  For a moment he just blinked at everyone as if belatedly returning to the present.  “Oh, nothing, don’t mind me,” he said with a certain amount of sass in his voice, “Just evening the playing field here.”

Whatever H had come here to do, this distracted him enough so that he took a limping step forward.  “May I ask what you’re doing there, Merlin?” he asked, curious but also ludicrously polite given the circumstances.  

Roxy’s disbelief at H’s enduring manners must have shown on her face, because when she inadvertently met Reese’s eyes, the Hound made a ‘What can you do?’ sort of face and shrugged eloquently.  Somehow, that reassured Roxy more than H’s words had, and she finally lowered her weapon so that it was just resting in one hand at her side.  Smartly, the Hound continued to keep his distance, and didn’t make any moves to the rifle slung across his shoulders.  

“Oh, nothing much,” Merlin said, trying for self-deprecating but landing on ‘proud’ instead with his tone.  “Just taking the signal jammer that that rat-bastard C was using, and ramping it up so that it cuts off his bloody signals as well.  It seems only fair.”

“Why not just turn it off entirely?” H asked reasonably.

Roxy and Merlin exchanged uncomfortable looks.  They’d actually considered this, but only briefly.  With no signal jammer at all, the ‘good guys’ could call for help.  The problem was, the line between good guys and bad guys was getting awfully grey.

H watched them for just a beat before lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You’re working with a Hound, too, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.  

“Agent Harry Hart,” Merlin admitted.  Roxy shot him a look for giving away information, but Merlin just lifted his hands, palm-up, hissing, “H is my superior!”  Roxy rolled her eyes, and Merlin went back to speaking to his fellow Q-brancher, “Hart is on his way to secure the helicopter before C can - which will be much harder if all communications are open.  We want to at least trap this bastard before we open up the comm lines and call for help.”

H didn’t look happy about this, eyes narrowed and body held in a purposefully still fashion as if he were resisting the urge to yell.  Surprisingly, it was Reese who spoke up, voice a light rasp from behind H, “It’s not actually a bad plan.”  When H jerked around to look at him, betrayed, the Hound just shrugged, “We can always turn off the signal-jammer later, Harold.  It’s not like the option is off the table.  It’s just delayed.”

“And people are dying while it’s delayed,” H shot back.  He hadn’t raised his voice much, but even the small increase seemed significant.  The Q-brancher’s hands were fisted on the strap of the messenger bag he was carrying.  

“And it will all be for nothing if C realizes that we’ve called in the cavalry and makes a run for the helicopter,” Roxy had her say, all eyes shifting in turn to her determined expression.  “Right now, C is playing games - the last intercom message made that clear-”  She watched as H flinched, perhaps thinking about his boss, the Quartermaster, who had featured prominently in that message.  Roxy herself felt a bit queasy thinking about the predicament the Quartermaster was in, but forced herself to keep talking, “He’ll stop playing games and disappear if we don’t play this right, and I, for one, don’t want a psycho like that ever escaping Eigengrau.”

 “Harold,” the Hound said gently, and Roxy began to wonder why this was the only man referring to H by a full name instead of a title, “They have a point.  Eigengrau is a place made for containing killers.”

H was looking increasingly frustrated, clearly feeling cornered.  Ultimately, though, he gave way with a decent amount of grace, “I still do not think this wise, but I can see I am outvoted and outgunned.  Could I request a time-limit, after which you’ll turn off the signal jammer and call in the appropriate authorities?”

“Certainly,” Merlin said, after exchanging a glance and a nod with Roxy.  “In theory, Harry will have either secured the helicopter or failed in… probably the next few hours,” the Scotsman admitted frankly.  “At that point, it might actually be useful to open up communications again.”

“Three hours then,” H said, in a tone that was a bit brittle but still holding onto a note of command.  He wasn’t the Quartermaster by any stretch, but he was the next best thing, and even Roxy decided not to argue.  “In the meanwhile, I’m going to check on some things of my own.”  And with that, H turned with his curious limp (Roxy had thought him injured at first, but was now recognized the movements associated with old wounds, not new) and disappeared into the rows of computers and cubicles that made up Q-branch proper.

That left Merlin, Roxy, and Reese staring awkwardly at one another, at a loss as to what else to do for three hours.  They were still trying to think of something to do or say when they heard H rifling through drawers somewhere in the shadows - the noises got more pronounced, and then they heard something that even Roxy sensed to be a rare anomaly: H swore.  His sharply shouted vituperation had his high-Pass companion immediately jerking to attention, already striding off in the direction his mousy companion had gone.  “Harold!” he called, tone rife with unease.

“It’s gone!” H yelled back.  

Merlin and Roxy exchanged looks again.  It was Merlin who started to shout, “What’s g-?”

But then H’s voice came back, sounding relieved, “Oh.  Never mind.”

“Nevermind what?” Merlin pressed, very confused now.

“Nothing!” H called out, and now he was starting to laugh.  Roxy caught Reese’s bewildered look before the Hound sank deeper into the shadows, determined to check in on H in person despite his reassurances.   “I’m just very, very grateful that Q gave me his messenger bag to babysit.  Give me a minute, and I’ll come back and explain.”

~^~

Back at Eigengrau’s morgue, everyone was staring, unsurprisingly, at Sherlock.  For his part, Sherlock was looking deeply uncomfortable with the attention, for once recognizing social cues and realizing that this perhaps didn’t look too good for him.  

“The Quartermaster,” M, still obviously in some pain but managing to create a remarkably foreboding expression regardless, “is your brother?”

“To be fair, we’re not very close - nor did he discuss this with me beforehand,” Sherlock said weakly.  

M took that in, accepting it, but then his expression hardened.  He looked haggard and tired and yet suddenly threatening enough that Sherlock’s head reared back slightly.  “The real question is,” the head of Eigengrau said in a low rasp, “What are you going to do about it?”

No one got a chance to answer, as Alec suddenly exploded upwards from the floor.  Somehow, he’d gotten loose from his bindings - and no one was prepared for him to go from restrained and sitting to free and lunging so swiftly.  By the time John shouted in surprise, Alec was already on Sherlock, manoeuvring him into a brutal headlock in a horrifically short span of time.  Watson, still tethered to Sherlock, was nearly tugged off balance by the sudden movement, but regained himself quickly.  The problem was, as soon as he raised his weapon, it became apparent that Sherlock was very much in the way of shooting 006.  John shouted Sherlock’s name at about the same time M shouted at Trevelyan, everything a mass of chaos even as the taller, slimmer Hound thrashed and struggled for all he was worth.  

M doubled over in pain, which was a blessing really, as it kept him from brashly getting off the table - something his leg would not have allowed.  John, meanwhile, kept his gun raised despite the high risk of hitting Sherlock in the fray.  By that point, Alec - the more experienced killer by far - had solidified his hold, and Sherlock was struggling for air.  “Let him go!” John barked.  He was ignored, so he repeated, “Let him go, or I swear I will shoot right through Sherlock to get to you, 006!”  Sherlock made a shocked and disgruntled noise, although it was pretty choked-off.  His struggles were becoming more discombobulated and feral as his body was deprived of oxygen by the powerful arm across his throat.  All the while, Alec kept his body well hidden, nothing vital sticking out, and he once again disregarded John’s threat - thus calling his bluff, when Watson let out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose instead of shooting.  “006-!” the Handler started again in a voice befitting a battlefield, but then he cut off, no doubt realizing that he was being utterly ignored.  

Watson’s next move, then, was to keep his eyes on the fighting Hounds while swinging his gun around to aim instead at Gareth Mallory.  “You’re right, I don’t want to shoot through Sherlock - but you don’t want M shot either, do you?” he snapped, and then he had Trevelyan’s attention.

Sherlock was still sucking in wheezing breaths, a sign that 006 wasn’t tightening his grip any longer, even though he hadn’t let go.  Green eyes surveyed everything from Sherlock’s shadow, snapping quickly from John, to the weapon, to Mallory, who was sitting slumped at the edge of the table, one arm wrapped around his middle and clearly in no condition to dodge.  In fact, it looked like the head of Eigengrau didn’t even have it in him to protest, although he was glaring daggers at Watson.  

“You wouldn’t,” Alec spoke for the first time.

Voice a bit quieter now but still full of steel, Watson went on, “I would, because right now, the way I see it, we need more answers if we’re going to survive this mess - and I’m sorry, but Sherlock is the one with those answers, not M.  So I can’t let you kill Sherlock.”  Seeing the slight shift in Alec’s body and the faint movement of his eyes, John raised his voice again to holler, “And if you so much as think about pulling on that leash between Sherlock and I, I swear I’ll get a bullet off before you pull me off balance!”

Perhaps because he’d been contemplating exactly that, Alec froze, and his arm on Sherlock loosened fractionally more.  The Holmes brother clawed weakly at the arm around his throat, but squeezed a bit more air down his windpipe.  “Your Hound may have answers, but according to that intercom announcement, he also now has a helluva good reason to betray us,” Alec rejoined in a voice that was low, rough, and dark like gravedirt.

Just as John was about to open his mouth and reply, Sherlock choked out, “Hardly!”  Everyone was a bit surprised that he had the air, much less the wherewithal, to become part of the conversation - and perhaps that surprise was why Alec loosened his grip a tad more.  Still choking more than a little bit, Sherlock nonetheless doggedly kept talking in a heavily derisive voice, “Don’t be… stupid.  There’s…  There’s no way… dragging M to Moriarty-”

“Wait, who?” even John seemed confused now.

Sherlock’s eyes were bloodshot from his continued ordeal, but still he rolled them dramatically.  “Or whatever you want to call him - C, the Director-General.”  He coughed and tried to adjust his footing so that he could get more leverage, but Alec wasn’t having it.  Exasperated, Sherlock wheezed out, “Just doing what… what he says… would never work!  And it’s boring besides.”

Even though John still had his gun aimed at M, the two men still exchanged looks at that last sentence, communicating with a look that John didn’t have any defence for Sherlock’s aversion to boredom.  “See?  Sherlock’s not a threat to M,” John did try and emphasize, “So at the very least, can we stop and talk about this?”

“I also would appreciate all of us reducing the current level of violence and just talking,” M said.  His expression was still tight with pain, but his eyes when they met Alec’s were full of the same quiet command that had kept him in good stead throughout his tenure at Eigengrau.  Then those eyes snapped to Watson.  “I mean that to apply to everyone.”

A bit chagrined, John pursed his lips, looking between Mallory and Alec with wary eyes.  However, when he finally spoke, the Handler sounded calm and conciliatory, “I’ll just lower my gun then, yeah?  If you’ll let Sherlock go, then I see no reason to hold a gun to my own boss.”

“Glad you still remember who signs your paycheck,” Mallory drawled tiredly.  

John had the good grace to clear his throat uncomfortably, avoiding eye-contact.  

Alec didn’t reply verbally, but after making eye-contact with Mallory again - who muttered, “Oh for fuck’s sake!” and nodded - the more experienced Hound loosened his grip and stepped back.  Sherlock immediately fell to his knees gasping for breath, which inadvertently did what Alec hadn’t managed to do: yanked the towline between Sherlock and John.  As the Handler stumbled forward, he instinctively raised his gun to prevent any mishaps, and as swiftly as that, the dual threats were nullified.  Alec still didn’t look entirely happy, but he didn’t make any more moves - and John, once he regained his balance and cast one more wary look at Alec, holstered his gun and went to kneel by Sherlock.  Quick, experienced, and remarkably thoughtful hands touched Sherlock on head and neck, murmuring quiet questions that Sherlock answered with coughs and little fussy hisses of pain.  

Watching all of this from his perch on the embalming table, Mallory just sighed and ran a tired hand over his face, muttering into his palm, “If we don’t survive this, you’re all fired.”

~^~

Chapter Text

Mycroft was a good brother.  Really, he was.  But sometimes work had to come first, and the most recent events had made it all but impossible to even think about his two brothers in Eigengrau.  Someone simply known as ‘The Woman’ had appeared on the political playing field out of nowhere, and for the last week had been making Mycroft’s life hell as she threatened to release information so scandalous that it could very well shake the foundations of the British government.  These were the kinds of political problems that Mycroft was usually very good at fixing, but this… this was such a storm that he was having a hard time staying afloat, much less steering the boat to a safe harbour.  He suddenly wished Siger or Sherlock were there, because as much as it galled Mycroft to ask for help, his two brothers did have some abilities that would have been helpful in this situation - at least when combined with Mycroft’s genius.  As it was, though, the two of them were off on a secluded island, and Mycroft was almost jealous of the relative serenity they must have been facing.  After all, Eigengrau was quite cut off from the world, making it a veritable oasis while everything else in Britain went tits up. 

He went ahead and flagged any of his communications for ‘Eigengrau,’ for when Q inevitably cried uncle and asked for his help, and then focused on keeping everyone’s skeletons in the closet.  Mycroft was determined to personally see The Woman across the ferry to Eigengrau when this was all over. It would be a good excuse to see his brothers, if nothing else. 

~^~

Peter Burke, as part of the FBI white collar crimes unit, was used to figuring people out.  He was usually pretty good at it - not perfect, but definitely good enough to maintain his title as a special agent.  Some people were more transparent than others, of course.  Case in point: Neal Caffrey, known forger and charmer, was transparently eager to get out of jail.  Peter had been chasing the forger for years up until then, and thought that he’d have been more than satisfied to let the bright-eyed young man rot in jail… but after one look at the spark of desperation and fear in those bright eyes, at the prospect of being locked up long-term, Peter’s enthusiasm had soured.  His wife had said it was because Peter was going to miss chasing Neal, and she probably wasn’t entirely wrong on that either.  Still, Agent Burke maintained that the reason he got Neal out of jail to work for him at the FBI was because Neal was useful.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  Caffrey stuck with that narrative, too, and the two of them never talked about just how ill-equipped a pretty-boy like Neal was for jail-time.  

And Neal behaved.  Mostly.  Whenever the name of his ex, Kate, came up, he tended to suddenly forget that his tenuous freedom depended entirely on how well he worked with the FBI, however.  The first time he ditched his GPS tracking anklet and made a run for it, the reason was Kate, and Peter would have been angrier if this fact had actually surprised him.  Instead, he tracked Neal down again to the empty apartment where Kate was supposed to be, finding the poor forger sitting pathetically on the floor with nothing but an empty wine bottle in his hands and a totally defeated look on his handsome face.  “I thought I’d find you here,” Peter had said, approaching.  The building was surrounded, but he’d insisted on going in alone.  He told everyone that it was because Neal wasn’t dangerous, and would be most likely to come out quietly if it was just Peter - and this was true.   However, what Peter didn’t admit was that he also knew just how stressful it would be to Neal to be ambushed and dragged out by a SWAT team.  Peter’s wife was the only one who really knew what a soft spot Peter had for Neal.  

“You armed?” Peter had asked, being cautious just in case, because if Neal had been stupid enough to run, he might be stupid enough to have a gun.  

But what he’d gotten as a response was a sad sniffle and a tired, “You know I don’t like guns.”  

Peter had circled to get a better view then, looking down at Neal, at how his usually impeccable clothes were rumbled, and his suave black hair was all mussed from neglect.  He looked like he’d been crying, or was close to it.  Seeing Caffrey look so pathetic was a lot like Peter seeing his dog after he’d accidentally tripped over it last Christmas.  “She’s gone, isn’t she?” Peter asked with a sigh.  

“I missed her by two days,” Neal admitted.  Peter resisted the urge to give Neal an ‘I told you so’ lecture, because it was obvious that the love and loyalty Neal had for his ex was not reciprocated - obvious to everyone but Neal.  Now didn’t seem the time to pour salt in the wound, though, so Peter merely radioed in to his men that Neal was there, and unarmed, and it was all clear.  Deep down, he nursed a quiet fury at Kate Moreau for yanking Neal around like this - for giving him enough hints to chase her, then to leave him behind in the resulting mess.  

When SWAT came in anyway to grab Neal, the forger startled, but Peter managed to talk to him and calm him as the cuffs were put on.  It was moments like these that made it intensely clear to Peter that Neal was the opposite of a hardened criminal, regardless of all the various little laws that he broke.  Perhaps that was why The Machine never seemed to spit out Neal’s number, and only Peter ever seemed to be interested in tracking him down.  

It took some doing, but Peter managed to get Neal reinstated with his previous deal: work for the FBI, wearing [an improved] GPS tracking anklet, and stay out of trouble - in return, no jail time.  While that decision was being worked out all over again, of course, Neal had to stay locked up, and it took a lot more effort than Peter wanted to admit not to visit him daily.  Caffrey was just so pathetic when he was in jail… like a raven in a small cage.  

Whenever Peter tried to explain that to his wife, she got a twinkle in her eye and just smiled at him.  He’d ask her what that look was for, and she’d just pat his hand and say, “I like Neal, too,” and then offer to try and visit Neal if Peter was busy.  Women had always confused Peter, and somehow, being married to Elizabeth hadn’t made her any more transparent to him.  He was glad she wasn’t upset by the lengths he went to keep Neal safe and out of trouble, though.

After Peter gave Neal a very stern talk about how this was his last chance, their partnership at the FBI resumed, and things seemed good.  Neal had been effectively cowed by Kate’s disappearing act, and scared by the realization that he’d almost been sent back to jail, seemed extra eager to prove himself as a consultant to the FBI.  

Therefore, Peter was tenfold more furious when he found out that Neal had removed his tracking anklet and disappeared again.  The problem was, this time he was also tenfold harder to find, and Peter wasn’t sure whether he was furious or scared for the younger man by the time two weeks had passed without word.  By the third week, Peter was honestly worried that Neal was dead, because while it was true that Neal was something of an escape artist (and had in fact faked his death a few times when Peter had first begun hunting him), he was also a shameless show-off, and usually his handiwork started to show up before long.  Peter kept his eyes peeled for telltale signs like that, though, and saw nothing, and it had him worried enough that sometimes Elizabeth would just walk up to him, say, “Neal?” and then hug him before he even nodded.  If asked, he’d say he didn’t need hugs - it wasn’t his fault that Neal was off being reclusive and stupid, since clearly that was in his nature - but he never made much of an effort to avoid them.

But just when Peter started to give up… he got a call.  It was about Neal, and he nearly jumped out of his chair in his office.  The catch?  

For some reason, Neal was in London.  

He was also asking for Peter to come and get him.

~^~

Peter had thought that he’d never be able to get out of work, much less organize a last-minute flight overseas… but he’d underestimated Elizabeth.  As soon as he told his wife what was going on, she was getting him tickets, telling him not to worry about money but to worry about Neal, and suddenly there was no real choice but to go along with her.  Mrs. Burke was a force of nature that way.  She also clearly had a soft spot for Caffrey as big as Peter’s.  So, despite the fact that Peter had previously promised himself to let Neal suffer the consequences of his actions, he ended up on a flight that same day and arriving in London.  Feeling very jetlagged and flustered, he nonetheless managed to get to New Scotland Yard, which for whatever reason somehow had one Neal Caffrey in their possession.  The person Peter had spoken to had given out some specifics, but Peter had been so shocked and elated that Neal was alive that he’d, embarrassingly, not really registered a lot of what was said.

Therefore, he was glad when an inspector named Lestrade came up to him almost as soon as he’d arrived and showed his credentials.  

“It’s not often that we have someone from the FBI here,” Lestrade said, albeit in a jaded tone that showed absolutely no surprise.  He led Peter deeper into the building.  “Honestly, I’m surprised you arrived this quickly.”

“Neal is one of ours,” Peter said firmly, which was technically the truth.  Neal was employed by the FBI - and he was Peter’s responsibility.  Morals urged Burke to elaborate a bit more stiltedly, “Well, he’s a consultant.”  He quickly changed the subject to more important matters, “Pardon me, but - what did you say he was in here for?  I’m afraid it wasn’t clear on the phone.”  Now that was a lie; it had probably been quite clear.  Peter simply had not been listening, having heard all he really needed to know after learning that Caffrey was alive.  “I know that you have a system here like our Machine…”

“Oh, the Sybil System?” Lestrade looked over at Peter until he got a nod, but then immediately waved the idea off.  “It’s nothing that serious.  Sybil gets reads on all foreigners in the country, but to be honest, the only thing I’d arrest Mr. Caffrey for is being here without a passport.”

“He doesn’t have a passport?”  That shocked Peter.  He was pretty sure that Caffrey possessed a passport, and even if he didn’t, he was certainly capable of forging them.

“No, which you’ll have to work out with Immigration,” Lestrade said sternly, even as they reached a set of doors and he pushed them open.  Before he led the way through, though, he raised his eyebrows meaningfully and said to Peter, “But, to be honest, I still probably wouldn’t have brought him in - but he was the one who turned up here.”

Peter missed a step and pulled up short.  Lestrade stopped moving, too, both men not quite through the doors and just watching one another, Peter with bewilderment all over his face and Lestrade with a careful, wary sort of look.  He clearly didn’t know what to do with the situation, and it wasn’t making him happy.  Too bad Peter didn’t have anything to add that would clarify things, even when Lestrade pressed, “Any idea why your man would come stumbling barefoot into Scotland Yard, demanding that we call you specifically, Peter Burke?”

“I…”  Peter started, stopped, tried to think of something to say… and then realized that all he really could do was tell the truth.  He let his breath leave him in a rush.  “I have no idea.  Caffrey is… a bit of a wild card.”

For some reason, that made Lestrade chuckle.  “Yeah, we’ve got one of those,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.  Instead, he turned and proceeded into the next part of the building, calling over his shoulder, “Oh, and he punched one of my men, Anderson.  It’s actually the only reason we kept him instead of shooing him back outside, since we don’t exactly run a hotel here for just anyone who demands a room.  Since you’re FBI, I’ll try to keep any charges from being pressed.”

“Dammit, Neal,” Peter growled under his breath, before trotting to catch up with the inspector.

~^~

Even after all of this time AWOL, Peter had expected to find Neal as put together and charming as he always was.  Neal was one of those effortlessly classy individuals, and the only time that Peter had seen him without his sharp suits, styled hair, and perfect smile was when he’d failed to meet up with Kate.  Now… was looking like one of those times, which didn’t make Peter happy, for multiple reasons.  Firstly, because this was Neal’s first runner all over again, it looked like: he’d undoubtedly heard that Kate had surfaced in Europe, and had bolted after her like the impulsive idiot that he was, with no thought for how that would impact Peter as his supervisor, or, hell, how that would impact him in the long-run either.  And secondly, it made Peter unhappy because no matter how angry he was at Neal, he never could seem to avoid feeling sorry for him when he looked like a kicked puppy.  

Peter managed to keep his angry-face on, however, as he followed Lestrade into the room where Neal was sitting handcuffed to a low bench.  Immediately, electric-blue eyes were snapping up to him, wide and alert and holding that same edge of desperation that they’d held last time he was in jail and seeking any way out.  “Peter!” he greeted, standing in a rush.  He was barefoot, Peter noted, and dressed in a dirty shirt and jeans.  The length of chain between his wrists and attached to the bench kept him from moving forward, but Caffrey seemed to forget that until it brought him up short.  His eyes immediately flicked left and right, as if seeking other options, like he was hoping for a set of lockpicks to materialize.  Peter kept his distance, folding his arms and preparing to give Neal the lecture of a lifetime - maybe even threaten to leave him here, because that was the least of the punishment Caffrey deserved after this.  Neal needed to learn that he did not get unlimited chances, and that he couldn’t just run away, apologize and promise never to do it again, and then run away-!

“Peter, I’m so sorry-!” Neal began predictably, with his eyes as heart-wrenchingly earnest as always.  Burke actually had to look away, because even though he knew that Neal was a good liar, the look on his face was still hard to handle because it was so open and pained and real-looking.  

“Sorry doesn’t undo what you did, Neal,” Peter cut him off bluntly.  Lestrade had stayed near the door, and Peter didn’t look back at him either, to see what he made of this.  “You were told that you only had one last chance - and that was before you ran away the first time.”

Neal tried to pull forward against the chain again, towards Peter, his whole body bending towards him even as he immediately pleaded, “But I didn’t run away this time, Peter, I swear!  It’s not what it looks like.”  Peter made the mistake of looking at him: Neal’s eyes were on him unflinchingly, meeting his gaze and looking absolutely distraught.  It made Caffrey look very young.  “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said, quieter now, but even more sincere-sounding - so much so that Peter felt his heart give a painful twist in his chest.

Telling himself that he had to stop falling for that Caffrey appeal, Peter turned his eyes stubbornly away again and replied with all the steel he could muster, “Well, you did, Neal.  I got you a miraculous second chance, and then a third chance, and yet here you are, chasing Kate again-”

This time it was Neal who interrupted.  His voice sounded so fervent and stressed that it was difficult for Peter to hold back a flinch.  “I didn’t go chasing Kate!”

Suddenly, it didn’t matter that they were in a Scotland Yard cell with an inspector watching all of this.  Peter found his own hurt escaping, and he turned back to Neal - stalked closer, in fact, to shout, “You did, Neil!  Because that’s what you always do.”

A bit of anger mixed with the desperate look in Neal’s eyes; he’d always been able to meet Peter, temper for temper.  “Well, guess what?  This time it wasn’t that,” he snapped sharply.  He nearly tripped on his own chain, which was pulling his arms down and back, almost between his own legs.  He caught his balance with an embarrassed flush on his cheeks, but refused to be distracted.  “Yes, I caught word of Kate surfacing-”

“God, I knew it,” Peter muttered, wondering how he could be so stupid.  He turned to pace away, avoiding looking at Lestrade by rubbing a hand over his face, and then staring at the ceiling with a self-effacing, painful smile pulling at his mouth.  “You don’t change, Neal.  And I’m just an idiot for not knowing that.”

“But I did change!” Neal startled everyone by shouting a full volume.  His voice echoed off the walls.  And despite his best intentions, Peter turned again to look at him - and nearly felt his knees buckle at the look of pure, distraught pain on Neal’s face.  His lightning-blue eyes were wet with tears, so close to falling that they were sticking his lashes together.  With the room now echoing with stunned silence, Neal swallowed convulsively a few times, and then tried and failed to step closer to Peter again before saying more brokenly than angrily, “After last time…  After that third chance I didn’t deserve, I did change, Peter.  For you.  Because I knew that you’d stuck your neck out just to keep me in the FBI and out of jail, and I didn’t want you to have to do that again, not for me.”  

Fuck, but Neal looked so sincere.  It gutted Peter a bit on the inside, and this time he didn’t respond, just stood there helplessly.  Neal didn’t look much better off, but that wasn't really any consolation.  Another rough swallow, and Neal went on when it was clear Peter wasn’t going to give him anything to work with, “I wouldn’t do that to you Peter.  Not again.”

Now it was Peter who felt like his eyes were wet, and he didn’t know if he was angry, or sad, or frustrated at the possibility that he was falling for Neal’s tricks again.  If he was, he didn’t see any way of avoiding it, and that almost hurt more.  Neal was the one dumb decision that Peter seemed doomed to repeat.  “Then what’s all this?  Why are you here?” he got out roughly, but quieter than before.  

Neal looked Peter dead in the eye, and god but Peter wanted to believe the almost painful, desperate sincerity there.  “Because I was kidnapped.  I didn’t want to disappear on you, Peter, believe me.”  

If this was just some lie that Neal was going to get him to swallow…  Peter dragged a hand down over his face again.  Speaking through his fingers so he didn’t have to look at Neal’s pathetic face, Peter said, “You do realize how melodramatic that sounds, don’t you?”

“But it’s the truth-!” Neal’s voice rose nearly hysterically again, and that finally forced Peter to drop his hands and take a step forward.  

When Neal immediately startled and backed up… it nearly broke Peter’s heart.  Neal’s eyes held an animal brightness to them that said Peter had scared him, that the always fragile trust between them had suffered enough of a blow to make Neal wary.  Most people who saw Neal Caffrey just saw the charming socialite, the man who was comfortable and fit in anywhere, and who had a wink and a smile for everyone, but Peter was one of the few who had seen Neal at his lowest, without his masks.  Therefore, Peter was one of the few who knew that Neal was actually a lot more skittish and a lot less cocksure than he let on.  Neal hated guns and wasn’t much of a fighter, because he knew just how quickly someone could fuck him up.  It didn’t take as much as people thought it did to make Neal handshy… like now.  

Sighing, Peter forced his own hurt and anger down, and made himself just look Neal over for a second - once again taking in his rough state, his bare feet, how said feet actually looked scraped around the edges, like he’d been without shoes since before being in this cell.  He looked underfed and strained, and Peter reminded himself that what most people saw as energeticness and interest in Neal was often actually well-hidden frenetic anxiety.  Like Neal himself, he was good at dressing up his issues and making them look good.  “Tell me what happened,” Peter finally ordered calmly, “From the beginning.  All of it.”

Neal was still looking nervous.  His body was tense and held subtly broadside (creating a smaller target), and his eyes kept flicking everywhere, but at Peter’s words, he made a little hopeful noise.  And then, with the kind of total obedience that showed just how much he wanted to get back in Peter’s good graces, Caffrey began to explain just what had taken him away from New York City.

~^~

It had started with Kate Moreau.  But it hadn’t gone the way Peter had suspected.  

“I may have made stupid decisions about her in the past, Peter, but I do learn from my mistakes.  I wanted to go after her… but I didn’t.”

As always, there had been only the barest whiff of Neal’s elusive ex - and, as always, it was all involved with shady business.  One of the many reasons that Peter hated Kate (whom he’d never even met) was because she seemed to bring out the worst in Neal.  There was barely a bad bone in Neal’s body, really, but it seemed that Kate made him an absolutely gleeful criminal.  Peter had never asked, but he was willing to bet that Kate was one of the reasons that Neal had gotten into crime in the first place, instead of just becoming some famous painter somewhere.  Neal had the heart of an artist, but someone had taught him that artful fingers could also be used to forge things and pick locks.  It was enough to make Peter want to bang his head into a wall sometimes.  

“Kate had given my name to someone, told them that I knew about forgery.  I swear they just wanted to consult on things - paper, ink, printing styles, stuff like that.”

Things always did start out innocently with Neal.  It was one of the reasons that Peter couldn’t hate him.  

“When it started to become clear that they wanted that information to create forgeries instead of catch them, though, I said that I was done.  I told them that I worked for you, and that I didn’t do that anymore.”

This was the things that Peter wanted most to believe, but also had the hardest time believing.  Because while Neal had perhaps not started out life with a criminal’s heart, he’d certainly become a bit addicted to it - or, at least, to the thrill of a clever heist.  Neal was like Puck, from old Fey tales: he was a trickster for the sake of being a trickster.  That meant he never hurt anyone intentionally, but it also meant that he had a hard time putting down his trickster’s tools.  Ever since getting Neal out of jail, Peter felt like he’d constantly been watching for (and derailing) Neal’s little urges to cause mischief.  

This time, though, it sounded like Neal had stopped himself… but that it hadn’t gone as planned.

“When I said no, they threatened me.  And then when I threatened to go to you… they turned up at my house, Peter.  I don’t… I don’t remember much after that.  I think they tased me?”

Suddenly, Peter wasn’t having a hard time withholding judgment until Neal finished talking.  Now, Peter was having a hard time holding back a harrowing rage over whoever had had the audacity to attack Neal.  Because Peter could tell by the fine tremor in Neal’s voice, the way the whites of his eyes showed, and the subtle tensing of his frame, that he wasn’t lying about this - Neal didn’t lie well about trauma.  Why?  Because Neal didn’t deal with trauma well, period.  If something made Neal afraid that he was going to be bodily injured, then suddenly all of his skills at dissembling and hoodwinking went right out the window.  Peter had had the unpleasant honour of seeing Neal in a few such situations, and he knew exactly how Neal froze up and panicked under those circumstances.  Now, Peter was seeing echoes of that.  

As the story progressed, Peter found that he had to clench his fists to stay steady and quiet.  Burke was not a violent man, but there were a few things that could bring out an ugly side of him - usually, it took someone threatening his family.  Apparently threatening Neal Caffrey now qualified, too.  People had done more than just threaten him, too: as Neal went on, haltingly but determined to give Peter what he wanted, he described how he woke up overseas and then truly found out just how much these people wanted his skills.  Neal didn’t respond well to threats - Peter knew that threats just made Neal either shut down, hyperventilate, or do something stupid - but he’d been threatened enough for the past few weeks to lend his hand to quite a few forgeries.  No wonder he was a wreck.  

“When they didn’t need me anymore, I knew that they’d kill me,” Neal said, sitting now on the bench as his narrative drew to a close.  He was just staring forward, detaching himself, and Peter winced because he knew that that wasn’t good.  When the FBI agent (also sitting now on the bench) made a movement to get closer and maybe put a hand on Neal’s shoulder, however, the forger flinched at the first hint of movement.  “Sorry,” Neal rasped, looking down.  After another painful pause, he continued, lifting a foot, “They thought I wouldn’t run if I had no shoes, but at the first chance I got, I ran anyway.  I had to crawl under a chain-link fence and shredded my shirt doing it.  This one is stolen.”

For the first time, Peter turned his head, finding Lestrade still there, leaning against the back wall.  The man’s mouth was set in a hard line, and his eyebrows were raised to indicate that this was not a story he’d expected to hear today - but he made a little abortive movement of his head to show that he wasn’t going to do anything about the admitted theft of the shirt.  Peter turned back when Neal said in a small, increasingly exhausted voice, “My back hurts.”  

This time Lestrade twitched, straightening, and it drew Peter’s questioning gaze to him.  The inspector cleared his throat and then admitted with a bit of embarrassment, “After he punched Anderson, we just got him in here.  He was shoeless when he arrived, so someone came and checked his feet, but other than that, we haven’t looked him over.”  Perhaps Peter’s face began to morph into a glare, because Lestrade glared back and defended, “He said he was FBI, all right?  You Americans are already so uptight about security, so no one really wanted to go near him with a ten-foot pole, especially after we knew that you were coming.”

It was a bit hard to fault Scotland Yard for that mindset…  Peter turned swiftly back to Neal, who’d dropped his forehead down into his hands.  He looked so tired, and Peter realized that the only reason he hadn’t noticed it sooner was because Neal could look like the Energizer Bunny when he was stressed enough.  The problem was, it burned him out even faster..  “Look at me, Neal.”  Caffrey obeyed, just like before - just like always, Peter realized.  Neal had bad habits when Kate got involved, but he always did what Peter told him to do when it counted.  The more serious the situation, the more closely he followed Peter’s words.  “Are you all right?  Are you hurt?”

Neal’s eyes grew wet-looking again, a moment before he gave them a few rapid blinks and then hurried to rasp out, “Yeah.  Yeah, I mean…  Nothing too crazy.  Those guys who wanted the forgeries weren’t shy about making me work, but…”  He shook his head.  He looked a bit uncertain, which made Peter doubt his answer, but for once, the insincerity wasn’t an issue that bothered Peter.  There was a difference between Neal intentionally lying, and Neal just being really bad at self-assessment.

“Can we get a medic of some kind in here?” Peter turned to ask Lestrade, who quickly came to attention again.  “I’d really like to get him checked over.”

“Peter, you don’t-” Neal started to protest, but Lestrade was already nodding and ducking out.  There was no sound of him locking the door, but then again, after what he’d just witnessed, the truth of the situation had to be painfully clear - and Caffrey was still chained to the seat.  Neal sighed, as if put out by this attention.  When he went to sag back against the wall, however, he winced and leaned forward again.  

Peter had spent most of Neal’s story wanting to punch something, but now his hands unclenched at the opportunity to do something else kinetic - and more useful.  Peter Burke was a physical sort of man, and right now he needed an outlet for all of the emotions that had just washed over him.  “Here, let me look.”

This time, when Peter moved forward, Neal was too wrung out to get jittery about it.  He just looked up at him wearily and made a few more halfhearted protests, all of which were ignored as the FBI agent just came forward and reached for the hem of Neal’s shirt without preamble.  Neal made a little whining noise that usually would have had Peter telling him not to be such a baby, but this time Peter said nothing, instead pulling Neal’s shirt up to find another one underneath, this one more torn - and a bit bloody, too.  The top shirt, being black, had hidden all signs of that.  Thankfully, the scratches underneath weren’t deep, but it was clear that Neal had struggled hard against the chainlink fence he’d crawled under, leaving bruises and scrapes behind.  Peter sighed, able to fully imagine the scene now: Neal, already a wreck from all this time spent in forced captivity and now facing imminent death, managing to flee with all of the desperation of a rabbit from a hawk.  Peter saw bruises, too, some older than others.  He could well imagine Neal’s smart mouth getting him in trouble, and Peter knew from experience that when you got pushy with Neal, sometimes he got rebellious - this was something Peter tended to get around via sneakiness and patience, but it looked like these people had gotten around it with their fists.  

Neal hadn’t said anything through Peter’s entire inspection.  He was doing a half-decent job of pretending to carelessly watch the door instead, but then his eyes flicked over and caught Peter’s, and it looked like something in him buckled.  Neal dragged in a ragged breath and pressed the back of a fist against his mouth, closing his eyes tightly.

Despite how angry he’d been at Neal until learning all of this, despite the whole flight over here and how much of an epic mess this was… or maybe because of it… Peter sighed and then let go of Neal’s clothing before settling in next to him.  It felt like the next logical step to place his hand on Neal’s head, stroking down until he could give the younger man’s neck a reassuring squeeze.  “It’s all right now, Neal,” he said, very gently, even as Neal pressed his face harder against his knuckles and drew in a deeper and shakier breath.  It made his body quiver, and Peter used his grip on Caffrey’s neck to draw him a bit closer against his side.  Neal went willingly, and with a little whimper of sound.  “You’re safe now.  It’s over, and I’ve got you, okay?”

“Okay,” Neal answered, obedient as always when the situation was dire and he let Peter take charge.  

It wasn’t until later - after Neal had been checked over by a nurse, and no worse injuries found besides his back and his feet, after the shackles were removed and Neal was given a chance to just sit in an unoccupied breakroom with Peter and calm down - that Scotland Yard began pressing for more answers.  They were careful about it, walking on eggshells perhaps because Neal was an American citizen, but probably because Peter was always hovering near him and glaring at anyone who made Neal tense up.  It had taken ages to get Neal settled, dammit, and Peter wasn’t going to let anyone undo that.  After being left alone with just Peter in the breakroom, Neal had lost the last of his semblance of calm, and Peter had ended up with an armful of him.  He’d seen Neal cry before, but it wasn’t often, and it was usually done in utter silence.  This hadn’t been.  This had been Neal making terrible, scared noises against Peter’s neck and shoulder, panting out how he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, and pleading about how much he’d just wanted to go home and how afraid he’d been that Peter would hate him.  Some of that fear was still only minutes old, and Peter hated himself for yelling at Neal earlier, when that had been exactly what Neal had been dreading since the moment he’d begged Scotland Yard to put in a call to FBI Special Agent Peter Burke.

Neal was still not okay by the time Inspector Lestrade asked to talk to him, but he was improved enough that he was able to sit down and answer questions in a lucid way.  Peter sat next to him, and it was only later, looking back, that he realized that his hand had been either on Caffrey’s shoulder, forearm, or nape the entire time.  

Scotland Yard made it clear that no one was prosecuting Neal for any of this - but they needed to know what kinds of forgeries he’d done, and for whom.  

“I didn’t learn a lot of names, and I think most of the faces I saw were just low-level thugs,” Neal said, taking in a deep breath as if to help himself remember.  He didn’t look over as Peter put a hand on his forearm, but he also didn’t flinch - a marked improvement.  After a moment, though, some of that Neal Caffrey keenness returned to his eyes, and he frowned, then said, “Actually, I do remember them saying a name, when they thought I wasn’t listening.  They always said it quietly, in a tone you only use for people you have a healthy respect and fear for.”

From where he was taking notes, Lestrade looked up.  “What name?” he asked, a line appearing between his brows.  

“Moriarty.”  

~^~

Chapter Text

The ground level locker rooms were deserted, and did indeed have first-aid kits stashed away that had not been pillaged yet.  Not surprisingly, Hannibal went for them immediately, and began treating Graham.  Even if Q hadn’t noticed 003’s affinity for the profiler, that course of action made sense - after all, Will was clearly the most injured of their little quartet.  James didn’t question Hannibal’s priorities either, and instead focused on barricading the doors.  Since Q hadn’t been given the order to let go of James’ gun-harness yet, he went with him, and oddly enough the blue-eyed Hound allowed that status quo to continue.  It either said something about 007’s tolerance, or about Q’s instability, that the entire process of blocking off the doors was done with Q following along in James’ wake like a rather useless tugboat.  

When James was satisfied that no one would be sneaking in on them unawares, Hannibal was still in the adjoining room. Q and James were in the gym area, and they could just see where Hannibal had Graham stretched out on one of the locker-room benches; his voice was low and soothing, almost melodious, as it drifted out, although there was no indication that Will was conscious to respond.  

James, after eyeing the other pair for just a moment, turned and walked off to the left.  Q didn’t think he knew how to unlock his fingers by now, and therefore followed along just as he had before, stumbling a little bit because his legs had started to feel like lead ages ago.  Without saying a word, Bond took them to a pile of thick work-out mats in one corner, and Q was tugged down with him as the agent abruptly turned and sat.  Only then did the agent turn, reach, and gently wrap a calloused hand around Q’s right forearm.  The Quartermaster shuddered at the contact, and without warning, the little shiver began spreading to the rest of him.  “You can let go now, Q,” the Hound said with infinite gentleness and a slight squeeze of his fist.

Q’s breath hiccuped embarrassingly, and it took a bit of trying to get his fingers to extend and let go.  James kept hold of his right arm and then reached out to catch Q’s other arm, too, without preamble.  Only then did Q realize just how bloodied both of his wrists were - his left wrist had been lightly bandaged at some point due to the burns he’d gotten on his first day of the siege of Eigengrau, but he’d lost that layer of protection at some point.  It said something about just how much adrenalin had been racing through his system that the new scrape on top of that hadn’t even registered.  Now, the pain hit him like a smack across the face, and Q gasped.  

“I’m glad you befriended Lecter,” James said grudgingly, taking in Q’s reaction as well as the wounds.  He let go of one of Q’s arms to fish around in his trouser-pocket.  “He’ll know more about treating you than I would.  I have this, though.”  Bond’s hand came out of his pocket and, like magic, there was a familiar bottle of pills in his grip.  “I’m glad we didn’t put everything in that satchel of yours, since it appears that you’ve lost it.”

Realizing that what James had were painkillers, Q breathed out an entirely involuntary, “Thank fuck,” and reached for them.  James let him.  He even helped a little, as Q’s shaking hands struggled with the bottle.  Two pills were tapped out, and Q gulped them down dry.  James asked if Q was hurt anywhere else, and Q shook his head no; the only other injuries he had were ones James already knew about.  After that, he just knelt for a moment at James’ side, eyes closed as he tried to detach himself from… well, from everything. 

James gave him a few moments before bringing him back to the unpleasant present.  “Does C have it?” he asked in a quiet, low voice that stood no chance of carrying all the way to Graham and 003.  

Similarly keeping his voice down, Q said back tiredly, “You mean, does that maniac have the key to your collar?”  Q reluctantly opened his eyes, finding keen blue ones watching him in return.  The boffin sagged tiredly but was happy to admit, “No.  I gave my bag to H, and he escaped.”

James relaxed a bit, some tension notably leaving his broad shoulders.  “I was wondering where H had gotten to.”

“He said he needed to get to Q-branch.  I said we’d meet him there.”

“You might have to get a raincheck for that,” James said with a faint, dry sort of humour that wasn’t quite enough to get Q to crack a smile.  

Bracing his hands on his thighs and willing the painkillers to act faster, Q bowed his head and murmured quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Well, I’m not very useful to you now that I can’t get your collar off, am I?”

What followed was a silence heavy enough to nearly crush Q, and he found himself hunching further, fingers curling towards his palms until his hands had formed tense, trembling fists.  C’s words started to echo in his head again, reminding him that he wasn’t the white knight he’d always thought himself to be.  

When James broke the silence, it was only to grasp Q’s upper arm and say, “Come here, Q, you’re shaking like you’re freezing.”  The tug of his hand was hard to argue with, and Q didn’t have any real fight left in him anyway.  Bewildered and tired, the Quartermaster allowed himself to be tucked in against Bond’s side, which radiated heat like it always did.  Q kept his head ducked, not ready to meet the Hound’s eyes again, even as he tried to consolidate his feelings: was he comforted by the arm now around his upper back, or afraid, because he was useless to James now, and could tangibly feel the strength of the man?  Q made no attempt to wriggle free, though.  

At least, not until James started speaking again: “Losing the key is frustrating, but a lot of us Hounds have gotten a bit used to wearing collars.  And besides, even with the collars gone, we all have that Smartblood of yours, don’t we?”

Q froze right down to his toes, head snapping up and eyes widening.  How the hell had he forgotten about that?  Because he had.  He most certainly had.  Amidst all of the insanity going on around him, the biggest accomplishment of his brief tenure as Quartermaster had faded to the back of his mind.

James had no forgotten, though.  

Of course he hadn’t.  

After all, Smartblood was merely a clever invention to Q; to James (and all of the other Hounds) it was an invader in their bodies, a permanent leash embedded beneath the skin.  

Q didn’t know what to say to that.  When he turned his head to look at James beseechingly, mouth moving in a desperate attempt to find the right words, he found that the Hound was merely looking back at him calmly.  The fact that James did not appear the slightest bit angry stalled Q’s brain entirely, and he stopped wriggling and just went still.  After nearly half a minute of the two men just regarding each other, nearly nose-to-nose with Q gaping a bit and James merely blinking a few times, Q found the words to whisper, “You should hate me.”

James canted his head, considering this.  Then he replied without any particular signs of internal conflict, “I don’t.”

And then, because all Holmes boys were more than a little bit self-destructive, Q asked, “Why?”

One arm still securely around Q’s back, James lifted his other hand to tug down the neck of his pullover, revealing the collar underneath.  At the dull silver glint, Q flinched and grimaced, his heart twisting up inside.  Immediately, James smiled and said, “That.  That’s why.”  He dropped his hand away, and the collar was hidden again.  “Having a goddamn collar permanently stuck around my neck is annoying, sure - but I’ve only ever hated the people who control it,” he said firmly.

That was not entirely comforting, because Q was one of those people controlling the collars.  He still had his watch, after all, which had the capacity to set off collars like James’ - at least, when there wasn’t a signal jammer interfering.  Right now, said watch was rubbing against his raw wrist, and Q had never wanted it gone so badly in all of his life.  However, thinking about who controlled the Hounds’ collars led to another thought, and Q felt himself go cold to his core.  Meeting calm blue eyes again, he felt himself speaking as if he were holding something glass in his mouth - if not treated carefully, it would shatter and cut him.  “Your Handlers…”  Arguably, the people with the most control over a Hound.  “You have a reputation for killing them.”

Now anger began to filter into James’ blue eyes, heating up their cool depths.  Q trembled at the sight of it, but figured he deserved it.  He was a part of this system, after all.  Moriarty was right; Q was just a Hound who’d managed, by some fluke of the Sybil System, to be on the other end of the leash.  Any punishment Q received now was years overdue.  

But then, abruptly, James’ anger winked out.  He seemed to search Q’s face and recognize something important, and suddenly 007 was frowning, sighing, and looking away.  “I do have that reputation,” he agreed solemnly, while Q tried to grasp just how and why James had withheld the temper Q had been braced for.  Without looking back at the Quartermaster, James said with a small flicker of hesitation that was atypical for him, “Can I tell you a story, Q?”  His voice was very low, and had grown quiet, even though Hannibal still did not seem anywhere near ready to leave Will’s side.  “It’s about how I earned that reputation, so it’s…  Well, it’s about as nice as any of my stories, probably.  But I don’t think I’ve told it to anyone who wasn’t a Hound.”

Caught off-guard, but somehow still possessing the energy to be curious, Q searched James’ profile with questioning eyes.  “If it helps,” Q found himself saying, with another burst of Holmes-worthy self-destructiveness, “I’m pretty sure that I’m… that I’m high-Pass, too.  That’s what C meant when he started screaming about my dark side.”  Q somehow managed to say this calmly, aiming for levity even as he felt the words grow teeth inside of him, gnawing away until it hurt almost more than any wound he’d gotten.  “So whatever story you have, I really am in no position to judge,” he finished hollowly.

To Q’s unending surprise, James chuckled, and his hand slid up until Q felt a warm palm against the back of his head, fingers in his hair.  Without warning, Q found himself being pulled in until the Hound was pressing a soft kiss to the tangled hair at Q’s brow.  “You’re not high-Pass, Q,” he said with such fondness and self-assurance that Q abruptly felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.  James kept him close, and while Q silently dealt with the impact of James’ words, the agent went on, “And believe me, I’m more than capable of identifying people who have a dark side.”

Q sniffled, shocked and embarrassed to realize that he was somehow crying.  He was grateful that, in this position, his face was hidden, tucked close to James’ collarbone.  He gave a shaky nod to show that he understood and was following, and in response, felt the hand still in his hair shift; blunt fingertips scratched lightly at his scalp.  

“Good boy,” James crooned, then took a deep breath and let it out like the air itself was heavy.  “Firstly, the rumours are true - I’m not going to deny that I’ve killed off Handlers of mine.  But I want someone to know why.”

At that point, even through the fog of his own existential crisis, Q realized that he was being told something important.  There was a quiet fervour in James’ voice, very constrained, but Q was keen enough to pick up on it.  He made himself very still, listening carefully.  

After another pause and another breath - perhaps trying to further tamp down on any emotions - 007 continued, “I told you already that Handlers are usually the only people brave enough to sleep with a Hound voluntarily - or stupid enough.  It’s nice, sometimes.”  Another pause.  Q listened to James’ breathing, which was so steady that it felt abnormal, as if 007 were counting off seconds with his breaths.  “Sometimes it’s more than nice, if you get my meaning.”

“You’re talking about relationships.”

“Hmm,” James hummed instead of saying a clear ‘yes.’  But Q felt James’ chin brush his hair as the agent nodded.

“Like…”  Q’s brain made a leap.  “Like with Agent 011 and her Handler, Delphine.”

He felt James’ little jerk of surprise, and felt another brush of stubble against his head as James turned his head and his chin brushed Q’s hair.  The arm around Q’s shoulders briefly tightened, but loosened again before Q’s bullet-graze could start to throb.  “Yes.  I’m talking about relationships like theirs,” James said in a voice that was quiet and low and almost reverent.  Q stayed quiet, waiting for the Hound to take up his narrative again.  Q patience was rewarded a few beats later as James said, just as hushed, “I had a relationship like theirs, with a Handler of mine.”

Q was startled by a bolt of jealousy that hit him, a quick and childish reaction that he quickly pushed aside.  What replaced it, however, was a quiet sort of horror as James added, "But then it became something more like Silva and Severine's."   

~^~

This whole business with The Woman was continuing at a stalemate, and Mycroft was beginning to wonder if perhaps it was all a bluff - the problem as, he himself knew enough juicy details about local politicians to say that at least some of The Woman’s threats were born in sordid truth.  It was wreaking havoc on Mycroft’s sleep schedule and state of mind.  When he got word from Anthea that something had pinged their ‘Eigengrau radar,’ it was therefore almost a relief to focus on something else.

Or, at least, it was - until Mycroft looked into it a bit more closely.

And that was why Mycroft was now at New Scotland Yard, having travelled through rain and traffic to get there.  He tapped off his umbrella impatiently on the floor, full of questions and a certainty that his life had just gotten more complicated.

After entirely too much waiting time, a man with silvering hair and a worry line between his eyebrows appeared.  “Are you Mr. Holmes?  Sorry, I’m-”

“Inspector Lestrade, I hope,” Mycroft cut him off, not doing anything about the hand stretched towards him in greeting.  Today was already stretching out too long to further elongate it with niceties.  “I’m afraid that my schedule is tight, but that you’ve come across some information that demands my attention.”

Lestrade looked a bit taken aback, but that was a usual reaction of small minds easily overwhelmed by Holmsian intellect.  “Look,” the inspector recovered, the worry line becoming more of an angry crease between his brows, “I’m not even sure why you were let in at this hour-”

“Let’s not worry about semantics.  Suffice it to say that I have the credentials to demote you to a night janitor,” Mycroft interrupted again, and perhaps too a bit of pleasure in making his clout known.  “Luckily, I care less about your job and more about information you recently acquired - about Eigengrau.”

Now Lestrade’s expression flickered into one of surprise.  “How did you hear about that?  That was just hours ago.”

“What did I say about semantics, Inspector Lestrade?”  Mycroft allowed himself a little smile as Lestrade’s mouth snapped shut with an almost audible click.  He saw more temper spread into the inspector’s features, but didn’t think much of it.  “While I can’t speak for your time, I can say with certainty that mine is valuable.” He couldn’t resist the urge to show off a bit, “I took time away from babysitting politicians for this, so if you please-”

“Oh, definitely that.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to stall out.  People did not interrupt him often.  Now, though, the inspector not only interrupted him, but then folded his arms and widened his stance in what was most definitely a pugnacious attitude.  “I beg your pardon?”

There was still something sharp in Lestrade’s eyes - perhaps they were keener than Mycroft had initially assessed - but now his anger was honed into the smallest twitch of a smile.  “Oh, you’ll definitely have to say ‘please’.  Someone might have let you in here, and maybe you do have the credentials that entitle you to Scotland Yard’s information - but you are most certainly going to need to say ‘please’ at this hour.”

For a long moment, Mycroft merely stared and glared.  Mycroft truly didn’t have very many people in his life, because hating someone took more effort than the average person deserved.  Inspector Lestrade, however, abruptly made the list.  “I could go over your head, you know,” he threatened as coolly as possible, folding his hands over the hands of his umbrella.  

“Do it then.”

This was not going as it should have, and Mycroft blamed the last few days of insanity for the fact that he was clearly off his game.  That, and he hadn’t expected to be faced with someone who had such a fatalistic disregard for his own well-being.  “You’re speaking,” Mycroft observed, his smile growing more strained by the second, “like someone who wants to get fired, I hope you know.”

“If you’d come and said that a few hours ago,” Lestrade shot back with a flat expression, “I might have cared.  But unfortunately I’m already doing overtime that I know I won’t be paid for, and the only coffee I’ve had today was terrible breakroom coffee.  So kindly do go over my head.”  Something else glinted in Lestrade’s gaze, and he added, “I also think I just recognized your last name.  Your brother is a pain in my arse.”

Oh, this was going to shit so quickly.  ‘Damn you, Sherlock,’ Mycroft swore in his head, while kicking himself for forgetting just how often Sherlock had gotten tangled up in crime scenes.  It was actually a miracle that Mycroft hadn’t met this inspector before now, what with Sherlock’s shenanigans.  “Was a pain in your arse,” Mycroft corrected tiredly, really wishing for another cup of coffee himself, but caffeine of that magnitude always made him so jittery.  He already doubted that he’d sleep tonight.  “He’s now in Eigengrau - although I imagine that information is above your pay-grade.”

It was gratifying to see Lestrade twitch in surprise, although the emotion faded quickly.  “Well, that does explain why he’s been out from underfoot lately.”

“Indeed.  Now, would you kindly fill me in on what you recently heard about Eigengrau?”  Because calling Lestrade’s superiors at this hour would be tedious, and Mycroft was already feeling his third headache of the day coming on.  “Hopefully this revelation about my brother has made it clear who I am, and why I’m interested in this knowledge.”

“Yeah, Sherlock might have mentioned you.  A big name in the government, yes?” Lestrade replied, more relaxed now.  Too relaxed, actually; Mycroft was a bit miffed that Lestrade was taking this revelation so smoothly.  “How about this?  You tell me about Sherlock ending up in Eigengrau, and I’ll tell you what a shitshow I had today - and I won’t even make you say please.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.  He didn’t like to be manipulated - he liked to manipulate.  Even more so, however, he did not like to say ‘please.’  Therefore, before giving in, he felt the need to mention, “You really are testing my patience quite a lot, Inspector.  Not many people do that without severe repercussions.”

“Maybe I’m a masochist,” Lestrade deadpanned, before turning on his heel.  “Come on.  The least I can do is share the pain of another atrocious coffee.  Then, when we’ve both properly lowered our standards, we can talk.”

~^~

The pain meds were slow to kick in, and Q couldn’t help but wriggle a little bit, trying to find a comfortable position.  At the same time, he didn’t want to run the risk of distracting James, who seemed to be in a rare, storytelling mood.  Thankfully, the Hound didn’t seem bothered, even when Q’s shoulder jammed against his side.  Instead, James simply sat and quietly gathered his words, and when Q went still again (moderately more comfortable), he cleared his throat.  

“I’ve always had a history of sleeping with my Handlers or fighting with them - it’s inevitable, when you are tied so closely to one person,” James started up his tale again.  He was looking straight ahead instead of at Q, but the Quartermaster was watching him now, and was close enough to feel muscles twitch in a small shrug.  “Handlers are often in danger of having rising Psychopasses because they come the closest to sympathizing with us.”  Q thought he saw something wistful, something sad, flit briefly cross James’ eyes - but then it was gone.  007 returned his face to a blank mask.  “Vesper and I… got along very quickly,” James went on in a delicate voice that indicated Q could infer whatever he wanted from that… but that it at least included a lot of good sex.   Then, abruptly, Bond’s tone got blasé and he leaned back against the wall to say, “And then I killed her.  Rather violently.”

Q felt his middle clench at the reminder of James’ penchant for lethality, but he kept himself calm and waited for the Hound to go on.  The thing was… James didn’t.  Instead, he simply sat there, and eventually turned his head to regard Q with one raised eyebrow and say only, “What?”

Frowning, Q hesitantly replied, “I’m… waiting for you to say more.”

“That’s all there is,” James said, with eyes so cold and dead that it was like Q wasn’t even looking at a person anymore.  It was as if James Bond had scraped himself clean, leaving Q with just a hard shell to deal with.  “She was my Handler, and I killed her.”

“But you must have had a reason,” Q sputtered back.  

Something glinted in the back of Bond’s eyes, like one live coal left amidst a dead fire.  His mouth gave a twitch like he was holding back a smile.  “Q, you’re already asking more questions than everyone in Eigengrau did.  All they asked was whether or not I should be put down, or if I was still useful enough to keep.”  When Q just stared at him, blindsided by the unexpected turn this conversation had taken, James let his smile free a bit more, so that it lived just at one side of his mouth.  “And all of them were supposedly low-Pass.”

“You’re trying to convince me that I can’t possibly be high-Pass,” Q murmured, eyes narrowing and realization dawning.  He leaned away from Bond a bit, as if to get a better look at him and all the complicated paths his mind took.

Of course, that was when James decided to surprise him again, by rolling his eyes and giving another shrug.  “Not really.  I’m just trying to make a point that circumstances always matter.  No action exists in a vacuum, and anything we do is interconnected with scores of other factors or past actions.”

Unwilling to hear this yet, Q turned away, folding his arms carefully across his middle while trying not to exacerbate any of his injuries.  “You know,” he huffed, “I think I hate it when you philosophize.”

“It’s not philosophy if it’s applicable,” James volleyed back, but before Q could argue that that was not how philosophy worked at all, 007 turned his body a bit so that he was facing Q a bit more.  He asked shrewdly even as Q opened his mouth and drew in a breath, “What were the circumstances around C saying that you had a dark side?” 

Q froze.  He’d been able to look James dead in the eye right after the man had admitted to murder, but now the boffin seriously considered scrambling away from him.  The question slid like a stiletto between the ribs, and Moriarty’s words were already almost too fresh for Q to handle.  Unfortunately, James still had a firm arm behind his shoulders, and was too close to avoid in any way.  At the same time, though, the way James had turned to him at least seemed sympathetic, and Q had the sudden and inexplicable urge to fold up against James’ chest like he had that first night in the hospital bed.  

Instead, the Quartermaster hunched in on himself a little and pressed his fingertips against his ribs, trying to lose himself in the ensuing ache.  “He said,” Q mumbled down into his borrowed sweater, “that we were the same.  That Sybil had let him in, too, and that we were just viruses in the machine.”  When James didn’t immediately say anything, Q drew his legs up, feeling the urge to hide behind them, and felt more words claw their way out of his mouth, “I always thought that the Sybil System had a plan - that she… that she knew what she was doing.  I was let in because I deserved it, but now…!”  Fury roared up inside of Q without warning, and he snarled against the backs of his knees, “But she let fucking Moriarty in, and what does that say about the whole fucking plan?!  It turns out that even Sherlock was high-Pass, but she let him roam free for years, and now here I am, trying to break him out like an idiot, when in reality maybe both he and I should just bloody rot here where we belong-!”

Q hadn’t even realized that his volume was rising until he was startled into silence; it took Q’s brain a moment to compute what was happening, and that James was gathering him up.  The agent was sticky with blood in places and smelled like old iron, but after a moment of reflexive thrashing, Q found himself on James lap and realized that he never wanted to leave.  At that point, some sort of dam broke, and the last bits of Q that had been trying to hold it all together fell away.  He let his knees slide astride James’ hips and desperately pushed in as close as he could get, letting out a breath that was more of a sob as James’ arms squeezed him in close.  The pressure hurt Q’s ribs, and when he lifted his arms to frantically wrap them around James’ neck in return, it yanked at the stitches he had, wringing another little sob out of him.  The physical pain felt clean in comparison to all of the ugliness he was feeling inside of himself, however, and James just held him close and rocked him through it.  

When Q wanted nothing more than to crawl out of his own skin because he hated himself so much, 007 kept them pressed as close together as possible.  His voice was low and calm in Q’s ear, a soothing croon that didn’t say useless things like, “You’re not a monster, Q,” or “Don’t listen to him.”  Q would have instantly denied those claims and railed against them.  Instead, James slipped past Q’s stubborn defences with murmurs of, “Maybe there doesn’t have to be a plan,” or “All I know is that Sybil brought you here to me,” and it was enough to make Q cry harder.  Hannibal had to be noticing Q’s audible breakdown by now, but Q clung to James and shook and cried as if nothing else in the world existed.  

Only after Q had settled down a bit, his cries reduced to hiccuping breaths against Bond’s neck, did the agent dare opine, “For the record, I don’t really agree with C’s assessment.”  He hushed Q when he made a noise as if to argue, and kept talking, cheek rubbing against Q’s ear, “I mean, for starters, he’s a madman.  I wouldn’t take most of what he says at face value.”  James nuzzled against Q’s head more purposefully, and Q shivered a little as one of James’ hands curled, fingertips lightly tracing beneath the arch of Q’s right shoulder-blade.  Q could feel James’ words as a vibration against his entire chest, “And on top of that, I think we all have dark sides - it just depends on what circumstances we express that in.  So far, the entirety of your dark side seems to be your determination to save your brother.”  James bent his knees a little, causing Q to slide closer to him, and James finished with a quiet mutter against Q’s ear, “And perhaps in your sympathy towards Hounds like me.”

Q didn’t know why that comforted him, but it did.  He had a million arguments stacked up behind his teeth, and as always, James’ logic was full of holes - ‘Hound logic,’ Q was starting to dub it in his head, like when James had explained the difference between dangerous and deadly.  Just like then, however, Q made the decision to accept it, and he nodded dumbly against Bond’s neck.  James merely hummed approvingly in response, and made no attempt to peel Q off himself until there came a polite throat-clearing from a short distance away.  James didn’t twitch, but Q flinched in surprise even as he heard Hannibal’s apologetic voice, “I do not mean to interrupt, but I think it might be best if I see to your injuries now, Quartermaster.  I apologize to keep you waiting as much as I have - it was necessary to stabilize Will.”

Q turned awkwardly, realizing that he had to be quite a sight: sitting in James’ lap, basically plastered to him, and with tears streaking his cheeks and crooked glasses.  Still, he coughed a little to get his voice working, and tried his best to sound like the Quartermaster of Eigengrau, “I… er… thank you.  And don’t apologize.  I’m not… I’m not really that badly hurt.”

“I gave him painkillers,” James said helpfully, and without removing his hands - which had slid down to settle around Q’s hips.  If Q didn’t know better, he’d have thought that James was trying to make the scene look more scandalous than it was.  The more likely scenario was that this was just the way James operated, and he’d lived a life of such excitement and horror that being caught with a boffin on his lap didn’t count as strange for him.  At least Hannibal was straight-faced as well, also giving away no indication that he saw anything untoward about the situation.  

Inviting Q to follow, Lecter turned and walked off, no doubt to give Q time to sort himself out.  The Quartermaster let out a little sigh past pursed lips, wondering when he’d reached the point where this barely made him blush.  Hands still on James’ shoulders (he was focusing his mind on the feel of the solid muscles beneath his hands, to avoid thinking about the cock he knew to be beneath his arse), Q turned away from 003’s retreating form to instead meet 007’s eyes.  Bond raised one eyebrow.

Taking in a determined breath, Q said quietly but firmly, “I still want to know.  About Vesper.  About the circumstances.  I agree with you that the circumstances matter.”

Surprise flashed across James’ eyes, and his answer took a moment, as he instead just gazed at Q’s face as if seeing something new in it.  And without looking away, he said quietly, “She started threatening to kill me with my collar.  It’s a rarity for a Hound to find a willing sexual partner, but when that partner starts getting you into bed with threats of death, you suddenly realize that you’d rather be alone.”

Q’s jaw dropped, and he would have probably sat there forever, mortified, had not James gently pushed Q off.  The agent stood up and walked away, pacing restlessly through the shadows of the rec-room.  For a long while, Q simply sat on his heels, trying to comprehend the horror of what he’d just learned - until Hannibal called his name questioningly, prompting Q to pipe up, “Coming!” and scramble belatedly to his feet.   

~^~

Chapter Text

~An hour before~

Hannibal had just shooed James off to fetch his darling, and C’s wild and extremely insightful catcall was ringing still in the air.  While the most pressing issue was doubtlessly still the gun in Moran’s hand, Hannibal couldn’t help but mull over what he’d heard, wondering just what it meant - or, more importantly perhaps, what it would mean to James. After all, Hannibal had no particular issue with people having a dark side - they were far more interesting than normal people, really.  

James’ gun careful and steady in his grip, Hannibal took a moment to appreciate Will’s dark side, and wonder if the Quartermaster might become more worthy of attention after this.  

Behind Moran, C’s dark eyes were following James, something about their alertness obsessive.  Hannibal already wanted to diagnose the man with a handful of psychological disorders, and had to wonder why C wasn’t in Eigengrau as a Hound already - perhaps it was because of his bodyguard.  It took barely a glance for Hannibal to guess that Moran was high-Pass, too, but with far more logic ruling his psychopathy than C had.  Madness had a calm keeper.  

‘Madness’ snapped its gaze back to Hannibal the second James was out of view.  The Hound resisted the urge to frown, disliking the manic attention.  C’s gaze reminded Hannibal of small children using magnifying glasses to light ants on fire.  “Well, now we’re reeeeeally in a situation, aren’t we?” the little man drawled, still keeping the majority of his body behind Moran.  Moran, in turn, kept his gun trained on Will, who was standing with a calmness that Hannibal found intimately familiar - it was his own calmness, through and through.  

“Dr. Lecter, am I right?” C went on, still in that voice that was almost singsong but not quite, melodious but not quite, friendly but not quite.  Those dark eyes flicked next to Will, and Hannibal struggled against an unexpected surge of protectiveness, before reminding himself that Will didn’t need protecting.  Will was as much as wolf as Hannibal was, even as C summarily dismissed him, “And you… hmmm…  Your name never mattered to me, so why start now?”  

“Jim,” Moran snarled, just barely audible but thick with warning.  All C did in response was turn his attention back to Hannibal, as if that counted as behaving.  

“He’s going to betray you, you know,” C blurted without preamble, and then went on without actually pausing to wait for a reaction, “Not him-”  A hand appeared from behind Moran to waggle in Will’s direction.  “-Siger.  The adorable little fellow you call your Quartermaster.”  

“That is a convenient statement for you to say, considering that you and he are clearly not on good terms,” Will spoke up, before Hannibal could say something almost identical.  It was fascinating to hear his own careful diction and polite phrasing coming out of Will’s mouth; part of Hannibal actually didn’t like it.  There was just something about Will’s rougher, ruder nature that was… appealing.  In its own way.  But Will Graham had been temporarily submerged, and it wasn’t really him talking now.  

“Oh, Siger and I are best buddies!” C argued, tone turning gossipy at first but then dropping into a darker register as he added with a smirk, “He just hasn’t accepted yet how alike we are.”

“Jim-” Moran growled again, but this time he was cut off.

“Let me talk!   God, Seb, you’re such a killjoy sometimes,” C more or less shrieked, and if Hannibal were so inclined, he might have pitied the tall gunman.  Moran’s - Seb’s - eyes went flat and dark in one of the most jaded looks Hannibal had ever seen.  It said a lot about the relationship these two men shared, and Hannibal fancied that if they ever met up on the outside world, he’d invite them to couple’s therapy.  

Will was reflecting some of Hannibal’s more curious traits, however, his words as calm and precise as a scalpel.  “How are you alike then, pray tell?”  Will’s head cocked, showing off the stained bandaging around his head.  “You seem more than eager to talk about it, and I’m certainly not going anywhere.”  He sounded fractionally more like himself as he finished the sentence, lifting and dropping his shoulders in a shrug as he pointedly eyed Moran’s gun.  Whereas Hannibal was passingly good with guns, Moran clearly was a master, as the weapon hadn’t so much as wavered this whole time.  

C’s grin was pure, overwhelming delight, like a whole spoonful of honey in the mouth.  Hannibal was realizing that he didn’t have a sweet-tooth for that kind of thing.  “I take it back then - maybe you’re not entirely boring,” C said to Will, still condescending despite his words.  Will’s mouth tipped downwards at the rudeness at exactly the same time Hannibal’s did.  “You certainly had good ideas!  So, what do you want to know about your Quartermaster first?”  C clapped his hands, and moved out from behind Moran a bit, despite the gunman’s immediate growl in his direction.  While it was clear that Moran was getting antsy, C was just getting warmed up, “That his entire persona is a lie?”

“We already heard you call him by another name,” Hannibal reminded dryly, trying to maintain his own manners and not show just how much C was wearing on him, “This is hardly new information.”

“Oh, so you’re telling me that you don’t care that the Quartermaster isn’t who he seems?”

“Very few of us,” Hannibal said pleasantly, finding a congenial smile even as he shifted his aim from Moran’s head to his centre of mass - better chances of hitting his target, “are what we seem.”

And Will, bless him, finished up the thought in his own way, just as calm, “It’s hard to begrudge other people their masks when you wear one yourself.”

C eyed Will for a bit longer than before, eyes twinkling as he hummed, “Hmmm, indeed.”  Then he grew boisterous again with another clap, proclaiming, “Very deep thoughts - must be the head-wound, eh?”  This was followed by cackling so sharp that even Moran winced.  Hannibal was beginning to actively pity the gunman.  Killing him would perhaps be a mercy, although Hannibal couldn’t shoot until he knew Will was safe.  C went on, “Well, what about this?  I think that at least one of you will find this interesting - the collared one.”  C winked in Hannibal’s direction, and it took effort not to redirect the gun at him.  It was clear, however, that Moran’s defensive instincts would tolerate a gun pointed at his own person more than a gun pointed at C.  “Little Siger Holmes has lied to you in particular.”

Despite himself, Hannibal became intrigued.  He could hear a bit of chaos coming from the room where James had gone, but it mattered not, at the moment.  “What do you mean?” Hannibal went ahead and asked.  

“Be specific this time,” Will encouraged, and again it was pleasant to hear his voice turn just a bit sharper than Hannibal would have done.  Hannibal was a predator among predators, but it was Will who had the sharper bite, sometimes.  It made Lecter smile.  “Vague warnings might be effective with children, but we’re a bit more grown-up than that.”

Arguably, C wasn’t.  Still, Hannibal decided it wasn’t his place to point that out, and neither did Will, apparently.  

“You want specifics?”  C tapped his fingertips against his lower lip and looked skyward, even as yelling was dully heard.  Clearly, James had run into some issues.  Either not hearing or not caring, C cut a cunning glance Hannibal’s way, “How’s this for specific?  Your precious Quartermaster promised you freedom, didn’t he?  Did he…?”  Abruptly, Hannibal realized that C was watching his expression keenly, like a buzzard finding scraps of flesh on old bones.  Hannibal worked to lock down his expression, but there was something xyresically keen about this madman that was unsettling.  “It’s all so obvious, really,” C declared after just a beat more.  He feigned a yawn, and then revealed, “He promised you all freedom in return for you not gruesomely murdering him, because he has access to one of those little keys to your collars, yes?”

“Stop playing, Jim,” Moran sighed tiredly.  

C batted him on the shoulder, but surprisingly acquiesced.  Before Will or Hannibal could ask how C had figured that out, the manic little man all but crooned, “Well, he doesn’t have it.  I wanted that key, too, but your Quartermaster is fresh out of freedom!”  His voice rose to a roar at the end, and despite himself… Hannibal was shocked.  He did not enjoy being shocked.  

This changed things.

~Present~

Hannibal had dragged an exercise mat over against the lockers, and Will was currently stretched out upon it, head freshly bandaged and breathing deep and even.  He’d start getting cold soon, Hannibal realized - injured bodies never thermoregulated very well, and it was honestly a miracle that Will and his magnificent brain were intact.  Having just finished treating Will’s head, Hannibal had finally gotten a look at the wound: clearly a bullet that had come so close that it had kissed Will’s skull.  Chances were very, very high that Will had a concussion, and while that scared Hannibal to a certain degree (concussions could lead to death), he was also fascinated, because he’d seen what Will’s mind did when destabilized.  It was breathtaking.  

Crouching by profiler’s side and gently brushing his hair back, Hannibal reflected on how unfair it was that the same thing that made Will increasingly fascinating could also snuff him out altogether.  It was a pity to see the other man so still, yet know that there was a mind unique as the heart of an opal, hiding beneath the damaged shell.  Hannibal constantly had to ask himself: ‘Do I break that shell?’  He didn’t know what would come out if he did - Will’s very lifeblood, or a dragon.  

Before Hannibal could ponder the pros and cons of breaking delicate, protective shells any further, he heard the footsteps of the Quartermaster entering the room behind him.  The Hound didn’t turn, but his hand paused in its movements.  For a moment, it remained gentle against Will’s brow, but already his soft thoughts were fading away.

“Dr. Lecter?”  The Quartermaster sounded a bit off-balance.  But at least he was polite; despite everything that Hannibal knew now about the man, he still appreciated that quality in him.  

Taking a moment to resettled Will’s arms so that the previous wound to his right shoulder would feel no strain, Hannibal straightened and turned, a perfectly benign smile affixed to his face by the time he met Q’s gaze.  The little imposter seemed a bit unsettled still, and Hannibal cocked his head consideringly, trying to judge whether or not he’d somehow caused this.  Surely there was no way that Q was aware of Hannibal’s increased knowledge of him?

But no, that did not seem to be the case.  As Hannibal stepped forward, Q did not step back.  In fact, the hazel eyes behind those glasses glanced back out into the adjoining room - upon noting that, Hannibal understood.  Bond was the cause.  He should have guessed; he’d heard crying, while looking after Will’s injuries.  It was so very rare for 007 to leave his bookish friend unattended, yet here Q was, turning away from the doorway to face Hannibal again, expression distracted and troubled but otherwise guileless.  “You said that you wanted to…  That is, that you’d oblige to,” Q stumbled, but kept up with that polite British etiquette that made Hannibal smile even now, “look at my injuries.”

“I would very much like to do just that,” Hannibal said, and immediately gestured to one of the benches breaking up the room.  The Hound himself turned to the first-aid kit, commenting with the same bedside manner that he’d developed as a doctor and fine-tuned as a therapist, “We are lucky: due to the company that Eigengrau keeps, their first-aid kits are almost unreasonably well-stocked, and it seems that no one had gotten into this one yet.  Your James picked a good location for us to rest and regroup.”

“He’s not mine,” Q replied, although it was a lacklustre response. Hannibal was tempted to mention how he’d found Q and James just moments ago - the Quartermaster in 007’s lap, clinging to him almost as possessively as the Hound was holding onto him in turn.  Q was still talking, however, redirecting the conversation, “How’s Mr. Graham?  Is he going to be all right?”  Q had taken notice of him, and it was sweet how sincere his worry was, writ large all over his face.  It really was a miracle, Hannibal thought, that Q had managed to lie to him this long - one would think that Q was an open book, his face so expressive.  

Hannibal looked up from the first-aid kit, replying even as his fingers skimmed over antibacterial, painkillers, gauze, a scalpel.  “I would be lying to say that he is well, but his injuries are survivable.  I hope that with some rest, he will rejoin us again - perhaps even in a few hours.  I plan to wake him regardless, in case of a concussion.”

“We thought he was dead,” Q said.  He was staring at Will, looking a bit shellshocked, his words dull and his mind clearly elsewhere.  Hannibal straightened and walked towards him, footsteps measured and quiet.  Q didn’t turn, but instead kept talking, “There was a shot, and we saw blood.  And Will just… dropped.”

“You say ‘we’,” Hannibal noted, too curious to maintain his silence, even though it gave away his position.  Q turned a bit, but didn’t seem terribly startled to find 003 closer to him than before.  “Is this before or after you parted ways from H?  I apologize for not asking after him before, as clearly you were the closest to him of any of us.”

“Oh, he’s not dead,” Q interpreted Hannibal’s tone of gentle concern.  “But… yes, we did part ways.  He was there when Will went down, but also when he got back up and started fighting to prove that he wasn’t dead.”  Q’s face twisted, and he looked at Will again, clearly disconcerted.  Ah, so he’d seen Will’s more dangerous side - the side that most people labelled as scary or dangerous, but which only Hannibal was understanding enough to love.  “H isn’t a fighter, Mr. Lecter,” Q said, a bit calmer, although his eyes had ghosts behind them, “I encouraged him to leave while he could.”

“A wise decision,” Hannibal opined.  He took a risk and stepped closer to Q, on the pretence of joining him in his observations of Will.  The Quartermaster shifted his weight a little, but didn’t edge away, and continued to watch Will with a troubled expression.  Clearly, the Quartermaster had been around James quite a lot, to be so desensitized to the innate dangerousness of Hounds.  If Hannibal were not so displeased at being lied to, he’d have found this fascinating, and perhaps even laudable.  “H, while a man with commendable skills, would have been poorly equipped to handle such a situation.”

Will gave a shiver, but it wasn’t because Hannibal Lecter was standing at his shoulder.  “Did you see Will fight?” Q asked, very softly.

“I have not had the pleasure,” the Hound lied smoothly, then added on a bit more of the true, “I regret that I was not able to get to you both soon enough to intervene.  But you’re saying that he recovered from the shot to his head, and fought back?”

Q pressed his lips together, and for a moment Hannibal thought that the Quartermaster would speak in the affirmative - and with disgust.  Hannibal felt his muscles tightening.  Instead, the Quartermaster surprised him by taking a breath, regaining his composure a bit, and saying in a pleasantly respectful tone, “He did.  He actually attacked me, too, but…”  Q lifted a hand, pressing his fingertips up under his glasses to press tiredly at his eyes.  He released a shaky sigh, and Hannibal watched it all with detached curiosity as Q finished, “But it was all so terribly hectic, that I don’t think I can blame him.”

“You have a very magnanimous nature,” was the response Hannibal chose, as he tried to envision the situation.  In all frankness, he found Q’s easy forgiveness of Will’s actions cute at best, stupidly naive at worst.  The Quartermaster had seen a predator in all of its glory, and yet was insisting on labelling it as a lamb.  Foolish.  Still, it was perhaps why Hannibal stepped back again, and this time when he gestured to the bench, Q went - and Hannibal let him.  When the Hound reached out, it was only to put a lightly guiding hand on the small of the Quartermaster’s back.  “Let’s not think about that for now.  Will has gone through a traumatic experience, but so have you,” Hannibal redirected soothingly.  

The Quartermaster sat, his body sagging beneath ill-fitting (but warm-looking) clothing.  Hannibal didn’t need to ask to deduce that James had dressed him - the agent was more pragmatic than stylish, clearly.  Hannibal could respect that.  When Hannibal requested that Q take his shirts off so that they could get a look at his stitches, the Quartermaster hesitated only because he clearly knew how cool the ambient air was.  Perhaps Q would have been more wary, Hannibal mused, if he weren’t so clearly worn out.  It made him easier prey than usual.  

With effort, Q managed to strip to the waist.  Hannibal didn’t help him, instead watching dispassionately as pain played across pale features, as Q hissed and winced, movements stiff.  Even in the poor lighting, the Quartermaster was rather vividly bruised, and Hannibal most certainly didn’t miss the newer wounds on Q’s wrists.  “You’ve made quite a mess of these,” Hannibal said, coming forward and touching for the first time - he reached out, broadcasting his movements, and was allowed to slip his heavier hands beneath Q’s palms.  Both of them viewed Q’s wrists, both raw and one with a barely-healing burn.  A glance up to the juncture between Q’s neck and shoulder told Hannibal that it could wait, and he turned back to the first aid kit as he offered, “Let’s look at your wrists first, shall we?”

Treating Q’s wrists was easy and mindless.  Hannibal hushed the Quartermaster through the pain of the antiseptic, soothing words tumbling out of his mouth easily thanks to much practice.  Of course, that didn’t slow him down any, as he weathered every flinch and cleaned each abrasion with a subtle sort of mercilessness.  A good enough bedside manner could cover up a lot of brutality, so long as it was done in the name of healing, Hannibal had learned long ago.  By the time Q’s wrists were bandaged up, James still had not reappeared in response to Q’s quiet sounds of discomfort, however, and that made the beast in Hannibal a little bit bolder.  

He did not like being lied to.  Even more so, he did not like being outwitted.  

Hannibal stood, and as Q’s attention followed him up, it naturally bared the long expanse of his throat.  

~An hour before~

“And now the plot thickens, doesn’t it?” C cooed.  Moran shifted his weight slightly, as if settling his body more firmly behind his gun, but kept his eyes glued to his target, Will, while C and Hannibal locked eyes.  “Q’s promises to you were obvious, really.  I’d have done the same,” C went on offhandedly, “if I wanted to get a Hound to follow my every whim and whimsy.”

“Is that what you said to your companion, then?” Will said boldly from where he was still staring down the barrel of a gun.  He hadn’t been as unsettled by C’s words as Hannibal was - perhaps because ultimately, Will was not Hannibal.  He was merely a very capable copy, but he had no collar around his neck, no Smartblood in his veins.  

Far from bothered, C clapped a hand on his gunman’s shoulder; said gunman scowled thunderously without turning.  “Oh no, Moran here is actually the loyal sort, no manipulation needed,” C gloated, then his voice turned sly, “Much like the relationship between the two of you, no?”  He put on a laughably fake innocent expression as he directed a finger between Will and Hannibal, once again guessing too much too quickly.  C was a madman, clearly, but he was also smarter somehow than Hannibal had anticipated, and with every new sentence out of his mouth, Hannibal felt himself tensing up further and further.  

Guessing Hannibal’s thoughts with a clarity that only Will should have had (that Hannibal only wanted Will to have), C winked at Hannibal and declared in a dramatically low voice, “Games are more fun when you’re in control, aren’t they?”  Then he started giggling, and Hannibal very nearly did shoot him.  The only reason he didn’t was because Moran was a keen one, and growled something warningly.  Reminded of the danger to Will, Hannibal kept himself in check and avoided any rash actions.  In fact, he berated himself silently for being goaded; good predators did not allow the prey to dictate their actions.  

Deciding to take back some of that control, Hannibal sealed up the cracks in his mask, presenting the unruffled front that he wanted.  “Perfect allies cannot be expected,” he opined sagely, “especially when we are not spoiled for choice.  After all, the Quartermaster makes a similarly moving argument against you.”

“Oh, that idea that I won’t ever free any of the Hounds? Psshhhhh!” C made a dismissive noise past his teeth, flapping one hand.  He was barely bothering to hide behind his bodyguard anymore, but as he kept talking, Hannibal didn’t try and take any opportunity to shoot him.  The situation was too unstable, too… changeable.  “Siger and I had a talk about that.  It was quite mean of him to say all of those disparaging things about me.”

“Are they true?” Will chimed in.  When Hannibal glanced over at him, he noticed the sheen of sweat on Will’s upper lip, on his neck.  It was an unsettling reminder that he was not well - and spending time with his brain morphing into Hannibal’s perhaps wasn’t helping.  The makeshift bandage around his head was more darkly stained than before.  

“Well, I won’t say that Siger’s entirely in the wrong,” C admitted surprisingly easily, lifting both hands, palm up, for an expansive shrug, “I most likely won’t free every Hound that asks for it.  But I’m not actually against freeing Eigengrau’s agents - I’m just lazy.”  He turned back to Hannibal, whining, “Freeing Hounds is so haaaaard.  I could do it, though.  I sent out that message to trade Siger for M, didn’t I?”

“Very shortly, you will not have that bargaining chip,” Hannibal reminded calmly.  However, his mind was already moving a few steps ahead.  Therefore, he was not surprised by C’s next statement.

“Ahhh, but who would ever know that?  Certainly not Siger’s dear brother, Sherlock.  No one can communicate in Eigengrau except me and my men.”

“That might get everyone to the negotiation table - but then it will become quite obvious that you have nothing to trade.  This deceit won’t last forever.”  This time it was Will talking, but saying Hannibal’s thoughts so perfectly that the Hound only felt the need to nod.  

“True,” C pouted, but only for a second.  Then the blinding smile was back, dark eyes sparkling ferally.  “But now I know where Q will be, even after he leaves my hands.”  There was a pregnant pause, in which C tilted his head forward, to look at Hannibal from beneath waggling eyebrows.  He crooned, “And you’ll all know where I’ll be.”

“What are you suggesting?” Hannibal replied slowly.  He noticed Will turn briefly to look at him, something that the profiler hadn’t done since he’d used his empathy to become like Hannibal; Will’s mind was vacillating.  This was already the longest that Hannibal had ever seen Will’s mind emulate another.  

Looking as pleased as a cat in cream, C drawled, “Well, to help you, of course.”

“You are assuming we need help.”  Even as Hannibal said that, he glanced over at Will.  To others, it would be less noticeable, but to Hannibal, it was clear: little twitches and movements, small ways that Will held his body.  Soon, Will’s mind would wake up as itself again.  And Hannibal was unsure what would happen at that point.  

Moran truly joined the conversation for the first time to mutter, “Oh, so him bleeding from the head isn’t a problem?”

“Oh, Seb, stop pointing out the obvious,” C berated him immediately, offering another kittenish-bat of one hand to the gunman’s back.  Moran put on a face that made Hannibal wonder why C hadn’t been strangled in his sleep yet.  Loyalty indeed.  Or else there was something that tied C to Moran, like what tied Hannibal to Will - or James to Q.  “My idea is much more interesting.”

“Then stop playing and say it before 007 comes back,” Moran snarled.

“Now, that’s just hurtful,” was C’s whined reply, but he nonetheless decided to actually get to the point, “You do need my help, Agent Lecter - but more importantly, I think your companion needs my help.  After all, how long do you think it will be before someone locks him up like they’ve locked you up, hm?”  Hannibal went very still, and perhaps C noticed, because his smile became sickly sweet.  He also rolled his eyes as he added, “Come on, I’ve seen enough to know that he’s not normal - if he wasn’t tagged as high-Pass before now, he’s going to be by the time this is over.  You can’t hide crazy for forever, you know.”  C’s smile said, quite clearly, that he most certainly knew.  “If you don’t believe that I’ll free you, fine.  But surely you can believe this-”  He went on in a low purr, “I’ve got the keys to our dear goddess Sybil, and I can hide anything I want to from her sight.  How do you think Sebastian and I survive?”

As C finished by leaning against Moran’s back, actually putting his head on the gunman’s tense shoulder, Hannibal found his mind moving very quickly.  As preposterous as C’s words sounded, they were hard to discount - because the proof was hard to ignore.  The very existence of C and his men would have been impossible, had not some force been blinding Sybil’s all-seeing eyes.  

As Hannibal pondered, Will swayed a bit on his feet.  

Beyond them, the door to where Q was - and James and Eleven, presumably - opened with a click.  

While this caused Moran to notably stiffen, C almost grew more relaxed.  In a playful singsong, he stated simply, “Time to make a decision, Mr. Cannibal.  Because you were right about me being able to get people to the negotiation table.”  Dark eyes glinted.  “We’re here now.  Care to negotiate before someone comes and crashes the party?”

~Present~

Hannibal was fully cognizant of the fact that he had controlling tendencies.  He used to balance it out with cooking - which was often the ultimate practice in relinquishing control, since it was all but impossible to predict all of the little factors that would go into the success or ruin of a dish.  Since coming to Eigengrau, however, with his access to a good kitchen (not to mention his access to ingredients) severely limited, he’d simply had to accept that he was happiest when he could control things.  Thankfully, he was very, very good at that.  Being a larger person, and naturally muscular, helped.  Eigengrau had only honed the strength that Hannibal already had, and while he perhaps wasn’t the gunman that 007 was or the absolute brawler that, say, Sixteen was, Hannibal knew that he could overpower a lot of people without much trouble.

Will, for example.  While Will was not without brawn, he was built smaller than Hannibal - what strength Hannibal came by naturally, Will would have to work very, very hard to achieve.  The Hound found this soothing, however, because he could easily imagine overpowering the other man - thus controlling the situation.  Of course, Will’s strange and beautiful empathy gave him an edge that tipped the scales regardless of strength, but that was one of the things that kept him interesting.

Q, however…  Q was in many ways like Will: pale skin, dark and tousled hair, unassuming at first glance but with quick eyes, emotions worn on their sleeves.  Where Will was sporting a bullet wound to his right shoulder, Q was sporting a bullet wound on the opposite side, between neck and shoulder.  Both were battered and bruised by the current siege.  But while Will had clearly had some athletic training, his smaller frame nonetheless admirably athletic (Hannibal had seen, while treating him), Q was not.  As 003 came forward to loom over the Quartermaster sitting tiredly on the bench, he put a hand gently on Q’s left shoulder, ostensibly to check the nearby wound, but in reality marvelling at the slim curve of a collarbone jutting against creamy skin.  He was elegantly built, but there was so little meat on him.  

Hannibal resisted the urge to ask if Q had a grandmother, and if she ever demanded that he eat more, or lamented over his leanness.  Instead, he lifted his other hand to catch the Quartermaster’s chin, turning Q’s head away so that his injury was easier to see.  “Were circumstances different, and I were your doctor, I’d chide you over how much you have used this arm,” Hannibal said in his most professional register, just enough playfulness added in.  He firmed up his grip on Q’s chin when the Quartermaster instinctively tried to look back; arresting the motion was easy, and Q had no choice but to settle again, his head held in check while Hannibal worked.  “Fortunately, these are extenuating circumstances.”  He prodded a bit at the edges of the wound, partially to see how bad off it was - partially to watch and feel Q’s body tense in response.  There was some fight there.  Not enough, but there was some.  Q had been wise to team up with 007 so early, matching his wits with the Hound’s ready brawn.  “While Eigengrau’s first-aid kits are all very well-stocked, I was unable to find sterile needle and thread-”  This was the truth, but ignored the fact that Hannibal had secretly stashed some away - however, he’d used up everything on Will.  “-So you’ll have to live with the few stitches you’ve pulled.”  Part of Hannibal wished that he had the means to restitch Q, because he had no anaesthetic - it would be an unpleasant procedure, but one that Hannibal would enjoy a little bit, because Q’s lying to him was also deeply unpleasant.  “I was able to locate a skin-safe adhesive, however.  I’m more used to Americanized brands, but since I found it in the first-aid kit, I’m assuming that this has been widely used to seal up wounds.”

“That actually sounds much more pleasant than stitches,” Q admitted, eyes swivelling to try and catch Hannibal’s expression even if he still couldn’t move his head.  003 watched as one of the Quartermaster’s hands lifted, as if to touch Hannibal’s wrist or otherwise break his grip, but the movement stopped before contact was made.  “Even if glue leaves me with more of a scar, I’m willing to accept that if it means not having more holes poked in me.”

Hannibal chuckled, amused despite himself.  He let go of Q’s chin and turned back to the first-aid kit again.  “I cannot promise that it will be an entirely painless procedure, but I’m glad that you’re in favour of this plan.”  He came back, sitting on Q’s injured side, with antiseptic wipes in hand.  “Sit still, if you can.  This is the unpleasant part, but it will be over before long.”

As Q grimaced, Hannibal reached forward again, and this time the backs of his fingers ever-so-lightly brushed Q’s throat before once again nudging his head away.  So many weak points on a body…  The first touch of antiseptic on the wound, softening up the bits of blood that had leaked out and dried, had the Quartermaster’s ribs flaring against his skin, reminding Hannibal of something trying to escape its own cage.  In Hannibal’s mind’s eye, he could see himself sliding one of those ribs free with an easy explosion of violence.

But then Will made a small, troubled noise behind him.  Hannibal turned, to check on him and be assured that the profiler was just restless.  However, looking at Will reminded Hannibal that sometimes, releasing things from their native cages had poor results.  All too vividly, he remembered Will’s eyes rolling back into his head, his body succumbing to a frenzied fit, not long after Agent Broughton had darted past them… not long after they’d made a deal with a new lying devil…

The current lying devil said, quietly, “Dr. Lecter?”  The Hound turned his attention back, finding tired but concerned hazel eyes on him.  Hanging around 007 had warped Q’s sense of who was predator and who was prey - otherwise, why would the lamb now be looking at the lion without fear?  

Still, Hannibal at least appreciated being referred to by his professional title, rather than his Eigengrau designation, so he put on an abashed smile like everything was all right.  “Apologies.  I do not make a habit of ignoring patients - but that gets difficult when I feel responsible for two.”

Q’s expression eased.  He even smiled a little, although it was strained.  Some of the worry returned to his eyes, but only when he glanced towards the door, making Hannibal increasingly curious about just what James and Q had talked about before now.  It was still strange that 007 wasn’t hovering, making Lecter suspect a fight of some sort.  “That’s quite all right.  I’m sorry to be keeping you from Mr. Graham - he’s in much more need of attention,” Q said with all the same grace he’d always shown.  It was a pity that Q had lied to Hannibal, really, and that he was manipulating him.  After all, how often did Hannibal encounter people who retained the same manners whether or not they were in positions of power or positions of weakness?  

Pondering this and many other thoughts, turning them over thoughtfully like pebbles in the steady river of his mind, Hannibal finished cleaning up Q’s wound before applying bio-adhesive to where the skin had gaped.  His keen sense of smell picked up no scent of rot, but there was still an animalistic temptation to lean in close - maybe sink his teeth in a little, widen the wound instead of close it.  It wouldn’t be hard, especially as Hannibal leaned in close to blow across the glue; as the glue dried, he watched Q’s skin pebble in reaction, watched and listened to the sharp, little indrawn breath.  Hannibal had decades of practice at keeping his inner beast in check, however, so he withdrew again before any professional lines were crossed.  The most damage Hannibal did was press just a little bit too hard as he taped a patch of gauze over the wound.  Q bit his lip to hold in a whine, and Hannibal just watched.  

Hannibal was still watching a minute later when a silhouette finally fell across the door.  “007,” Hannibal greeted serenely, replete in the knowledge that he was behaving, and that none of his intentions showed behind his eyes in the dimly lit room, “I’m glad you could join us.  I think that I’ve patched our Quartermaster up as much as I am able, but he might appreciate your assistance in dressing again.”  Q was indeed struggling with a shirt right now, and cast a wincing, torn look James’ way.  Bond sent a complicated look back.  “As the resident doctor at the moment, I recommend you avoid moving that arm as much as possible,” Hannibal said to Q, who looked at him with a frown and started to open his mouth.  

“I’ll make sure he takes it easy,” Bond assured before Q could argue.  

“I gave him something for the pain already, which should help with that,” Hannibal added, still with the benign smile that all doctors learned.  Beneath that smile was the knowledge that he’d given Q something quite a bit stronger, and that it would do more than make sure he didn’t strain his arm.  

As James moved forward (with a hesitancy that he hadn’t shown before; curious) to help Q wriggle back into his warm clothes, Hannibal got up and turned his back on them both.  Q wouldn’t be going anywhere, so Hannibal could focus his attention back on Will for at least a little while.  

~^~

Chapter Text

While H and Reece were both ensconced further within the depths of Q-branch, their muffled voices a gentle hum over the sea of cubicles, Merlin sat on the floor just staring at the signal jammer in front of him.  After a moment of this silent staring, Roxy rolled her eyes and spoke up, “I may not have known you as long as Hart, Merlin, but I’d like to think that I can read you by now.”  When the Scotsman turned startled eyes to her, she went on, “What’s on your mind?”

The surprised expression became a troubled one, and Merlin took a moment to rub his palm over his chin before replying stiltedly, “It’s just that…  I know that H has the best intentions, opening up all channels so that we can call in the authorities, but…”  He flicked his eyes up to Roxy, meeting her gaze with worry.  “You recall the tidbits of information that Harry has shared about his boy, Eggsy?”  When Roxy pursed her lips but nodded, Merlin sighed and went on in a hushed voice, “If we turn off this signal jammer, it’ll be open season on any hostages, and it sounds like C has some people the lad cares about.”

Roxy kept her expression from changing, and brought up a logical rebuttal, “We’ll also be able to call and get help for them.”

“True, but you and I have worked about dangerous people in a dangerous business - so you tell me: What’s easier?  Finding hostages and ushering them safely to a secure location - or aiming one single bullet in the right direction?”  Merlin’s accent got thicker as his words grew blunter, and his dark gaze showed the resigned regret of a man who knew the answer too well.  It was sometimes easy to forget that Merlin was a very capable man himself, and that even though he worked mostly in Q-branch, he had enough field experience to know what a sniper-rifle could do in capable hands.  

“Touche,” the Handler admitted with a sigh.  She turned her head to look off into the darkness, to where H and 008 had gone, flicking her ponytail anxiously back over her shoulder.  “Since you didn’t bring that up earlier to your boss, though, I’m assuming he’s not going to go for that kind of logic?”

“I have no bloody clue,” Merlin admitted with a sigh.  He turned large hands briefly palm-up, then spread them on his knees again.  “H cares about people, but I don’t know if he’ll choose the many, or if he’ll choose the one.”

“And if it comes to an argument…”  Roxy left the sentence hanging.  Her gaze was still directed into the depths of Q-branch.  H and Reece could still be heard talking indistinctly.  

Merlin was more than willing to candidly finish his companion’s statement, “If it were just H, I’d say that was an argument we could win - but he’s got that Hound with him, and that complicates things.”

“You don’t think that a Hound would side with us?  He’s got a collar - he should want the signal jammer on as much as we do, if not more.”

“I think that 008 looks at H in much the same way that Harry’s eyes get when he talks about that Eggsy lad,” Merlin griped grimly.  Roxy snorted but didn’t argue; she actually had to fight a smile at the accuracy of that statement.  Harry did seem a bit gone on this kid he’d only just met.  

When Merlin fell silent again, Roxy once again sensed something gnawing away inside of his thoughts, so she came over and nudged him with a foot.  Instead of batting her away or complaining, he merely grunted, and then words obediently followed, “I have to ask, Roxy,” he said, in that careful, respectful tone that he sometimes got - like when he’d first asked if he could join her for sparring, like when he’d taken her ‘out to eat’ (a picnic in a forgotten corner of the island by the shore), like when he’d asked if this was good for her, too, when they were a tangled, lovely messed between the sheets, “If it comes down to it… can I count on your support?  To keep the signal jammer running, I mean.”

Roxy blinked in surprise, and then felt something in her soften.  Instead of answering right away, she carefully placed the fingertips of one hand on Merlin’s cheek, ignoring his little noise of disgruntlement in favour of leaving forward.  She placed a kiss on the smooth crown of his head, and resisted the urge to smile when the disgruntled noise became something embarrassingly pleased.  When she pulled back, his entire head was well on its way to turning red with a blush.  Roxy loved a lot of things about this man, but one of them was his ability to be flustered by the smallest things… despite the fact that the two of them had most definitely had wild sex more than once already.  “I’m with you,” she assured, then repeated it again as she pressed her hand more fully to Merlin’s cheek, “I’m with you.”

~^~

Ianto didn’t like this.  Well, in all fairness, he hadn’t liked this situation for quite some time now - and how long had it been?  With only the perpetual emergency lighting and him without a watch, it felt like being stuck in a perpetual red dusk, or a night-terror that you couldn’t pull free from.  Jack had told him to catch some sleep a few times, but the Welshman couldn’t imagine closing his eyes, much less surrendering to unconsciousness with so many hostile forces around.  So even when Jack had assured Ianto that he’d watch over him, the younger man had merely shaken his head stubbornly and folded his arms, signally that the matter was not open for debate.  

Scared and tired, Ianto stood next to Jack, facing away from him but (hopefully subtly) leaning his back against one of Jack’s shoulders.  How Harkness was still alert at this point was a mystery.  A few others were definitely napping now in the hanger, although the one they called Oxford, the pilot, hadn’t closed his eyes yet.  Jack still glared at Oxford periodically, but Ianto had mostly dismissed the young man - yes, Oxford knew his identity, but Ianto was pretty accurate when he made snap judgments about people.  And his snap judgment about Oxford was that the young man had bigger fish to fry than revealing one man’s identity.  The rest of the people in the room were another story, however.  Even though the most fearsome of the group, Moran and Root, had left long ago, the remainder kept snatching leers Ianto’s way.  It was impossible to forget that he’d been dragged here as a warprize, and while some of the others were resting, not all of them were - and sometimes new faces came in.  

New faces that hadn’t seen Jack lay claim to Ianto in any particular way.  New faces that saw only something fresh and sweet to sink their teeth into.

“Jack,” Ianto said, very quickly, his head turned so that he was watching the room rather than looking at the Hound close behind him.  He was sure that Jack could see his mounting fear in profile.  “I think we have a problem.”

“No shit,” Harkness said, keeping his voice down as Ianto was.  They couldn’t afford to advertise that they were comfortable with each other.  The problem was, Ianto didn’t think that their acting was good enough.  “We’ve been in trouble basically since C took over this place.  Well, you’ve been in trouble, at least.  I’m actually-”

“Can you just shut up and listen for a second,” Ianto hissed as calmly as he possibly could, which really wasn't much.  He was watching the other faces in the room.  There were a few that didn’t bother him: Agent 13 who was more occupied with another of C’s men in the corner, the two antagonizing one another too much to lay eyes on Ianto… Oxford... other than that, however, everyone who wasn’t catching a nap was starting to get entirely too curious.  “Jack, I think that some people are getting ideas,” Ianto said, hushed with dread.  

Jack’s voice lost its teasing quality, and he spoke with a softness that was almost too gentle to be deadly - almost.  “What do you mean?”

“I mean that there are a few people looking at me like…”  Ianto swallowed, gripping his opposing elbows harder as if to close himself off from everything - a fruitless gesture.  “...Like they think your ownership of me is up for debate,” he finished.  

Ianto didn’t look back when he heard Jack growl, and he could perfectly imagine the wrathful look taking over the man’s face.  Where Ianto was leaned against one of Jack’s shoulders, he could feel muscles bunching and tensing, too, something that took his breath away a little - because previously, he’d been used to feeling that strength in bed, not in dangerous applications.  “Well, let them debate then,” Jack challenged in a dangerously playful undertone, “I’ve got some fantastic arguments that I’d just love to shove right up their ass-”

“How about we avoid messy killing and maiming?” Ianto rushed to advise.  He cast his eyes in another sweep of the room, including a glance back at Jack this time - who indeed did not look in any way happy.  Unfortunately, Jack’s foreboding look didn’t seem to have done enough to persuade some of the other hungry eyes in the room.  

“Fine,” Jack huffed snarkily, but at least the tensing of his shoulder relaxed minutely, as if he wasn’t winding up a punch this very second, “What course of action do you recommend then?”

Ianto didn’t have the energy to explain to Jack why it was important to avoid a fight when the odds were against you so monstrously.  So instead he swallowed thickly and said the only plan that had bubbled up in his mind so far, “You need to show them that you’re not interested in handing me off.”

“I think that’s what I just offered to do, but you nixed that plan.”

Ianto made a noise of exasperation and just barely resisted the urge to twist around and glare at Jack.  Instead, he managed to keep a hold of himself, pulling in a deep breath and forcing his eyes closed for just a second, reminding himself that Harkness had always been naturally infuriating, and that it was important to maintain their facade right now of warlord and warprize.  “What I mean,” Ianto said with all the patience he had left, “is that you’ve been treating me pretty well since we got into the hanger, and that’s not what everyone expected.”

There was a new variety of quiet behind Ianto that indicated Jack was starting to catch on.  While there were a lot of stereotypes about Hounds that were true, the idea that they were all dumb animals most certainly was not - so Ianto wasn’t surprised when Jack made a leap of intuition and replied quietly, “You mean I haven’t staked any sort of claim on you, and it’s giving people ideas.”

“Hmm,” Ianto merely made a noise of agreement.  

He was grateful when Jack continued with this train of thought, finishing so that Ianto didn’t have to say it himself: “So you’re implying that I should do that, and dispel a few doubts?”

“Basically.”

“Wow, Ianto, I never knew that you were into exhibitionism.”  

Rolling his eyes heavenward and silently asking what he’d done to deserve any of this situation, Ianto controlled himself enough so that, instead of screaming, he merely muttered, “Jack, if there was another broom handy right now, I’d hit you upside the head with it.”  There was a chuckle behind him, but at least Jack didn’t continue with the joke.  “You don’t need to… deflower me in public just to get the point across!”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure that I’ve deflowered you plenty in private already.  No more deflowering left to do.”

“Jack, I swear to god-!”

“All right, all right, easy,” Jack relented.  Perhaps he’d heard the rising hysteria in Ianto’s voice, or sensed him tensing the same way that Ianto had been feeling the muscles in Jack’s right shoulder move against him.  And, at that moment, they both looked out over the other faces in the room and noticed how Ianto’s rising anxiety was becoming obvious - and chumming the waters.  Voice serious and quiet again, Jack said, “What exactly do you have in mind?”  

Ianto hadn’t thought this far ahead.  He was tired, aching, and had a headache already from all the fear and adrenaline he was drowning in.  It was physically difficult to try and plot his way through the next steps, and he found himself actually wanting Jack to take control.  “I don’t know!” he hissed, at the limits of his psychological endurance, “Just…!  Just nothing extreme, obviously, but…”

“Possessive?” Jack filled in, almost gently.  Perhaps it was Ianto’s imagination, but he thought he felt Jack lean a bit into him, a supportive pressure.  “So everyone knows that you’re mine and I’m serious about that?”

More relieved than he wanted to admit, Ianto sighed, “Yes.”  

“And it will look more real if I catch you off-guard, won’t it?”  Now Jack sounded a bit regretful; maybe apologetic.  

Feeling pretty regretful about the idea himself, Ianto pulled in another breath and let it out slowly, but in that length of time couldn’t find any other answer than, “Probably.”  He couldn’t resist the urge to tighten his arms where they were wrapped around himself, hunch his shoulders, just generally brace himself.  “Get on with it then.”

“I’ll try not to do anything you won’t forgive me for.”

“That’s comforting,” Ianto snorted, although beneath the manic bubble of dark humour he found that it sort of was.  Still, he looked down at his shoes - usually shiny but so scuffed now - and retorted, “Honestly, all I really care about is surviving to forgive anything lat-”  Ianto cut off with a sharp inhale, whole body tensing like he’d been brushed by a livewire instead of a warm hand.  Cursing himself for not being ready (even though his surprise did make this all seem more authentic), Ianto briefly squeezed his eyes closed again, trying not to shake as that hand slide up the side of his ribs, heavy and possessive.

“Oh come on,” Jack said, and now that he was raising his voice, everyone could hear it - and Ianto knew that it was fake, “Why do you have to get so frigid on my now?”  Ianto jolted again, reflexively, as he felt the larger body behind him shifting and turning.  It was no longer just a shoulder against his back, but a chest, and the forward jerk that Ianto did was not entirely faked.  The instinctive escape attempt was aborted by Jack’s arm, which went from cupping Ianto’s ribcage to hooking around his belly.  Ianto was quickly reeled in, flush to the Hound’s front, and Ianto couldn’t help it: he felt his breathing pick up, fear like freon down his spine.  “We’re all dying of boredom here,” Jack continued with a playful cat’s joviality, “the least you could do is give me a bit of fun.”

Without warning, Jack backed up a quick step, which quickly brought about results: if Ianto’s struggles had seemed halfhearted before now, his sudden thrash as he was tugged off-balance was entirely sincere.  When Ianto’s arms flailed, Harkness’s free hand caught one of his wrists, yanking it close so that both of their limbs were now pressed tight against Ianto’s chest.  Ianto could feel his own fluttering heartbeat beneath his fingertips, where Jack’s grip kept his hand trapped near his neck.  Oh god, he didn’t know if he could do this…  

“Don’t get any ideas, Oxford,” was Jack’s next warning call, and Ianto focused his attention away from his own body long enough to see that Oxford had gotten up from the crate he’d been slouched on.  The young pilot actually looked worried, and Ianto dearly hoped that he wouldn’t decide to do something heroic.  As much as Ianto wanted this to stop, he more desperately wanted to avoid himself, Jack, or any other potentially good person getting seriously injured.  Unfortunately, there was no way to explain to Oxford that Ianto's present predicament was actually fabricated… very unpleasant, but nonetheless fabricated.  

Everyone else was reacting in a more predictable fashion, however, and it was a small comfort to realize that this farce was perhaps going to pay off: while Oxford looked tense and almost worried, many others were watching with smiles and whistles as if everything was good and right with the world now.  It made Ianto want to gag, realizing that they saw this as entirely real.  They were calling out encouragement because they thought that Ianto was being seriously molested now, taken advantage of like the prize he was.  It was almost enough for Ianto to believe it himself, and he let out a wrecked little sound of panic, although the bucking of his body didn’t help him much.  Hounds like Jack Harkness were trained to brutal hardness, and Ianto couldn’t hope to match this kind of honed strength.  

Then someone shouted out something about “wanting to share,” and Ianto felt his breathing pick up faster.  He jerked his head around in panic to try and find who had said that - who the next biggest threat was - but Jack jerked him around again.  Being pinned to the wall was not comfortable, especially when the arm Jack had previously been holding against his front then got twisted up behind his back.  “Not a chance,” Jack called back lazily to whoever had shouted earlier.  Ianto told himself to stay still, remembering with effort that this was necessary - part of the plan - but anxiety got the better of him and he tried to use his free hand to push away from the wall.  Jack responded (unsurprisingly) by pushing back, although the way he undulated against Ianto’s body was undoubtedly quite a bit more enjoyable for those watching than it was for Ianto.  “You think I found myself this hot piece of ass just so I could hand it around?  Fuck no.”  

Thankfully, instead of angry responses, this garnered laughs.  As predicted, no one was ready to fight when it was clear what Jack’s intentions were - when the lion looked lazy and sated, scavengers moved in, but when that lion made its hunger clear…  Sometimes it was best to find an easier snack.  For Ianto’s part, he was gritting his teeth and mentally berating himself, ‘Pull it together, Jones!  This was the only option, and you were the one who came up with it.’  

Nevertheless, Ianto hissed in sharply and braced himself as Jack’s arm still around his waist tightened, and he felt hot breath on one ear.  Instead of saying something lewd, however, Jack murmured, “Just breathe, Ianto.  Hyperventilating is not the same as good acting, and you wanted to stay awake, right?”  Jack’s body moved a bit (no doubt keeping up the show, even though no one would be able to tell what words he was saying in that soft croon), but Ianto forced himself to just focus on Jack’s voice.  When Harkness leaned in closer, Ianto made an unhappy whine, until Jack coaxed, “Just breathe with me, okay?  This is all just a game, and we’re winning, Ianto, we really are.”  Jack sounded so sure - he always sounded so, so sure - that Ianto decided to listen to him, timing his admittedly ragged breathing with the inhale and exhale of the chest behind him.  Perhaps Ianto’s muscles were relaxing, or else Jack had loosened up his grip a bit, but the arm twisted up behind Ianto’s back didn’t feel quick so strained anymore either, even as it remained trapped between them.  

Now that Jack was talking to him, and sounding so much like the Jack Ianto knew, it became easier to remember that this was a necessary melodrama they were acting out.  Therefore, when Jack murmured, “I’m going to feel you up a bit now, all right?” Ianto didn’t have an instant heart attack.  

In fact, he even managed a shaky nod and a joke.  “Something you must have practice with… considering all the notes about sexual harassment I’ve seen in your file.” 

The noise Jack made sounded like a mixture between a choke and a chuckle, showing that he’d been caught off guard but maybe liked it.  “Hey, I’m just a naturally flirty person,” he defended, then moved his arm around Ianto’s waist.  The Welshman tensed, but didn’t feel as scared as before when the hand ran up and down his side - this time meandering down his hip, too, and even giving one of his belt-loops a little tug as if to bring them closer together.  “Okay, I think I have an idea to bring this farce to an end, okay?” were perhaps the sweetest words that Jack had ever said.

And that was how Ianto went from being pinned against the wall and fake-molested to sitting on the floor at Jack’s feet.  It was probably the pose of a good dog, sitting nearly atop his master’s shoes, but now there were far fewer eyes looking at him.  The monsters in the room had been satisfied, and if it left Ianto literally shaking with relief… well, the only person who really knew was Jack.  Likewise, Ianto was the only one who caught Harkness mouthing “Sorry” at the end of it.  

Or maybe Oxford did…  The young pilot was watching them keenly but with a funny look on his face.  

Deciding that he didn’t have the energy left over to muddle through Oxford’s reactions, Ianto sagged back tiredly.  He pretended to tolerate the fingers that Jack slid possessively into his hair, while in reality he relished it, and clung to that comfort while it lasted.  This little act had worked for now, but Ianto didn’t know for how long…

~^~

Hounds were not trained to be self-conscious or embarrassed.  Even discounting their high Psychopasses (which often made them disavow all rules of polite society in general), working as agents for Eigengrau meant that survival came first, and personal regrets or discomforts later.  Usually, by the time ‘later’ rolled around, they were either happily celebrating their successes… or dead.  Either way, there was rarely time to spare for shame.  

Therefore, James was almost pathetically unsure how to deal with the thorny feeling twisting up his insides now.  Bond hadn’t told that story about Vesper to many, and certainly no one like Q, and he suddenly wanted to go back in time and take all the words back… but couldn’t articulate why.  Every time he tried to investigate the feeling, he got anxious, and just ended up pacing about the room like an animal in a cage of its own making.  For the first time in a long time, his fingers itched for the useless task of pulling at his collar, something that he’d accepted long ago as an immovable part of himself.  It felt like it was choking him again, as it had when it had first been put on.  What he was feeling was akin to vulnerability, akin to fear, akin to disgust, and he couldn’t find any good target but himself - because what had Q done wrong?  Well, there was the Smartblood thing, but James was pretty over that, and he hadn’t been lying when he said that there was no chance that Q was anything but low-Pass.  Q hadn’t even made James tell the story that he had, about Vesper and what she’d done to him.  James had told the story in all of its brutal bluntness, and Q had just gone and asked questions - gentle, caring, human questions, as if James were a gentle, caring human, too.  

Why did that come as such a hard blow to weather?

It was a mixture of pettiness and fear that kept James pacing around the gym while he knew Hannibal treated Q in the confines of the locker room.  Rubbing his hands over his face, 007 asked himself over and over again what had possessed him to reveal those final details about his personal life - he’d nearly kept them in, but then Q had said he wanted to know, and his eyes had been so sincere.  The specifics of the story were… emasculating.  Still terrifying, on a certain level.  James, like most Hounds, spent a significant portion of their lives ignoring the promise of death locked around their necks.  It was impossible to function otherwise, but at moments like these…  James gave in to the urge to lift his hand, pulling down the neck of his sweater so that he could hook two fingers beneath the collar.  He just stood there for a long moment, not exerting any tension but humming with the desire to break something - preferably the collar, although all Hounds learned that that was next to impossible.  

The collar was dormant now, he knew that.  But he’d dredged up past memories for Q, and it was never hard to remember Vesper’s clear words - “I could kill you with that in a second.  Don’t make me do it, James.”  

Reluctantly letting go of his collar, the Hound pressed his palms hard against his eyes and sighed.  He could still remember her, yes.  But she was dead now.  And if one thing had become increasingly certain, it was that Q would never in a million years make the same threat.  

Perhaps it was that thought that finally pushed down James’ embarrassment and fear over showing his soft underbelly, and got him to stop pacing and hone in on the Quartermaster again.  “Get it together, James,” he hissed at himself as he walked, “While you’re having an existential crisis, Q’s being babysat by a cannibal.”  With that in mind, James was almost trotting by the time he reached the entranceway to the locker rooms

Fortunately, nothing looked amiss.  James cast a calculating eye over the entire scene as he hovered in the doorway, automatically marking the position of Will (unconscious; not a threat), Q (god, so bruised; it had been easy to forget he was injured beneath his clothes), and Hannibal sitting next to him but with a polite distance in between.  Q was making a face and eyeing his shoulder, and James suspected that being patched up hadn’t exactly been fun or painless.  

“007,” Hannibal greeted serenely, “I’m glad you could join us.  I think that I’ve patched our Quartermaster up as much as I am able, but he might appreciate your assistance in dressing again.”  Q was indeed struggling with a shirt right now, and cast a wincing, torn look James’ way.  Bond wasn’t entirely prepared to meet Q’s eyes, still feeling raw inside. Turning to Q, Hannibal finished,  “As the resident doctor at the moment, I recommend you avoid moving that arm as much as possible.”

“I’ll make sure he takes it easy,” Bond assured when he saw Q opening his mouth to argue.  This led to Q’s eyes snapping to James’ again, and more awkward eye-contact as James tried to remember how to be a suave, self-assured Hound again.  

Either unaware of the tension or uninterested, Hannibal just smiled benignly and finished, “I gave him something for the pain already, which should help with that,” then, as James made his feet move, got up to return his attention to Will.  At least Hannibal was acting in a predictable fashion, focusing on Will Graham and leaving the rest of the world to keep on turning however it wanted to… which meant James approaching Q as one would a bomb.  Currently, Q was failing to get into a pullover, so it made him un-intimidating enough that James was able to come over to him and help.  The tense knot behind his breastbone unravelled more and more with each second that passed without Q saying anything about their past talk.  It reassured James that nothing had changed.  

Finally, when Q was layered in clothing again, his torn skin and bruises hidden (some by bandages), James coaxed, “Come on, up you get,” and it felt natural to grip either of Q’s elbows and lever him to his feet.  Q’s grumpy whine just about tricked a smile onto his face, and the knot of anxiety became something warmer within James’ chest.  

“Shit, this is all so unpleasant,” Q grumbled, even as he took a moment to lean heavily on James, forehead dropping nearly to the agent’s collarbone.  Considering that their last conversation had revolved around James admitting to murdering a Handler, it was quite an impressive show of trust.  

“Well, we are in something of a siege,” James reminded.  A quick glance showed him that Hannibal had knelt down next to Will as if no one else existed.  Good.  James was okay working with Lecter, but that didn’t mean he trusted him as far as he could throw him.  “And I’d argue that medical treatment is never particularly pleasant.”

“So says the man who views Medical as a torture facility,” Q retorted, straightening up belatedly.  “I’ve seen your files.”

“My aversion to Medical is in my files?”

“I notice that you’re not even questioning that I’ve nosed my way into your file,” Q said even as he lifted a hand gingerly to his bad shoulder, starting to rotate the arm exactly as Hannibal had told him not to.  James instinctively reached out, ending up aborting Q’s motion by wrapping one arm behind Q’s back to catch Q’s left elbow, other hand catching Q’s left forearm.  The two men froze, Q looking curiously at James over the rims of his glasses while the agent once again dealt with this rare new emotion, embarrassment.  When Bond cleared his throat and let go, however, he also made the mistake of looking away - and therefore making eye-contact with Hannibal instead, who wore the faintest of knowing smiles.

“You were literally told two minutes ago not to move that arm around,” James grunted, mulishly ignoring Hannibal now.  

“My bad.  I forgot.”  Q sounded amused.

“You have an eidetic memory, you little shit, you did not forget.”

Making a noise that was most definitely a stifled chuckle, Q turned and padded out of the locker rooms, giving up this space to Hannibal and Will.  James followed without thinking.  He was watching the way Q was still holding tension in his back (although not as badly as before; the painkillers must have finally been kicking in) when the Quartermaster spoke, “You were worried that I’d judge you.”

“I don’t worry,” James lied like a pro.  No hesitation.  No defining traits to give his words away.  

“Fine then, you weren’t worried,” Q gave in with a little wave of his right hand, still walking away and not turning.  Some would have seen this as dismissive, but Hounds thought differently.  When someone turned their back on you, that showed either stupidity or trust - and Q wasn’t stupid.  “I suppose then that you don’t need me to tell you that my feelings towards you are entirely unchanged then, hm?”

Q’s words caught him off-guard, and the agent nearly tripped midstep.  Regaining his footing, James still couldn’t regain use of his tongue, however, and it took him a few moments before he could get out, “That’s not entirely reassuring, seeing as I don’t really know what feelings you’ve had up until now.”

Unhelpfully, Q replied back demurely, “Really? Aren’t you agents supposed to be perceptive?”

Taking a deep breath and wondering just what was in those painkillers Hannibal had given Q to make him so sassy, James replied on the exhale, “Yes, but we’re also threatening, manipulative, and I’ve been told that my personality in particular varies from charming to an utter arsehole.”  If Q was going to be the keeper of one of Bond’s darkest secrets, he deserved to know this basic truth as well.  

“Well, you are frequently an arse-” Q started to say, and then suddenly sort of wobbled.  

It was so sudden that it startled James, but his reflexes being what they were, he moved forward without thinking and soon had an arm around Q’s middle.  Just in time, too, as Q’s wobble became a more alarming stumble.  James grunted as Q’s weight slewed to one side like a drunk.  “Q?  Q, are you all right?”

Legs shaking as he leaned heavily back into James now, Q gave a few alarmingly torpid blinks before mumbling, “I’m very dizzy, actually.”  His next blink was even slower, and James had to then hold Q up with both arms as the Quartermaster grew suddenly uninterested in standing.  Even the pressure of James’ grip around his ribs didn’t do anything besides make Q groan softly.  Thankfully, they were pretty near the mats that they’d sat on early, allowing James to lower Q onto them.  The Quartermaster was still responding somewhat, flailing his arms a little to situate himself, but said arms folded up like bird’s wings as soon as James eased him down onto his side.  “Sleepy,” Q noted, sounding faintly boggled by that, even as his eyelids stayed down longer and longer between blinks.  

“Fuck,” James bit out, checking Q’s pulse on reflex before resting one hand on Q’s side, where he could feel the measured rise and fall of his breathing.  He’d have checked the boffin’s pupillary reactions, but they were all still stuck in the perpetual dusk of the emergency lighting.  “Hannibal!”

There was already a shadow standing in the entranceway to the locker rooms, but it shifted forward enough to reveal Hannibal’s eminently calm features.  “Yes, James?”

Something about Lecter’s expression… it was too calm.  It took James only seconds to put together the pieces.  “You said you gave him something for the pain,” he growled, the only thing keeping him from walking right up to Hannibal and punching him being the urge to stay close to Q, where he could feel his steady pulse, his deep breathing, “But I already told you that I did that.  What did you do?  Did you double it?”

“I would never overdose a patient,” Hannibal declared quite firmly.  But then he added, “However, your deductions are not entirely incorrect.  The Quartermaster was not in need of any additional pain medications.”

James was seeing red in a way that had nothing to do with the emergency lights lurid glow.  Something hot was seething in his chest again, much as it had earlier, when he’d played the sledgehammer to Hannibal’s stiletto and moved through the enemy like a storm.  Grave-low, James demanded, “What did you give him?”

“I gave him what he needed, James,” replied Hannibal in that serene way of his.  James felt the urge to bare his teeth.  “Your Quartermaster was dead on his feet - and I doubt he was going to sleep as well as he should.”

“So you gave him-”

“A sedative,” Hannibal finished James’ sentence as if that was a reassuring answer.  It was… to a point.  A sedative was not the same as a lethal poison, after all.  

Before James could decide whether or not he wanted to dismember Hannibal or just knock all of his teeth out, Q made a pathetic little mewling noise, and James found himself turning back to him as if on puppet strings.  Q’s eyes were half open and he looked troubled and confused.  His bad arm flailed a bit (Q was lying on his right side), and it was reflex to say, “Stop moving that arm, Q.”

Q did, but only when his hand landed on James’ wrist.  “So fuzzy,” Q slurred.  

When Hannibal spoke up again, he didn’t sound contrite, but at least he spoke words meant to calm James down.  “The sedative is neither dangerous nor strong.  Enough to knock him out, but he’ll probably only be immobilized for an hour at most - unless he sleeps longer of his own volition.”

“And if trouble comes before then?” James challenged.  

When James aimed a glare Hannibal’s way, the other Hound met his eyes squarely.  “Well, then it seems like both you and I are in the same predicament - since I doubt Mr. Graham will be moving before that time either.  We’ll just have to decide whether or not to stay or run, I suppose.”

Being reminded of Graham’s condition was a bit sobering, and the fury in James cooled a little, replaced by pragmatism.  007 reassessed the situation, factoring in Will this time, and thinking that he had a slightly better idea of why Hannibal had done this.  James would have to stick around if Q was like this; that would conceivably mean two dangerous protectors if something bad came, since anything that threatened Will right now was an equal threat to the swiftly-fading Quartermaster.  James had to admit, it was a cunning move.  “Fine then,” he gave ground grudgingly, “It looks like half of us will be getting some sleep.”

By the knowing look exchanged between the two Hounds, they understood that neither of the two of them would be sleeping, however.  There wasn’t enough trust there.  “Good.  We’ve reached an understanding,” Hannibal nonetheless maintained the facade of a convivial relationship.

James didn’t feel the need to do the same.  As Hannibal pivoted to return to Will, James called out, “Lecter?”  003 half-turned, and James said with a voice as calm and inevitable as a last breath, “If you drug Q again, I’m going to take you apart in a way that even you will find impressive.”

Hannibal didn’t reply verbally, but he did cant his head a bit, as if weighing that threat within the complex cogs and scales of his mind.  Then he seemed to simply accept it, nodding, before disappearing into the locker rooms.  

~^~

Chapter Text

~^~

James’ glare followed Hannibal until the other Hound disappeared from sight, and perhaps he would have continued glaring at the empty doorway had not Q squeezed his wrist weakly and murmured his name in a questioning tone.  Exhaling slowly through his nose as he realized there was very little he could do about this, James reluctantly turned back to the Quartermaster next to him.  “Yeah, Q?”

“Did I hear that correctly?”  Q’s eyes were barely open and his words were coming out of his mouth very slowly, as if he were having to pick them with great care if he didn’t want to slur.  “Did Lecter…?”

“Drug you?  Yes,” James finished the sentence tetchily.  When this made Q’s brows beetle in the most heartrending look of distress, the Hound softened a bit, moving his hand to the boffin’s forehead and smoothing his hair back from his brow.  “He just gave you something to make you sleep, Q, nothing lethal.”  Unless trouble came, but even if an army rolled in to find the Quartermaster helpless, James was determined not to allow anyone to hurt him.  

The hand James had moved was connected to the wrist Q was still holding, and instead of letting go, Q just shifted his grip so that he had his fingers knotted in the cuff of James’ pullover.  Behind his glasses, Q’s eyes were becoming unfocused.  “Shit,” the Quartermaster nonetheless muttered with a decent bit of emphasis.  

“Precisely,” James agreed, and then saw that Q was shivering.  “Cold, Q?”

Sleepy eyes closed, eyebrows still drawn together.  “Always.  I want this siege to end… just so I can have a hot bath.”  Words were getting harder, clearly, but James couldn’t help but chuckle a little at the petulant tone Q nonetheless managed. 

Coming to his next decision were therefore quite easy: “How about this, Q?  You catch a bit of mandatory shut-eye, and I’ll keep you warm?”

One eye slitted open, roving up to find James’ face.  “This is like that first night, isn’t it?” he mumbled.

The memory had James grinning slyly.  “Well, except that there’s no bed.”  James gestured around him with the hand not still captured by Q’s grip.  Q’s eyes tried and failed to follow the movement.  “Just exercise mats.  But I’m pretty sure I can play guard-dog and space-heater at the same time.”  

“Good, because if I freeze to death in my sleep, then I’ll never… finish saying what I was saying earlier,” Q forced the words past a sluggish tongue.  

With a jolt, James recalled what Q had been starting to say, right when Hannibal’s damned drugs had hit home.  “Or you could tell me now,” James coaxed as nonchalantly as possible.  He swivelled his wrist against Q’s grip on his sleeve, subtly catching Q’s hand, rubbing a coaxing thumb across the knobs of Q’s knuckles.  

Q was having none of James’ subtle manipulations, though, and merely closed his eyes, grumbling, “Nope.  If I have to be drugged, you have to wait for… words.”  The last word in particular was clearly a struggle, and Q let out a piteous little moan of frustrated unhappiness.  James felt his heart soften without warning, and the next stroke to Q’s knuckles came without strings attached, or any hopes for information in return.  

“Fine, fine,” James feigned irritation, even as he began moving himself around.  The exercise mats were actually decently comfortable, all things considered, and he settled down between Q’s back and the wall - this way, he could still have a wall guarding his own back, and could survey the whole room, including the entrance to where Hannibal and Will currently resided.  He pulled Q in a bit closer against him, wincing in sympathy when Q made a noise of discontent.  “Your ribs?” James asked, pretty sure that was it.  Q gave a slow nod, but after he was tucked in the lee of James’ body and the Hound’s grip around his middle gentled, the Quartermaster relaxed again.  The upside to being drugged up on sleeping medication with a side of painkillers was that most any discomfort was pretty temporary.  James hooked his ankles around Q’s shins, dragging Q’s legs back until they were touching there, too.  “Think you’ll stay warm now, for your mandatory nap?” James murmured in Q’s ear.  

Q had moved enough on his own to get an arm beneath his head, an impromptu pillow that allowed him to keep his glasses on.  Sleeping without his glasses would probably be more comfortable, but less safe - because James had to admit, Q’s poor natural eyesight was a liability.  Now, though, Q’s eyes were closed, and when he nodded again in response to James’ question, it was a barely-there dipping of his chin.  He was nearly out.  Head propped up on one arm, James looked down at him, trying to figure out what it was about this lithe boffin that was so endlessly enchanting.  If Q was a drug, then James was an addict.  Was it healthy?  James honestly had no idea, and anyone who knew that he was high-Pass would probably declare that he wouldn’t know a good relationship when it bit him in the arse anyway.  

All James knew was that he liked his life better now that Q was in it, so after reaching over to gently uncurl Q’s fingers (he seemed to have fallen asleep mid-motion, and his left hand was bent awkwardly beneath his chin), the Hound settled down to watch and wait for his partner to wake up again.  Q’s breathing felt natural and oddly comforting, as each inhale pressed Q’s back a little bit snugger against James’ front.  And when Q’s feet gave a fretful little kick from time to time, like a dog chasing rabbits in its sleep, James would lean down to murmur wordless soothing noises in his ear, and tangle their legs together just a bit more.  

~^~

Eggsy tried not to think about M’s secretary, Ianto Jones, being groped by the broad-shoulder Hound - Harkness, had he heard him called?  Whoever he was, he was just one more thing on a long list of things that Eggsy couldn’t afford to get involved with.  He’d thought that he’d maybe caught something in their interaction, something in the movement of Harkness’ mouth at the end, shaping… had he said “Sorry”?  Eggsy was pretty good at spotting a faker, but Hounds were also incredibly good at faking, so the pilot was left feeling helpless and unsure.  Jones was just sitting now, like a pet atop Harkness’ boots, and Eggsy told himself that that was at least an improvement.  

He also hadn’t gotten any more texts from Harry, which… technically meant things were progressing, but it also meant that Eggsy no longer had a safety net.  True, he’d lived most of his life without a proper safety net - his mum was unreliable since her husband’s death, and Dean was more a pit of snakes than a safety net if he fell - but now he’d gotten a taste of what it felt like to have someone capable there to support him.  In just this short amount of time, Eggsy had gotten to like the feeling of having Harry Hart, a Hound of all people, watching his back.  And now… well, now he just had to remind himself that Harry was on his way.  The safety net was still there, he just couldn’t send it snarky and/or flirty texts now.  

It got harder to remember that safety net when someone called out, “Something’s wrong.  Boss isn’t responding.”  

People had been coming and going, but as of now, there were thirteen people in the hanger, including Eggsy - it seemed like many of C’s men, who had been terrorizing Eigengrau prior to this, had started filtering in here.  They’d all heard the bit on the intercom, with C using the Quartermaster as bait to taunt some man named Sherlock.  So while a lot of that made no sense to any of them, it was clear that some endgame was in the works.  Logically, this made sense - Eggsy couldn’t blame people for not wanting to be left behind - but it was awfully inconvenient to have so many enemies converging on this one area.  At least only one of them was a 00-agent level Hound (Harkness), although Eggsy could identify 013 and perhaps a few other lower level high-Pass agents in the room.  “Where the fuck are you, Harry?” Eggsy muttered under his breath, bouncing one leg in a jittery way as nerves began to gnaw at him.  

And then things got worse.  

013 stepped away from where another of C’s men had been trying to engage him in conversation.  While not a large man - he was actually built slimmer than Eggsy, and maybe even a bit shorter - 013 had eyes a lot like Moran’s, sharp and efficient, albeit with a bit more anger in them thanks to the man who’d been trying to talk to him for a couple of hours now.  “Moran isn’t here and we can’t contact him,” 13 confirmed, his American accent ringing around the room with a surprising amount of volume and authority.  All eyes immediately turned to him, and any condescending glances were met immediately with a xyresic glare.  Stepping further into the middle of the room, the lean young Hound continued in a voice that had dropped suddenly back to an almost quiet volume, “But he left standing orders with me - and with Eames.”  He jerked a reluctant thumb over his shoulder to the other man, the one that had been annoying him, who grinned broadly in return.  Eggsy had a bad feeling about this.  “If we were to lose contact, that meant we were supposed to move the helicopter.  Quiet!”  Thirteen roared when sounds of dissent rose up.  He got what he wanted quickly, and maybe it was because he looked ready to mess people up.  Quiet and conversational once again, like no shouting had been necessary, the Hound went on, “We’re not moving it far - or permanently.  We don’t know what’s happening, and C wants to make sure that no one decides to sneak off with the helicopter before it’s time.”

Realizing that that was exactly what he and Harry were considering doing, Eggsy put on his best blank face and put a bit of belligerence into his tone for added effect, “So we’re just going to steal it instead?”  It was a valid question, and he heard a few murmurs and saw a few nods.  

Agent 13’s eyes moved to Eggsy with all the cold efficiency of a sniper’s sights.  Whatever retort he was about to give, however, was interrupted by the other man he’d referenced, Eames - the more easy-going individual still leaning against the far wall, “Valid question, but it’s pretty trivial, isn’t it?”  Thirteen was shooting Eames a look of resigned annoyance, but let the other man - his accent English and just a bit posh - finished pleasantly, “I can confirm what Arthur here is saying, but even if he was lying, don’t you want to be part of the group stealing the helicopter?”  Now there were even more murmurs and nods, and it was clear that Eames knew how to play a crowd.  “That being said, I wouldn’t want to cross C.  He made it very clear that we could move the helicopter to the northern landing pad for safekeeping - but we had to bring it back on the third day.”  No one questioned that, oddly enough - maybe everyone knew just how far C’s reach was, and that even if he was left marooned here now, he’d eventually get vengeance.

‘If we do that, then Harry won’t find us,’ Eggsy realized, growing anxiety knotting in the pit of his stomach.  He wanted to sneak a glance at the door, wanting Harry to burst through it, but everyone was looking at him now except Agent 13 (who was still eyeing Eames with a grouchy look) so he couldn’t afford to act suspicious.  Trying to stall, he kept up his stubborn demeanour and asked in return, “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“You haven’t been part of the team as long as I have, Oxford.  Sorry, darling,” Eames said with an easy shrug.  He gestured at Agent 13.  “And Moran told him because I vouched for Arthur having military experience as a strategist.  No offence regarding that, Harkness, I know you technically outrank him as a Hound.”  

For a second, Eggsy hoped that this would cause some dissent - maybe even a fight, but instead Harkness drawled back, “No offence taken,” unbothered.  Ianto looked a bit worried, but was clearly trying to be inconspicuous, even as the Hound behind him stroked a hand over his head and behind one ear.  

Eggsy tried to scramble for reasons to keep the helicopter in place, if only for a bit longer.  The problem was, he could understand this plan of action: if you had an item that everyone wanted, and suddenly the lights (or in this case comms) went out, then you had a metaphorical target on your back if any unfriendly party wanted to take that item.  Staying put made you an easier target, but if you moved yourself (and the item, in this case an entire helicopter) even a bit, then you evened the odds.  Any enemy operatives might have known where you were, but they’d have to do a lot of work to find out where you had moved to.  

Before Eggsy could come up with a non-suspicious reason to at least delay their departure, Arthur was raising his voice again in a parade-ground-worthy holler, “All right, people, load up!”  

In the background, Eames could be heard chuckling knowingly, “Just as bossy as always, I see.”

“Shut up, Eames. You’re half the reason that I’m in here anyway” Agent 13 shot back, before turning to look expectantly at Eggsy, the only one here who could fly the helicopter.  

In that moment, Eggsy realized he was going to have to do something stupid to stall until Harry got there.  

The helicopter was a big one, designed to carry groups of Hounds and Handlers on missions - but so far no one was in any rush, moving towards it at an ambling pace, smirking and chattering about things.  More than a few had to move past Harkness and Jones, and the latter was getting a lot of unwanted attention in the process, but at least it was further slowing people down.  All of that was enough for Eggsy to gauge his own distance to the helicopter, and judge that he could make it to the chopper before anyone else could if he really booked it.  So, without wasting another second on the problem (because then he’d probably realize how stupid it was and stop), the young pilot launched himself into an all-out sprint towards the helicopter.  

And the race was on.

Most everyone was shocked, having no idea what to make of ‘Oxford’ and his sudden mad dash.  He’d never given them any reason to doubt his loyalty, after all, so some of the people weren’t even initially suspicious - just confused.  Agent 13 was clearly not a trusting man, however, and Eggsy cursed as the Hound started moving almost as soon as he did, barely hesitating in surprise.  Eggsy was still closer, however, and made it to the helicopter before anyone else, pulling the door open and swinging himself inside.  He planned to shut the door and lock everything from there (a very childish move, but potentially effective), but before he could slam the door, Agent 13 was exploding through the space, hands on Eggsy in seconds.  

Agent 13 - Arthur, had they called him? - was comparable in size to Eggsy, maybe a bit on the leaner side, but he was damn fast.  Eggsy just barely dodged a punch to the face, and when he tried to get his foot in Arthur’s stomach to kick the Hound out, he wasn’t fast enough, and Eggsy had a face-full of high-Pass agent.  Everything happened fast then.  Movement.  Bodies twisting.  The flash of a fist that Eggsy did his level best to return.  Eggsy had a bit more muscle on him, a slight advantage now that they were in close quarters, but the light in Arthur’s eyes - cold and determined like a missile locked on target - said that it would take more than a few hard blows to dislodge him.  Eggsy could see why this man was in Eigengrau, even before the two of them somehow managed to roll into the larger cargo area in the body of the helicopter.  At that point Arthur had more room to manoeuvre, and he really began to fight back, vicious and dirty.

Thankfully, Eggsy had grown up fighting that way.  It had been the only way to survive big bruisers like his stepfather, after all.  Briefly, he wondered if this lean young Hound had learned the same way… and then had no time to think of anything at all besides action and reaction, the tensing of his own muscles and the necessity of weathering pain in order that he might return it.  

Outside the helicopter, C’s men were realizing that something was very amiss.  “Arthur!” Eames had yelled, not reacting to Eggsy as quickly but clearly seeing the Hound suddenly go on the attack.  With Eames and the others were looking towards the vicious fight now rocking the helicopter, no one was looking at Jones, who reached up to catch Harkness’s hand, murmuring something to him.  In response, 001 frowned at first, and then nodded.  Jones scrambled to his feet, freeing up the Hound to wade forward with a grim expression on his usually charming, grinning face.  

Just as he started wading past the first person between him and the helicopter, however, his mouth curled up on one side in a vicious little grin - right before he decked the person to his right.  A whole new level of confusion rippled outwards from his action, although Jones could just be heard yelping, “Yes!” as Harkness turned on his own allies.  Of course, Ianto himself was decidedly less defensible, and when people turned to him, his eyes got wide - but then he firmed up his jaw and his expression got mean.  

Ianto Jones was tired, he was scared, and he was so very done with being messed with.  

It was Harkness’ turn to cheer when Jones charged someone instead of waiting for the fight to come to him, taking down his first opponent in a windmill of flailing limbs.  At the same time, however, 001 fell back so that he could better defend his less battle-trained companion.  Unsure where to direct their attention, C’s allies stalled further as they looked between the grinning fiend that was Agent Harkness, and the pilot who was suddenly fighting with Agent 013.  

Eames was not immune to the confusion.  It had seemed pretty simple to join Arthur and settle matters there, the two of them surely enough to overcome one renegade pilot - but he’d halted mid-charge when he’d heard shouts and screams and turned to see that the other Hound in the room had suddenly decided to turn on everyone.  “What the bloody hell is wrong with people all of a sudden?” Eames muttered, torn.  A glance told him that Arthur and the pilot were beating the ever-loving fuck out of each other, and while Eames didn’t doubt Arthur’s ability to hold his own in a fight, he did know that Arthur’s speciality was as a sniper and a strategist, not hand-to-hand combat.  Making a face, Eames predicted that Arthur was going to get his arse handed to him - but slowly, because Arthur would refuse to go quietly.  On the other hand, Harkness (and to a much smaller degree, the man with him, Jones) was creating pandemonium, and he clearly did know how to handle himself in a hand-to-hand situation.  People were trying to swarm him and being more or less thrown in all directions, and all 001 had to show for it so far was a bloody grin from a pop he’d taken to the mouth.  “Is that all you got?!” Harkness roared, and Eames realized that there was no salvaging this situation in a clean way.

“Bollocks,” he sighed.  Silently apologizing for Arthur as he let him fend for himself a bit longer, C’s man Eames unholstered the handgun from beneath his jacket.  He wasn’t the marksman Arthur was - Arthur was a finesse weapon, Eames was a bomb - but he raised the weapon and sighted down it, waiting for an opening in the chaos to get Harkness in his sights.  “Stand down, Harkness, you big bloody bastard, or-!” he started to call out, hoping to create a window of opportunity.

He cut off and looked sharply to the left as the door to the hanger opened with a resounding slam.  The man that had kicked it open, however, then walked through like a gentleman entering the Queen’s presence, impeccably dressed and looking around with a serene expression.  The only thing that gave away the fact that he might not be all that genteel was the Hound’s collar peeking out past the collar of his shirt.  Eames hesitated, unsure whether to change the target of his gun, because so far he had one Hound against him and one on his side - making it rather hard to make snap decisions about whether or not any given Hound was going to be friend or foe.

Most everyone else was still fighting, but the newcomer looked around the room with a careful discerning glance.  Apparently not finding what he was looking for, he called out, “Eggsy?  Did you start something without me?”

“Harry!” came the pilot’s jubilant cry from within the helicopter - quickly followed by more swearing and thudding as Arthur no doubt took advantage of the moment of distraction.

“Typical youths of today,” the new Hound - Harry, apparently - sighed, and before Eames could decide on a course of action, Harry was suddenly moving, racing into the fight with far more speed than Eames had expected.  He was heading right towards the helicopter, which unfortunately put Eames directly in his way.  

Eames liked to think of himself as quite a capable brawler - he could definitely hold his own, and was strong enough to subdue an enemy like Arthur by brute force alone if he could get in close quarters.  However, Eames had ultimately been hired by Moriarty for his skills with people and forging documents, and he had the sinking sensation that fighting a Hound wasn’t what the wanted to do.  Just as he was turning to aim his gun at Harry, however - a quick way to avoid a fight, and Eames had never been an honourable man - something crashed into his side from the right.  It wasn’t until he’d hit the ground swearing that he realized it was Harkness’s prisoner, Jones.  Now, Eames could take Jones in a fight.  It was but the work of a moment to orient himself and get an elbow free, and then send that elbow crashing into Jones’ jaw, dazing him.  In those moments, however, Harry had gotten close enough that using a gun wasn’t an option.  It seemed like the Hound was more interested in just getting to the helicopter, but Eames had the sinking suspicion (and his suspicions were rarely wrong) that Harry was not on their side.  He had no idea who this “Eggsy” was, but since the pilot Oxford had answered… well, Eames could put two and two together.  So as Harry moved to swerve smoothly past Jones and Eames on the floor, the latter disentangled himself from the dazed Jones and just managed to get his gun-hand free. 

The echo within the hanger was deafening.  It wasn’t a good shot by any means, but Harry’s left leg crumpled and he fell in eerie silence.  Eames was good at reading people, though, so he knew that that silence was telling.  Immediately, he worked to fully disengage from Jones, having a sinking suspicion that one half-arsed shot to the leg wasn’t going to slow down this Hound.  

He was right.

Harry was up and moving again before Eames could get off another (and theoretically better) shot, and suddenly Eames found himself fighting for ownership of the gun.  He barely knew what happened between him twisting free of Jones and suddenly having Harry sweeping his legs out from under him and then launching on top of him.  God, this was like fighting with Arthur - only Arthur was small, so even if he was as fast and mean as a snake, Eames could weather it with the eventual hopes of overpowering Arthur.  That, and Eames and Arthur hadn’t exactly had any occasion to spar with one another since Arthur had been collared and sent off to Eigengrau… Now, as Eames found himself dealing with an opponent who was both strong and fast, he found himself missing all the practice he’d had with Arthur.

Of course, it helped that Arthur only wanted to maim Eames sometimes, and kill him rarely.  This Hound, Harry, with blood staining his nice trousers all down the back of his right lower leg, looked entirely interested in taking Eames’ handgun and then putting a bullet between his eyes.  As Eames tried to buck Harry off, he at least sent out a silent thanks to the fact that guns were fairly rare in Eigengrau - precisely because of the Hounds that lived here.  If Harry had come in with a gun, rather than having to take one by force… well, Eames didn’t much like to ponder that.  

“This would be easier,” the Hound above Eames grunted as he just managed to keep Eames pinned in place, but didn’t manage to get the gun, “if you just gave me the gun.”

“Sorry, old chap,” Eames said.  He was capable of dozens of accents, but decided to go as posh as possible to make up for the totally ignominious circumstances.  “But I have this strange aversion to bein shot… and left my trust for people at home today.”

Harry grunted, throwing a punch at Eames’s vulnerable floating ribs.  Eames tensed up and twisted his body just enough to weaken the impact, although it was still painful enough to make him swear.  Harry smirked a bit, as if the loss of decorum were the real victory here.  “I seem to have the same issues.  How ironic,” he replied past gritted, smiling teeth.

Then there was a high, pained yelp from within the helicopter - and it said something about both of them that Eames and Harry simultaneously looked towards the sound with concern.  Ironically, it was in that moment while both of them were distracted that someone else decided to join the fray and fight for the gun: Jones, who apparently wasn’t so dazed anymore.  Now even Harry spat out a curse, his own gentlemanliness cracking to reveal frustration beneath.  However, Eames was always a man to play the long game, and a quick glance around the room told him quite a lot: even if Harry wasn’t on the same side as Jones and Harkness, he seemed to be on the same side as the pilot, Oxford (Eggsy?), and most everyone who was for-sure on Eames’ side was getting pummeled by one of Eigengrau’s most ferocious agents, 001.  Harkness was outnumbered quite substantially, but the fact that he hadn’t stopped grinning yet had people keeping their distance.  

And at that moment, with a little noise of triumph, Jones wrestled the gun free.  Harry looked worried, but Eames had been in the room long enough to know where Jones’ loyalties lay - therefore, it was no surprise to him when Jones twisted around, ignored Harry and Eames entirely, and shot at one of the many harassing Harkness.  001 let out a whoop of delight that was just a bit too bloodthirsty to be entirely healthy.  While Harry was still fixated on the gun (and probably trying to figure out the alliances of the room), Eames managed to roll free of him and back off.  

It was then that 001 seemed to finally notice the presence of another hound.  “Oh, hey, Hart!  Fancy seeing you here!” he called, then punched someone in the mouth as they wandered too close.  His voice took on a lethal edge as he went on, “I’d be mighty grateful if you left Jones alone.”

Harry had been stalking up behind Jones, but wisely froze at the warning.  Ianto, for this part, craned his head around as if just now remembering who he’d stolen the gun from - his eyes widened a bit as he saw Harry standing over him.  Eames has somehow managed to melt back into the shadows. Trying to figure out who was friend and foe, Harry looked between the gun, Harkness, and the helicopter, trying to decide what was the wisest move to make - now that he had a wounded leg, as well as Eggsy’s wellbeing to worry about.  

He saw the tensing of Jones’ crouched body that said he was considering turning around and shooting the newly arrived Hound behind him.  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Harry said quite politely, and watched as Jones’ body froze, caught-out.  Still, Harry thought he was understanding the situation just a little bit more, especially since he recognized Harkness’ foes as C’s men.  “If you could be so kind as to not shoot me, I think I could be persuaded to remove a few enemies from Harkness’ plate,” he offered, and saw by the sagging of Jones’ shoulders that this was the right thing to say.

~^~

Dammit but Eggsy was wishing Moran had left some other Hound behind.  This Arthur fellow was tougher than he looked, and even though Eggsy was… reasonably sure… that he was winning, the Hound was still preventing him from doing anything!  He hadn’t even been able to close the helicopter door, for christ-sakes, although at least no one else had come in.  If Eggsy weren’t already so punch-drunk, adrenaline an almost physical buzzing in his ears, he might have realized that that was a bit odd.  As it was, all he could think about right now was punching and blocking, and trying to tell up from down as he and 013 rolled around the interior of the helicopter like two tom-cats fighting for territory.  Arthur was scarily efficient, and he had to have undergone training to tolerate pain either as a Hound or before then, because even when Eggsy managed to get in a solid blow to his jaw, the Hound just hung on and then spat blood in Eggsy’s face.  “Shit!” the pilot snarled, literally blinded and a little bit grossed out, but then… the next punch of Arthur’s whiffed past him.  

Blinking his eyes clear, Eggsy flinched hard as his vision was filled by a fist coming at him - but even as he got an arm up to block, that punch fell short, too.  It was only then that Eggsy refocused his eyes, blinking again and taking in the bigger picture: Arthur, being hauled off him.  Agent 013 had been an eerily silent fighter, save the occasional grunt of pain and brief, harsh curse when Eggsy got a good blow in - but now, as that other man, Eames, hooked a hand in his collar and dragged him backwards, Arthur was swearing a blue streak.  

Stunned and not sure what to make of this, Eggsy pushed himself up on his elbows, panting and staring.  Eames had gotten Arthur out of the helicopter now, and was looking at someone in the hanger beyond Eggsy’s range of vision.  

“We’re surrendering, all right?” Eames said, voice carefully modulated to sound accommodating and not challenging.  He kept his eyes fixed forward and his grip on Arthur secure, neither of which was easy: Arthur was fighting him like a demon, and one of the men facing him had a gun.  Eames didn’t honestly think that Jones was very good at using it, but the Hound flanking Jones certainly was.  Giving Arthur a hard shake and managing to grasp one of his arms, twisting it behind him in a submission hold, Eames added as convincingly as possible, “Him, too.  Neither of us want any more trouble.”

“Your spitfire friend there doesn’t seem to agree,” Harkness observed.

Eames used his hold now to force Arthur to the floor.  The smaller man cursed him soundly, and Eames grimaced at the necessity of it all.  Regardless of whether or not Arthur forgave him for this, there would be hell to pay… Arthur was neither the forgiving nor the forgetting type.  “I’m agreeing for him,” Eames stated firmly.

Arthur called him a bastard along with a string of more creative descriptors, but Eames had the upper hand already, and further twisted Arthur’s left arm up behind him.  “This is your dominant arm, darling, don’t make me dislocate it,” he murmured to Arthur under his breath, while still watching the conquerors in the room.  

Because that was what they were: conquerors.  Eames had seen the tides turn in the blink of an eye after Harry and Harkness realized that they were on the same side.  None of C’s men were left standing, and a good many of them weren’t even breathing anymore.  Harkness in particular was a bloody mess, a veritable picture of a half-sated war-god.

Getting Arthur to understand that was impossible until he calmed down, so Eames settled for putting a knee on the small of Arthur’s back and pulling back on his collar until air became a rare commodity.  “We surrender,” he said, very clearly.  It was a gamble - Harkness looked vicious enough to kill prisoners, but Jones did not.  Harry… maybe.  It was hard to tell.  Eames was good at gambling, though, so he held his ground until Jones and Harkness exchanged looks, and then nodded.  

“I’ll find something to tie them up with,” Jones offered, and even though he also handed the gun to Harkness (a true threat if there ever was one), Eames still breathed a sigh of relief.  

“Eames,” Arthur growled, low and lethal, showing that he was willing to use what little air he had to make threats, “I’m going to skin you alive for this and roll your body in salt.”

“You were already going to do that, Arthur,” Eames rolled his eyes, and didn’t slacken his hold for a second - even as Jones found rope, even as Harry walked swiftly past them to hop onto the helicopter and say something to the battered pilot inside.  Because even though Eames loved Arthur enough to save him from a brutal death, he also knew Arthur well enough to know that the smaller man would fight like a cornered mink if he was given half a chance.  “So how about you just take a deep breath and think about how alive you are to make those threats?”

“Fucking asshole,” Arthur grumbled.  It was more a growl than a snarl now.

Eames stopped tugging back quite so hard on the collar.  “I love you, too, darling.”

Arthur didn’t respond, just glared warily at everyone around him as he lay belly-down on the floor with Eames’ steady weight holding him there.  

~^~

Chapter Text

“Eggsy?  Eggsy!”

“Bloody… buggering… fuck, that Hound hits hard!”  Eggsy’s complaining voice was followed by the sound of someone spitting blood out of their mouth, then a displeased groan.  By that point, Harry Hart had stopped calling for the younger man and had leapt up into the helicopter to find him.  If there was any question as to Harry being in cahoots with the pilot, it was put to rest at that point, as the now-quiet hanger made it easy for everybody to pick up bits and snatches of the Hound checking up on and soothing the battered pilot.  Eames could just crane his head far enough to see inside the chopper, where Oxford… Eggsy… was trying to get up but the Hound was gently but efficiently making him stay sitting while he checked him over.  Good lord, but the pilot was a wreck.  Then again, Eames had always known that Arthur gave as good as he got.

Arthur, equally bloodied, was sitting docilely now, back to back with Eames, both of them securely tied hand and foot.  As always, Eames was equal parts disturbed and impressed by how quickly Arthur regained an appearance of aloof calmness - although Eames knew better than anyone the storm of razorblades lurking underneath.  “Happy now, Eames?” Arthur grumbled low in his throat, even as he kept an eye on everyone in the room: Eggsy and Harry in the helicopter, Jones with the other Hound likewise checking him over a short distance away.  “If you were so keen on being tied up, you could have damn well left me out of it.”

“Then you’d be amongst the dead on the floor, darling,” Eames returned bluntly.  He didn’t have to do anything to indicate the bodies in the room.  Perhaps some were merely unconscious, but by the way Harkness was coldly eyeing them, chances were high that a few executions would be made - that was what happened when you threatened a high-Pass agent like 001.  

Eames could feel Arthur bristle against his back, lean body going iron-hard with tension.  “You don’t know that!”

“Arthur, I’m trained to know that,” Eames replied patiently, “You may be the strategist, but I read people for a living, and believe me - everything I read about those two Hounds said that there were limited options that didn’t include your swift execution.”

That quieted Arthur a little.  When peeved, Arthur could be difficult to handle, but ultimately he was a supremely logical being; it never took him long to see sense.  “You’re still an asshole,” was his final remark on the matter.  

The forger resisted the urge to chuckle, because even though he knew that that was basically a term of endearment coming from Arthur, he also knew that Arthur was wound tightly enough as it was.  Further wounding his pride by laughing wouldn’t end well.  “And you’re still as charming as ever,” Eames chose to reply as well.  

Arthur merely grunted in return, which Eames was skilled enough to translate as a peace offering - and perhaps even an admission that Arthur was grudgingly glad to be a living prisoner rather than a dead rebel.  Living with Arthur, Eames had learned to enjoy little wins like that.  

Within the chopper, Harry was having a significantly more difficult time with his own partner, if only because Eggsy seemed pathologically incapable of sitting still and letting himself be tended to.  

“Har- Harry, no, really - I’m fine!”

“You look like you were worked over by a meat pulverizer.  That is in no way a definition of ‘fine’.  Now sit still until I’m sure nothing’s broken.”  Harry’s words got the younger man to subside with a few grumbles, quieting beneath the Hound’s seeking hands.  Harry decided to add with a bit more derision in his tone, “I’d say that I want to be sure you aren’t concussed, but I’m almost certain you are.”

“ ’M not concussed.”

“That would sound far more convincing if you didn’t have so much evidence of blows to the head.  Now kindly open your eyes and look at me.”  

Eggsy stopped his grumpy mutterings as Harry’s hands cradled his head - a gesture so remarkably gentle that it stopped Eggsy’s brain a little bit… or maybe that was a concussion.  It was hard to deny that Eggsy was unused to adult hands being this careful with him, so at the light, warm touch to his sorely bruised jaw, his eyes flew open of their own accord.  Harry, seeming not to notice the reaction, just continued to look him over, frowning faintly.  “Well, it’s a bit hard to check pupillary reactions in this lighting, but you at least have two functional eyes,” Harry finally confirmed, his tone only slightly patronizing.  “And I’m thinking that any slurring that you’re doing is because you have a terribly split lip.”

Reflexively, Eggsy moved his tongue to prod at the wound, wincing and then wondering how much of it had dripped down his chin - and whether or not it was smearing Harry’s hands.  Suddenly, it felt… rude… almost sacrilegious… to get blood on this impeccable gentleman, and Eggsy nearly pulled his head out of Hart’s grip before he realized that Harry actually wasn’t entirely unruffled.  Belatedly, Eggsy noticed that Harry had more than a few hairs out of place - and a glance downwards showed-  “Harry, why is there blood on your trouser leg?”

“Oh.”  One of Harry’s hands dropped away from Eggsy’s face (although the other lingered, cupping the least bruised side of the pilot’s jaw, and perhaps Eggsy leaned into it when the Hound looked away) as he turned to regard his own right calf.  “I was rather rudely shot at, I’m afraid. It’s just a graze, and the only physical reminder I’ll have of this little fray, thankfully.”

Deciding that he could afford to get Harry a bit bloody if the man was bloody already, Eggsy didn’t try and withdraw his head from Harry’s grip.  The warmth felt nice.  Or maybe he just needed the reminder right now that someone could touch him without hurting him.  “You gonna bandage it up or just keep bleeding all over your trousers then?”

Keen eyes snapped back to Eggsy, one eyebrow raised.  “You first - then we’ll see if there’s enough bandage material left over,” he insisted.  

At that point, Eggsy ran out of the interest and energy to argue, choosing to lean back on his arms and sit while Harry pulled a handkerchief out of nowhere and got the worst of the blood off him.  Like before, it was strange and wonderful to have someone cleaning him up, and Eggsy didn’t realize how much he needed it - not physically, no.  He could easily function with blood going sticky on his skin.  But mentally… it was like he was coming back to himself, like there was a wild animal being put back to rest beneath his skin. 

“Did we win?” he finally thought to ask.

Harry paused and regarded Eggsy with the smallest and yet most wonderful little smile.  “Not the war, but most certainly this fight,” the Hound confirmed, and then something in Eggsy’s posture, or maybe his face - the younger man was still catching his breath, still a bit tense, his muscles still full of the desperate need to keep him alive - urged him to crook a finger beneath Eggsy’ chin, thumb pressing down on the cleft to raise Eggsy’s head just a bit.  It put them closer, almost eye to eye, and Eggsy was transfixed by the soft pride in Harry’s eyes.  “You did fabulously, Eggsy,” the man murmured quietly, and it was as if he’d reached in and stroked Eggsy’s soul, someplace deep and starved for exactly that attention.  

~^~

Will was looking at a giant stag.  

It shifted its weight in front of him, raking a silvery-mooned, nocturnal sky with antlers like talons.  Each movement showed muscles far beyond what Will was used to seeing in a stag, as if there were several beasts piled atop one skeleton, all looking at will with dark, liquid eyes.  The forest around them shuddered and leaned away.  

The stag was covered in what looked like tar, sticky and inky, and the only reason Will didn’t find it strange was because he was standing in it, too.  The black of it coated him, strands dripping from him to the ground, making it easy to accept that he didn’t know what body he wore beneath.  He was just two eyes looking out past a flexible, dripping skin.  If he opened his mouth, would he feel long, lupine jaws parting, or would he reveal human teeth?  He could imagine a half-dozen different bodies hidden beneath the tar.  

The deer was apparently amorphous, too.  Strings of tar trailed from its legs as it stepped forward, and Will watched with abstract fascination as the body beneath the tar bubbled and collapsed on itself.  Whole sections of it seemed to just slough off, the tar collapsing with a grotesque, wet noise, but if Will were to be disgusted by it, then he’d have to be disgusted by himself as well.  They were both swaddled in the same tar, like strange young sharing a womb.

When the stag stopped walking again, it was on two legs like Will, standing so close that Will could have reached out and touched it - and part of him wanted to, if only to see what his own limb looked like.  Paw?  Hand?  Something with monstrous talons?  He wanted to say the word ‘monstrous’ in his mouth just to see if the word tasted like his own tongue, or if tar would just pour down his gullet.

More humanoid now, but still with antlers reaching up from its head, the other being reached out and - as if reading Will’s mind - placed a long-fingered hand across Will’s mouth. The contact was unexpected, and almost offensive in a way, but it was hard to command a body he didn’t even know the shape of, so Will was slow to jerk away.  The hand firmly wiped at Will’s mouth and chin, as if clearing the tar away.  When Will opened his mouth to protest, he got only a rush of cold air, so shocking to his system that it hurt.

The horned being was leaning in so close that the fog of its breath was everywhere.  Its mouth moved, too.  

Crystal-clear through the bubbling tar, Hannibal’s voice said, “We have breathed the same hungry, winter air, you and I.  But now it is time for you to breathe on your own again.”

~^~

The dream shattered, the only bit of it remaining being the cold air in Will’s lungs.  He coughed and writhed weakly, then groaned with feeling as a monster of a headache made itself known between his temples.  Nearly everything hurt, but that hurt the worst.  He panicked a little when his right arm wouldn’t move properly, but then he felt a hand close around his wrist, another warm and reassuring on his upper arm.  “Shhh, Will, shhh,” Hannibal’s voice broke through the fog of sleep, and Will blinked open bleary eyes to find a familiar face hanging over him, bearing a gentle smile.  Holding Will’s arm still (a glance belatedly informed the profiler that his arm had been slipped from the sleeve of his button-down shirt, and was now crudely bandaged to his own chest to maintain immobility), Hannibal advised in that same soothing tone, “Let your mind catch up with your body - one is awake but the other is still quite asleep.”

As if triggered by the word ‘sleep,’ Will closed his eyes, briefly flashing back to the dream again - only this time, it wasn’t his own mouth that opened up to the stag’s fogging breath, but someone else’s mouth.  A stranger’s mouth.  The opening to an entire person masquerading in his skin…!  Will didn’t realize that he’d started drawing in panicky breaths until Hannibal was hushing him again, and this time stroking his cheek to regain his attention.  “It’s all right, Will.  It’s all right,” the older man said with such surety in his voice that you couldn’t imagine that any other truth existed.  Ultimately, though, it was Hannibal’s calmness that convinced Will to stop hyperventilating.  

The hand on his cheek continued to caress gently, slowing in tandem with Will’s breathing.  The Hound’s eyes were watchful and almost fond somehow, even before Hannibal sympathized, “Dreams can be hard to shake free of, like snakes in a bad shed.” The hand was removed but the kindly regard was not.  “Like the snake’s skin, the dreams are a part of us, and they don’t always acquiesce to being parted.”

Will’s mind certainly didn’t want to shed the skin of his dreams, although he realized that he’d have to, if he ever wanted to properly wake up - and more and more by the second, he wanted to.  Part of it was a simple desire to not be inside a nightmare any more, but another part of it was the sobering recollection of where he was and what was going on.  As dreams faded, memory took its place, albeit in miserly, distorted pieces.  “What happened?” he got out, unsure what was dream and what was reality.

Some of the softness in Hannibal’s eyes solidified; the smile felt more synthetic.  The remaining hand that Hannibal still had on Will’s good shoulder didn’t spasm or tighten, but Will knew that that was because Hanibal was always in control of his own actions - especially when faced by such a predictable question.  

Will frowned.

How did he know all that?

“There was quite a fight,” Hannibal began to explain, words light despite the topic.  He had a history as a doctor, after all - used to delivering bad news in a humane but candid way.  “By the time Mr. Bond and I came upon you, H was already missing and you and Q were in dire straights - you worst of all.”  Hannibal’s gaze drifted up a bit, and his hand followed, just brushing the side of Will’s head.  The younger man hissed as his headache throbbed more viciously.  “The Quartermaster informed me that you were shot at.  The bullet only grazed your skull, but it is still a miracle that you and I are talking to one another right now.”

Seeking around inside of his rattled head, Will was able to find the events leading up to that memory - events that ended in an earth-shattering detonation of pain.  Now, he found himself cracking a grimacing smile and chuckling darkly to himself.  “That’s putting it mildly,” he replied, then tried to shift and get more comfortable on the floor.  He thought he was in a locker room of sorts, an exercise mat beneath him.  His shoulder throbbed, and he wondered how badly he exacerbated that wound, to convince Hannibal to bind his entire arm into stillness.  Then again, Hannibal did just like control for control’s sake.

Will wasn’t entirely sure how he knew that either, with such sudden clarity.

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asked, distracting Will from his musings by brushing his hair back a little.  Will could feel the bandages around his own head now, and imagined his hair was even more a mess than normal.

“Like someone cracked my skull open and let the crows pick at whatever was inside,” he answered honestly.  That tricked a chuckle out of Hannibal, and Will gathered his wits enough to look around again and then question further, “And what about 007 and the Quartermaster…?”

“Just in the room beyond.”  Hannibal eased into a relaxed sitting position by Will’s side, tipping his head towards a doorway Will had barely noticed.  “The Quartermaster would be the most damaged of us all if you hadn’t so easily edged him out of first place.”

More memories were trickling in, but Will kept talking idly as he tried to get his sluggish brain to sort through nightmare and reality, “Oh, so I’m damaged now?”  

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  Predictably, Hannibal enjoyed the chance to banter, and his smile grew more relaxed - although Will could still see the predator behind the softness of his eyes.  In fact, the more he remembered of the past few hours, the more deeply he saw.  

Trying to stay relaxed in the shadow of this dangerous man, Will lifted his free arm to gingerly touch his head.  He chickened out before his fingers touched the bandages, but he did manage a quick enough reply, “Isn’t it?”

Of course Hannibal had an answer ready on his tongue: “Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold.”  Will had to fight a smile at how obviously smug Hannibal was about being able to show off this knowledge.  If Agent 003 had any flaw, it was hubris… although Will had to admit that it wasn’t unfounded hubris.  Hannibal spouted more knowledge as he reached forward to catch Will’s raised hand at the wrist, preventing it from further investigation of the injury, “As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.”

Will had frozen when he’d first felt Hannibal’s grip close down around his wrist, feeling the strength and power transmitted into his bones.  It seemed for a brief second that Hannibal even clenched his hand, just for a moment exerting more strength than was necessary, as if Will had shown a hint of defiance in some unnamable way.  Will’s eyes flashed up to meet Hannibal’s, finding the latter’s gaze dark and unreadable, but still somehow hungry - like black holes in the dim room.  “Are you telling me to embrace my flaws, Dr. Lecter?” Will asked very quietly, after a long moment of unbroken staring.  For once, Will did not look away; it felt as though the throbbing of his headache even faded into the background.

Hannibal, for his part, seemed a bit surprised by the unprecedented eye-contact; it was hard to tell if he was more flustered or pleased, a slantwise smile taking over his mouth as he took in Will’s unflinching gaze.  “I’m merely telling you that your usefulness does not end where your perceived cracks and breakages begin,” Hannibal found a smooth answer that charmed Will a bit, despite everything.  Voice lowering a bit, eyes going half-lidded, Hannibal then added, “And that what some people called ‘damaged’ might in fact be your most valuable feature.”

There was always subtext when it came to Hannibal - that Will had known even before today, had known from the first moment he’d been in the same room as this killer - but now Will’s head was making it hard for him to focus on decoding it.  He broke eye contact with a grimace and a little bitten-off noise of pain.  Hannibal abruptly let go of his wrist, which Will gingerly brought to the bridge of his nose to try and knead away the pain.  “Let me find you something for the pain,” Hannibal offered magnanimously, standing and moving away to presumably find much-needed painkillers.  

Will lay where he was, mentally cataloguing his injuries with eyes closed.  At the same time, he catalogued his memories, finding where their edges started and began.  

Hannibal returned with bottled water and pills.  For a moment, Will hesitated, realizing that he had no way of knowing what the pills were, as Hannibal had felt no need to bring the bottle - or perhaps had chosen that course of action on purpose, because everything Hannibal did was on purpose.  In fact, it seemed like the Hound was watching Will more carefully than before, even as he extended both items.  ‘A test,’ Will realized, his unique brand of insight quickly seeing beneath the surface of the gesture.  All of this took but seconds, and then Will was taking the pills and popping them into his mouth.  He did all he could to sublimate all signs of distrust or hesitation, and even acquiesced to Hannibal’s left hand sliding carefully under his head to make drinking easier.  Their hands touched on the bottled water, as Hannibal relinquished it with reluctance into Will’s grip.  

By the time Will had accepted the risk - the challenge - and downed both pills, he knew exactly what would come out of Hannibal’s mouth next.  There was only one other important question left between them, really, at least from Hannibal’s point of view.

“What do you remember, Will?”

Settling his free hand on his stomach, feeling a bit strange with only one arm in its sleeve and the other half of his shirt just loosely draped in place, Will stared forward and narrowed his eyes as he flicked through the catalogue of his memory.  “Bits and pieces,” was what he answered, turning once again to catch Hannibal’s gaze, “Did I really attack Q?”

“I’m afraid you did,” Hannibal admitted, although he didn’t seem the slightest bit sad about that.  Typical.  “Your mind was not entirely your own at that point, however, and I believe the Quartermaster blames it all on your head injury.”

“I’d like to blame it all on that, too,” Will forced the joke out, then took a deep breath and laid down his next card, “I don’t really remember much of anything after that.  I suppose that Will Graham well and truly left the building.”

In the dimly lit room, Hannibal’s eyes glittered with some amusement understood only by himself.  “A rather quaint turn of phrase considering the serious circumstances, but that pretty much covers it.”

Will laid down another metaphorical card, raising the bet.  “Care to fill me in on what I missed?”

There was a pause in which Hannibal’s face went motionless, mask perfectly in place but also too perfectly still.  Will knew what to watch for now.  The answer wasn’t too long in coming, however - nothing to be suspicious about, if this were just a normal talk between normal folks.  “I can offer very little, I’m afraid.  You did seem to regain mobility at one point, although it was only enough for you to stand as C’s man, Moran, pointed a gun at you.”

Will made a face.  “Glad to know I was so stunningly useful,” he replied wryly.

“You were useful enough,” Hannibal said, and it was the closest he came to slipping up.  To telling the entire truth.  

Therefore, Will didn’t feel so bad about dropping the subject then, closing his eyes with a grumbled, “If you say so.  As long as we all got out in one piece.”

“It would seem that H absconded to locations unknown, but otherwise, yes,” Hannibal decided, and even though his eyes were closed, Will could sense the hand coming near before it touched him: fingers touched his neck, taking his pulse.  It was hard to resist the urge to swallow against the touch, especially since Will knew full well that Hannibal had no real reason to check his pulse.  This was just the urge of the carnivore coming out, a predatory claw testing a throat, deciding if it wanted to rip it out or not.  Will trusted that it wouldn’t - because while Hannibal had some seriously predatory instincts, he also had an equal if not greater amount of curiosity.  The curiosity won out: after one last, brief brush against Will’s carotid, the hand retreated.  Apparently Will was still far too fascinating to hurt in any way.  That knowledge sent an undeniable thrill through the younger man, one that he tried not to psychoanalyze too closely.

No matter how Will tried not to think about it, however, he knew one thing for certain: he was playing a very dangerous game here.

Because he remembered: remembered Hannibal hanging over him like the sun itself, gravity pulling in everything - remembered becoming Hannibal, down to his every impulse and thought - remembered Moriarty’s words, and remembered echoing Hannibal’s silent outrage as if it were his own - remembered learning that Q had lied to him.  No, lied to Hannibal.  In that moment, with his mind contorted into a Hannibal-shaped weapon, Will Graham had perfectly understood that betrayed outrage, and likewise, he’d understood what he - no, what Hannibal - would do about it.  

Back in his own mind and able to look at everything from a less biased perspective…  Will felt a shiver of horror go down his spine.  He had to stop Hannibal somehow.  Because he knew that Hannibal didn’t take kindly to being manipulated, and now he understood Hannibal’s intentions as clearly as if the words had been whispered into his own ear.  This was Hannibal’s design - Lecter just didn’t know that Will had seen it, too.  

Of course, if Hannibal realized that Will was also lying to him about his memories, then there was a chance that Will would be on the chopping block as much as the Quartermaster was.  

~^~

It was good that they’d finally convinced Agent 006 that M was safe.  John hadn’t exactly been looking forward to fighting with the man, even if he hadn’t been tethered to Sherlock.  Fortunately, Sherlock had made it pretty clear that he had no intentions of turning Mallory over to Moriarty, although now the other three men had been subjected to watching Sherlock pace back and forth for a good half hour now.  John could veritably see the gears turning in Sherlock’s head as the tall man muttered to himself.  

“I’m trying to find a solution that is not monumentally stupid,” Sherlock had already snapped, the one time that Trevelyan had asked what the hell he was nattering on about.  The Hound had raised one eyebrow in a quietly dangerous sort of way, and John had resignedly prepared to defend Sherlock again - but then Mallory had reached forward and grabbed the blond Hound’s sleeve, and a murmured phrase had gotten Trevelyan to stand down as easily as that.  John wasn’t sure how in the world M had made a companion out of a Hound, but he wasn’t about to question it, so he just sat down against the wall and made sure that there was enough slack between him and Sherlock for the man to keep furiously pacing back and forth.

At one point, after listening to half-heard sentences and half-made plans that were getting steadily more frustration-filled, John spoke up quietly, “Whatever you come up with, I’d recommend leaving Mallory here.  I’m pretty sure that all he’s got is a badly bruised kidney, but if it’s something worse, then moving him around might be dangerous.”

Despite Watson’s low volume, Trevelyan had clearly heard, head whipping around.  The Hound had been frowning at first, but seemed to relax when he realized Watson had M’s best interests in mind.  He gave John a small nod before turning back to Mallory, who had acquiesced to lie down on the table again, albeit with discomfort written all over his face.  John didn’t miss the almost peremptory hand that Trevelyan placed on M’s chest, or the fact that Eigengrau’s director didn’t argue with the gesture, instead letting the Hound hold him down on his back.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was waving his hands around at John’s words, even as he agreed with them rapidly, “Of course, of course.  He’s safest here anyway - it’s a defensible location, and the last thing we need is for Moriarty to get what he wants, which he has a far higher likelihood of getting if we go dragging M around.”  As always, Sherlock spoke as if this were the most obvious thing in the world, and John merely weathered it.  His right knee was hurting him again, sore beneath the makeshift bandages, and he stretched it out in front of him.  Sherlock seamlessly adjusted his pacing path so as not to step or trip on the extended limb.  “The most obvious course of action is to go to Moriarty’s assigned meeting place - empty-handed, of course - but seeing as it is, indeed, the obvious course of action-”

“You think that C - Moriarty - will expect that?” John guessed.

Sherlocked paused and actually looked at him for the first time in nearly half an hour.  He blinked rapidly as if he hadn’t expected anyone to hop aboard his train of thought.  “Precisely,” he confirmed a few beats later, then returned to pacing and animated hand gestures.  “He’ll know that even if I did find M and decide to bring him in exchange for my brother, I’d never go about it in such a straightforward way.  Too reckless.”

“People will do a lot of reckless things for family,” John reminded.

Sherlock scoffed but turned to pace away, not meeting John’s gaze.  “You clearly don’t know my family.”

“Tell me then,” John changed tactics, massaging the muscle above his injured knee, “if your family doesn’t do reckless things for those they love-”  Sherlock scoffed something dismissive about the word ‘love’ but didn’t otherwise turn or interrupt, so John just kept going, “-Then what is your brother doing here in the first place?  Because it sure as hell sounds like he snuck in under false pretences.” Sherlock froze, his entire back and shoulders tightening as if he’d just been held at knife-point.  Assured that he’d hit a nerve, John went on, “It’s a pretty damn big coincidence that he snuck into the middle of Eigengrau just when you’re here.”  Now Sherlock turned to look at Watson, an almost angry look on his face, lip curling.  Watson merely blinked serenely and finished, “I’d say it was downright reckless.”

For a long moment, there was no sound, although Sherlock’s mouth worked a few times like he was chewing hot coals - and his expression said that he wanted to spit them at John.  However, as John’s words sank in, eventually the emotions on Sherlock’s face changed: from anger and denial to a split second of shocked sadness like a blow to the heart, and then clarity and determination.

And suddenly Sherlock was sweeping towards the door, moving swiftly enough that soon he was tugging at Watson’s end of the lead.  The smaller man rushed to get to his feet.  “Hey now, what are you-?  Where-?” John tried to form a good question while being tugged at like someone trying to walk a great dane through a park full of squirrels.  

“I’m going to do something reckless,” Sherlock declared, then rattled the cuff around his wrist while adding imperiously, “And unless you want to join me, I suggest you remove this fucking leash!”

Ever since coming back from Afghanistan, John had been a fairly quiet, careful man - even when hired as a Handler at Eigengrau, he’d been known as measured and levelheaded.  Now, though, as he saw the proud set of Sherlock’s body, the brightness in his eyes… John felt something sizzle beneath his skin, something kickstart behind his heart.  He very nearly smiled, but fought down the expression because this wasn’t a time for smiling - not only were they in the middle of a siege, but Sherlock’s own brother was being held hostage by a maniac.  

John came forward, pulling out a key and undoing the leash between himself and Sherlock.  The Hound looked… disappointed.  But then John let loose just a sliver of his smile, and said, “There.  Now we’re all set to go.  Where to?”

Behind them, Mallory and Alec exchanged looks, thoroughly befuddled as to how in the world an Eigengrau employee could show so much trust in an impulsive Hound.   

~^~

Chapter Text

Eggsy drank in the praise for as long as he could, before his conscience kicked in, and he reached up to grip Harry’s wrist and demand, “But what about you?  Did you succeed?  Harry, I need to know if you cut off communications.  If you didn’t, and my mum and little sis aren’t safe, I swear to god-”

“It’s done, Eggsy,” Harry cut off the increasingly desperate tirade, letting go of the pilot’s chin but making no effort to break his grip.  In fact, the Hound smiled encouragingly and shifted so that he could clasp Eggsy’ forearm in return.  “All communication is cut off, so your family is as safe as we can make them.”

“Thank fuck,” Eggsy sighed explosively, lifting his free hand to drag it down over his face.  He winced as his palm brushed his lip, and switched directly to slide his fingers up and into his hair.  He felt like he should say more - thank Harry more, thank him in every way he knew how, and still not be able to thank this man enough - but his throat had closed up with relief.  Eggsy didn’t realize that he was shaking until Harry, still kneeling in front of him, gently disengaged his wrist but only to place either hand on Eggsy’s shoulders.  It had been a while since Eggsy had had a good cry, and he was afraid that he was about to have one now, as Harry’s thumbs rubbed soothing circles on the outer points of Eggsy’s collarbones.

“So I was coming over to ask what sort of plans you two had,” Agent 001’s voice suddenly startled Eggsy into alertness.  Harry jumped, too, actually coming to his feet in what had to be a defensive reaction - although his injury showed, slowing his upward process.  Leaning against the open door of the chopper, Harkness spread both hands, showing them empty - no threat.  The smile the man splashed across his face was impressively disarming and warm for such a dangerous individual.  “But it seems I interrupted,” 001 finished.  He didn’t sound all that regretful as he added, “Good thing I did, though.  Did I hear you say something about cut communications?  Keeping people safe?”

Harry’s eyes were narrowed dangerously.  Instead of answering directly, he said evenly, “I’d like to point out how rude it is to eavesdrop.”

“Oh, like you don’t do it all the time,” Harkness scoffed, folding his arms across his broad chest.  Eggsy was reminded of his unpleasant tangle with the man earlier.  Perhaps Harkness remembered it, too, because his smile lost some of its shine when he glanced over and met Eggsy’s.  However, the expression quickly recovered, as did Harkness’s quick tongue, “From what I gathered just now, are we dealing with a hostage situation?  Because a lot of what you said doesn’t make a lot of sense if Oxford here is just an eager and willing lackey of C’s.”

By Harry’s sigh and the suddenly jaded look on his face, this wasn’t the first time that Harkness had gotten nosy and learned too much at inconvenient moments.  Glancing over to see that Harry’s leg was also still bleeding, Eggsy decided that it was time to maybe speak up for himself and take the responsibility from Harry’s shoulders.  Harry Hart had done enough for him already.  Clearing his throat, Eggsy offered awkwardly, “Er… yes, that’s pretty true.  The hostage bit.  I’m…”  He felt his heart squeeze so tightly in his chest that it was a physical pain, as he thought about the threats made against his family.  Dean he didn’t care about, and sometimes his mother made him furious, but little Daisy…  Voice a bit strangled, Eggsy looked down so that no wetness would be visible in his eyes as he finished, “I’m only doing this because Moriarty has some people I care about.”

“But Hart fixed that?”  Eggsy glanced up warily, because Harkness sounded very interested.  Eggsy was acutely aware of the fact that he didn’t know Harkness’ motives - only that Harry wasn’t fighting with him, so there was at least some tentative alliance.  But Harkness had also been pawing at M’s secretary, Ianto Jones, like some sort of fucktoy, so Eggsy wasn’t sure that he could think kindly of the man.

For that alone, Eggsy decided that he’d opened up enough for one day, and shot back, “What’s it to you?”

Harry looked at him sharply, rebuke in his gaze, and Eggsy felt just a tiny bit like a dog that had chewed on someone’s slipper.  Thankfully, Harkness had no particular problem with rudeness, and in fact smiled more broadly.  “Well, since you’re the only pilot in this whole fucking place - and actually sitting in the only helicopter - I figured it would be smart to get the lay of the land.  You know, see if we could see things eye to eye.”  When he and Eggsy did indeed meet gazes, and Eggsy glared, Harkness’ smile got just a bit shark, incisors showing.  As if reading Eggsy’s mind, he went on in a decidedly less playful tone, “For the record, Jones is with me - and not in the way you think he is.”

“Really now?” Eggsy shot back.

Harkness’ smile was turning more and more into a taut mask, a baring of teeth.  “Whatever you think you know, kid, you’d better think again.  Jones would be dead if it weren’t for m-”

A tired, heavily accented voice joined their little conversation, “Jack, stop it before you say something rude.”  

The response was immediate: as soon as a weary-looking Ianto Jones appeared at Harkness’s side, Harkness turned to look at him, smiling once again.  This time the playful grin looked more real.  “What?  Rude?  Me?  I was just going to tell them that that little show we gave them an hour ago was nothing compared to what we get up to in-”

Rounding on the Hound with a surprising amount of fearlessness for a man with only a fraction of Harkness’ muscle tone, Ianto wagged a finger in 001’s face and interrupted with a firm, “Not another word!”  

Harkness grinned innocently.  No one believed the innocence.

Harry looked between all of them, perplexed.  “I’m not sure if I want someone to fill me in or not,” he eventually decided delicately.

Eggsy had pretty much figured it out, though.  Pointing at people as he addressed them, he sighed and laid out bluntly, “Jones has been hiding his identity.  Everyone thought that he was just Harkness’s fuckt-  I mean, prisoner.”  He flashed Jones an apologetic smile, then winced as it set his split lip to bleeding again.  

“So what now?” Harry asked, belatedly sitting and taking weight off his leg.  He made a displeased face, and began pulling up his trouser leg with fastidious displeasure written all over his face.

Harkness shrugged.  “That was my question.  So are we on the same side or not?”

“Do you want to see Moriarty’s guts on the outside of his body?” Eggsy growled.  This time, when Harry shot him a look, it was milder than before.  Apparently, being rude was worse than being threatening.  Maybe Harry had spent too much time with Lecter…  “Because I gotta say, I don’t feel too kindly towards the bastard, and now that he can’t contact the outside world to put a hit out on my family, I kind of want to see him bleed out slowly.”  The words came out of Eggsy’s mouth so easily that even he was a bit unsettled, and he clenched his jaw after the final word.  Did he really want to do that to Moriarty?  Despite being in Eigengrau now, and working with Moriarty, and his stepdad getting him tangled up in all sorts of illicit business, Eggsy had never killed anyone.

But he kind of wanted to now.  

At that point Ianto looked surprised, and he had to be filled in on what he’d missed.  Everyone outside of the helicopter must have been either tied up or dead, because no one seemed worried about taking a few extra minutes to explain Harry’s recent adventures all over again - and then Jones opened up a bit more, at least clarifying that yes, he’d gotten caught but Harkness had covered for him.  “You’re very lucky that no one recognized you until now,” Harry commented gravely.  Jones merely pursed his lips and nodded silently, the whites of his eyes briefly showing in animal fear.  Deciding it would be polite to change the subject, Harry went on to explain his reasoning for siding with Eggsy, and why it seemed wiser to relieve C of his pilot rather than supporting the invader’s plan.  

“Yeah, he does seem a bit untrustworthy, I’ll give you that,” 001 agreed when Harry had finished.  By now Harry had his trouser leg up high enough to really check out his leg, which was serious enough to make him frown but nothing more.  “Take it from someone who’s been in his company almost since this started - the guys so changeable it’ll make your head spin.  I don’t doubt that he’s cunning enough to get the job done, but will he?”

“Exactly,” Harry looked up to concur, “If he were merely dangerous, that would be one thing, but fickle?  That’s quite another matter.”  The Hounds exchanged nods, something about this making eminent sense to both of them, perhaps because they were both high-Pass.  Eggsy and Ianto in turn exchanged far more perplexed looks.

“So,” Harkness said, voice careful as if we were testing the waters now.  His eyes were on Harry, who was back to dabbing at his grazed calf, sock rolled down.  “If I were to go and find you some bandages for that, is it safe to say that you won’t, you know, abscond with your pilot and fly off without Ianto and me?”

“Depends.”  Harry’s voice was so eminently logical and calm that he may as well have been discussing whether or not to buy a cherry or apple pie for Sunday’s potluck.  “Are we agreed that Moriarty is a problem that needs to be stopped?”

It seemed like an involuntary action when Harkness glanced at Ianto.  His answer was as smooth as ever, though, “I never really liked him.  My only goals are keeping Ianto and myself in one piece, and maybe getting out of here.”

“That fits with our plans,” Harry spoke for himself and Eggsy without a pause.  Eggsy narrowed his eyes a bit, for the first time coming to terms with the fact that he didn’t really know what the plan was from here on out.  Harry seemed to, though.  “I’d also like to keep myself and my compatriots alive, and it would be nice to be free again.”

Meanwhile, Ianto and Harkness had been looking at one another, some silent conversation passing between them.  Ianto was frowning, and Harkness was looking a bit like he was trying to work his way past said frown.  It worked somehow, and Ianto gave in with a little huffed breath and a roll of his eyes.  Harkness grinned and immediately reached into Ianto’s vest-pocket.  Eggsy raised an eyebrow at how familiar the gesture seemed between them, Ianto not even twitching.  “You might like to take a gander at this then,” Harkness said smugly, revealing what he’d plucked from Jones’ person.  

It was small and metal, and Eggsy had no clue what it was.  “What am I looking at?” he asked, craning his neck from where he still sat on the floor of the chopper.  His head was still ringing badly enough that he wanted to hold off on standing if at all possible.  

Harry’s eyes widened as he looked up, immediately fixating on the small object.  “Where the devil did you get that?”

“M’s office,” Jones answered for himself.  He shrugged.  “It pays to work for the man - and know the combinations to just about every safe in this place.”

Harkness’ head jerked around to stare at the Welshman.  “You never told me you knew all that.”

Ianto folded his arms and gave Harkness a world-weary look.  “Because you get into enough trouble as it is, without me getting through locks for you.”

Harry was still staring at the little metal object with something almost covetous in his eyes.  “Staying on topic,” he nonetheless said with all professionalism, “So long as you have that, it’s very safe to say that I will not have Eggsy fly anywhere without you - and Mr. Jones, of course.”  He nodded deferentially to M’s secretary, who seemed a bit flustered by the deference, but nodded back.  “Besides, my pilot is a bit concussed, so flying away immediately would be a bit foolish.”

“Logical words from a logical man,” Harkness said, with a rakish grin that said he was not generally a logical man himself.  Still, he took that as his cue to trot off and presumably find something to bandage up Harry’s leg with - taking the metal object with him, no doubt as insurance.  

“So, somebody want to tell me what that thing was?” Eggsy asked, a bit peeved at being left out.  

Ianto looked awkwardly towards Harry and said nothing; thankfully, the older man responded a moment later by pointing towards his own neck.  “That’s one of two things that are necessary to remove the collar from a Hound.”

Eggsy grew interested. “What’s the other thing?”

“Well, technically you also need a computer to complete the whole process,” Ianto replied now, then grudgingly added, “But the other thing is Mallory - M.”

Harkness reappeared, this time leaping up into the helicopter with incredible, catlike lightness for a man of his size.  He came close enough to offer some torn cloth to Harry, presumably as bandages.  No one asked where he’d gotten it all from.  “M, whose location will presumably be on the top floor observation room on the west side in the near future,” Harkness also drawled.  He glanced pointedly at everyone, ending with Ianto, who gave him a heavily displeased glower and folded his arms.  Harkness just shrugged, defending himself, “Hey, just making an observation!”

“We are not going to kidnap the head of Eigengrau,” Ianto said firmly.

Before either Harry or Eggsy could speak up to say that the secretary didn’t control their life-choices (even if Ianto was the one with the gun at the moment, stuck into the waistband of his trousers), Harkness volleyed back like a man used to arguing with the Welshman, “To be fair, it sounds like the kidnapping is already in progress.  So we would be… liberating him.”

Ianto didn’t seem convinced.  “Re-kidnapping,” he corrected.

Apparently giving up on that fight, Harkness tried again, looking appealingly back at Eggsy and Harry, “You have to admit at least that we’d be kinder kidnappers than C and his men.  Come on, Ianto, at least admit that I’m not a psychopath like them!”

Unexpectedly, Jones’ face softened, and Eggsy could see what he hadn’t quite noticed before: that there was a warmth between these two.  It had been well hidden before, when Harkness had been playing Jones’ captor, but now Ianto’s mouth nearly twitched into a smile.  

Seeing an opening when Ianto didn’t immediately bite something back, Harkness took a step closer, leaning against the helicopter’s door so that he was encroaching on Ianto’s personal space.  “We’re taking care of those two prisoners pretty well,” he said in a voice that had dropped into a low and coaxing register, his smile playful and charming despite the fact that he was talking about prisoners, “Even Agent 013, who keeps glaring at everyone like he wants to kill them.”

Eggsy’s eyes rounded with surprise.  He finally went to scramble to his feet, finding that he was able to do it with just a little bit of staggering and a pounding between his temples.  “Wait, you’re keeping another Hound prisoner out there?” he sputtered.

Harkness glanced over at him, nonplussed but still smiling.  “Yeah - the one you were brawling with, I think.”

Eggsy felt the dried blood on his knuckles crack as he fisted his hands involuntarily.  “Well, I feel pretty murderous towards him, too, so it’s all fair,” he said lowly.

“Before you seriously consider punching Thirteen’s face in - which I condone, by the way-” Harry unexpectedly interjected.  He stood as well, testing out his leg, which was now bandaged.  His trouser-leg fell back into place to hide the injury entirely… if one ignored the tear in the fabric and the drying blood.  “-Let’s think on our plans for a moment.  Harkness, isn’t Thirteen the sniper?”

Harkness’ smile hadn’t faded, but his eyes narrowed in thoughtfulness… and suddenly his grin broadened as he seemed to realize something.  “Yes, actually.  Now that you mention it, he is the Hound with the highest scores in long-range precision shooting - better even than Reese and Shaw, I think. Not the best at hand-to-hand, though.”

Raising both eyebrows, Eggsy gestured at himself and said indignantly, “Oi!  Does this look like he’s not that good at hand-to-hand?”

Harkness barked out a laugh and even Harry just gave his hand a wave, dismissing, “If you’d had a few more minutes, you’d have put him in his place.”  Eggsy wasn’t sure whether to be offended or pleased, since he wasn't sure if his injuries were being dismissed or if he was being praised… it was all very confusing, he decided.  Hounds were weird.

Harry and Harkness were still focused on one another, clearly thinking on another wavelength.  “It might just work,” Harry mused, using a spare bit of ‘bandage’ to wipe extra blood off his hands fastidiously.  

Ianto, clearly following this just as much as Eggsy was, finally butted in, “What might work?”

Harkness looked at Harry - Harry nodded - Harkness turned back to Jones.  “Okay, so I know that you’re kind of against us re-appropriating M… but since we also know where C will be at 3 pm, how do you feel about us shooting C just a little - from a safe distance?”

At that point, everyone shuffled around so that they could lean over and peer beyond the helicopter, to where the Hound who had attacked Eggsy was sitting trussed up, back-to-back with another individual.  Clearly feeling the four sets of eyes on him, the Hound - Thirteen - looked back at them in turn.  What started out as indeed a very quietly murderous glare quickly shifted into distrustful unease as Thirteen realized how intensely he was being eyed. 

~^~

The high-Pass numbers of Hounds showed in many ways beyond the expected lack of moral compass.  Some were violent - like Russo or Castle - some were cold and aloof - like Reese or Hart - some struggle to value human lives other than their own - like Shaw, or Hannibal who literally had a history of eating people.  Some were dangerously self-centred, like Percival.  

And some, like Lorraine, were rather impressively paranoid.

Long before the siege of Eigengrau, Lorraine had told her Handler Delphine, “If anything happens, go to this location.”  Had Lorraine been planning for an all-out invasion?  No, not specifically.  It was simply a fact that she had similar plans like this at all times, and this one just so happened to fit very conveniently into the current situation, where the only way to possibly find someone was if you knew where they would be.  On missions, they always had safe-houses - Lorraine simply extended that to also include at home, too, in Eigengrau.  

Therefore, as soon as Lorraine fled the scene where C’s plans had gone so disastrously awry, she went straight to that chosen location, Percival’s threats ringing loudly in the back of her mind.  She let nothing slow her down, not even the heavy smell of smoke not all that far from the morgue.  Lorraine knew that Delphine was a capable young woman, but Delphine was low-Pass... and there were certain levels of ruthless that low-Pass people never even thought of.  Percival was more than high-Pass enough to think those things and then inflict them with glee.

When Lorraine reached the storage room, she was dismayed to find it empty.  There was no blood, at least, but also no Handler.  “Delphine, why can’t you just do what I say?” she hissed to herself in a momentary burst of helpless fury, but then she noticed a piece of paper sticking out from beneath a storage box, on a shelf at about eye-level.  When Lorraine plucked it out, she found Delphine’s sprawling handwriting - all written in French, a language that only some hounds (not Percival, notably) could read.  Lorraine felt her scowl become an unconscious smile even as she read: Sorry not to see you.  Need to find Merkle before Percival does.  See you at secondary location - love, Delphine.

Because yes, Lorraine was also paranoid enough to have designated secondary and even tertiary spots, all of which Delphine had learned and memorized patiently.  “I don’t know when we’ll need this,” she’d said on a few occasions, always adding, “But if you think it’s important, I’ll learn it.  A bit of memorization isn’t hard.”  Delphine was lovely like that, accepting her Hound’s oddities and sharp angles with barely a hitch.  The truly impressive thing, however, was that Delphine had realized that Merkle was also important without Lorraine ever having to say so - and without ever seeming to jump to conclusions or grow jealous.  In all truthfulness, it seemed like Delphine knew how the three of them all fit together far better than Lorraine did right now.  All Lorraine knew was that Percival wanted the three of them dead, so she’d have to stop him.

The Hound tucked the note into her pocket and struck out again, moving swiftly down red-lit halls and trying to think of how the colour made everything look bloody.  

~^~

“Sherlock…  Sherlock, slow down!” John called in exasperation, reminding himself at the last second not to raise his voice too much - after all, there were a lot of dangerous predators on the loose right now, and while Agent 006 had been nice enough to share some ammunition, John still had a limited number of bullets.  “Rushing into things isn’t going to help anybody, and you…”  John winced as he tried to pick up the pace but his recently damaged right knee protested.  He still growled out the rest of his sentence, “...Have these bloody long legs.  What even are you planning?”

Thankfully, Sherlock slowed and turned around instead of just leaving John behind, which was… strangely flattering.  John hadn’t been Sherlock’s Handler for long, but it had been long enough to realize that this Hound - while far less bloodthirsty than most - didn’t really attach to people, so to see the look of sudden sympathy in Sherlock’s wide-set eyes was a rare surprise.

Instead of answering the question, Sherlock looked suddenly down towards John’s right knee.  “Your leg,” he said without preamble, frowning.  

“Injured, remember?”  Now that they’d paused, John took a moment to reach down at rub at the offending joint, feeling the makeshift bandages beneath his trouser leg.  “I was out rescuing Eigengrau employees and bringing them back to holding, and Agent 017 just about took me out.  I got lucky, though.  It’s not too bad,” he finished stubbornly, straightening.  “Now - answer my question.  Do you even have a plan?”

The tone of disbelief in John’s last sentence distracted Sherlock from worriedly eyeing John’s leg, getting him instead to straighten with an affronted look.  “Of course I have a plan.  I’m going to do what Moriarty least expects.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to do exactly what he asks, and arrive at the location as planned,” Sherlock said proudly, “Albeit earlier than planned, because I would like at least a little element of surprise.”

John, who’d not only gained his position in Eigengrau but also survived in Afghanistan because he had more than a passing grasp of strategy, pursed his lips uncertainly.  “You realize that you don’t have Mallory to bargain with, right?” he asked, wondering if Sherlock’s genius had finally slipped into the realm of madness.

“Of course I know that,” Sherlock scoffed, “But it will be entirely believable that I would stash him somewhere until I get proof of my brother’s wellbeing.  Mallory’s absence won’t be questioned immediately.”

“But it will be eventually, so what do you plan to do then?”

“I plan to finish what my brother started: sow distrust.  There is no way that Moriarty is looking alone, and his partners will be his weakness.”  Sherlock’s eyes glittered with excitement in a way that was a bit disturbing - not quite bloodlust, but definitely an eagerness for danger that most would label as unsafe and unnatural.  Warming to his topic, Sherlock elaborated with a few broad gestures of his hands for emphasis, “Moriarty has been appealing to the Hounds of Eigengrau, and while sometimes my little brother can be terribly naive, he clearly realized something before I did: that Moriarty’s need for allies is as important as it is tenuous.  And I’ve long suspected that Moriarty is not a physically imposing individual.”

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock’s brain was taking leaps that John’s wasn’t, so he held out a hand to slow the taller man down.  “What makes you think that?”

“Come on, John!” Sherlock rolled his eyes in exquisite exasperation.  “Have you forgotten the body of the pilot so quickly?  The pilot was killed before C even came to the island - someone else did that for C.  And now C has reached out to those around him, encouraging them to do his dirty work.  God, why didn’t I realize this sooner!”  Sherlock flounced away a few steps, and while John had been careful to keep his voice down, Sherlock’s last sentence was definitely shouted.  John winced.  Thankfully, when the Hound turned around to pace back into John’s personal space, he dropped his voice again, “I’ve been playing this game with Moriarty for years, John!  And I can see now that two things have always been true: either he’s killed people in sneaky, underhanded ways, or else he’s had someone else kill them in impressively brutal ways.  So he’s always had at least one stronger partner to do the heavy lifting.”  Sherlock made a peeved face and added, “It’s also made him damnably hard to pin down.  The police refused to believe that it was one man behind it all.”

“So you’re saying,” John caught up, “that you want to turn up at Moriarty’s chosen location - but instead of actually making a trade-off, you want a chance to talk in front of Moriarty’s followers?  To poison them against him?”

“Precisely!” Sherlock smiled delightedly.

Watson just blinked at him for a second.  “Sherlock,” he finally said, very slowly and firmly, “while I don’t doubt that you could reason your way out of a labyrinth, you can’t sweet-talk your way out of a wet paper sack.  Your plan is bloody stupid.”

It was honestly a bit sad to see the genius’ expression fall - of course, the horrified dismay quickly transformed into peevish temper.  Face scrunching up in a scowl, Sherlock loomed more into John’s personal space - a clear intimidation tactic, but one that John merely blinked mildly at, because he’d been a short man all his life, and after being an army doctor it took a lot more than this to scare him.  “It’s not stupid - it’s elegant,” Sherlock argued, “And besides, Siger has already laid the foundation for it.  You heard him on the intercom.”

“I did, and that’s why I can say with certainty that the Quartermaster - Siger - is more charming than you,” John pointed out, folding his arms and not moving despite the fact that he had a Hound in his face.

“This isn’t about charm,” Sherlock argued.

“It kind of is.  Moriarty doesn’t have the allies he has purely because of smarts.  If brains alone were the answer, you’d have an entire entourage yourself by now, instead of just one ex-soldier with PTSD and a busted leg.”  As soon as John finished his sentence, he winced, having perhaps not meant to explain himself in such negative terms.  His leg was not busted, merely… more bruised than was ideal.  

Something in Sherlock’s eyes glinted like he was about to pursue something in that sentence, but then unexpectedly he leaned back, returning to a more socially acceptable distance.  He crossed his arms, too, mimicking John either purposefully or subconsciously.  “Fine then.  What do you recommend?  Shooting down another man’s plans is easy - bettering them is the real challenge,” he retorted.

Usually, John would have floundered.  He was not the thinker Sherlock was - not the mastermind, not the genius who thought in ten directions at once.  But he knew war, and he knew fighting, and sometimes Sherlock seemed to miss the straightforward sort of thinking that came with all of that.  John held his right arm out, drawing attention to the handgun in his grip.  “Well, for starters, let me help,” John pleaded, his eyes determined and firm as they met Sherlock’s surprised gaze, “Moriarty isn’t working alone, and neither are you - and unlike Moriarty, a few ugly truths aren’t going to make me turn on you.”  When Sherlock’s expression grew even more shocked by those last words, John added with a shrug, gun-hand falling back to his side, “I’ve been your Handler long enough that I’ve seen most of those ugly truths, so if I wanted to hate you, I would already.”

“And you don’t?”  Sherlock seemed honestly surprised by this.

John shrugged.  “Sometimes.  But I think you mean well, and right now we both want to put this Moriarty bastard in the ground, so there’s that.”

Sherlock’s surprise turned to slightly evil glee.  John could all but see the gears turning anew in Sherlock’s wild mind.  “Noted,” the Hound said, voice low and pleased in a way that seemed to fill the very air with excitement.  Sherlock tipped his chin towards John’s right hand.  “How good are you with that gun?”

John’s first reaction was to demure, to downplay just what he could do with the weapon.  Since coming back from Afghanistan, he’d realized how uncomfortable most people were when faced with the true skills of a soldier, no matter how necessary those skills had been for survival.  But Sherlock was not ‘most people,’ and in fact was registered as high-Pass - if there was anyone that John could just tell the ugly truth to, it was Sherlock.  Besides, by the growing gleam in the taller man’s eyes, it was possible that he’d deduced it all already. 

“I used to be a sniper,” John admitted, the words rolling off his tongue surprisingly easily for Sherlock despite how he’d struggled to even say them to his therapist while the woman was holding his damn file in her hands.  The fact that Sherlock grinned delightedly instead of looking nervous made talking even easier.  John found himself smiling in return automatically.  “And I think I know Eigengrau’s sight-lines better than Moriarty does.”

~^~

Chapter Text

Q woke up and couldn’t figure out where he was.  Everything was dark, red-hued, and foggy - the fogginess made sense, since he didn’t sleep in his glasses, but when he tried to reach out and find them, he found himself restrained.  To make matters worse, when Q moved, the restraints tightened around his entire body.Feeling unsettled, Q let out a bewildered mewl and was surprised when the restraints loosened again in an instant.  Then, to further the surprise, they moved.  “Q?” came a low, concerned voice.

Perhaps Q’s eyes weren’t the only thing that was foggy, because it took him a long moment to realize that the voice was familiar, and that he could feel heat all but wrapped around him - a body, Bond’s, curled at his back.  When Q groggily rasped, “Glasses,” the arm that had been wrapped around Q’s chest (keeping his arms pinned to his sides) slid away.  Eyes adjusting to the reddish security lighting, Q watched as James gripped his wrist, guiding one hand until it bumped against something that Q had mistaken for shadows.  When James’ fingers moved past Q’s to guide said shadow closer, Q belatedly recognized the hard edges of his own spectacles, lying on the mat ahead of him.  He closed his fingers around them carefully, barely noticing when James caught Q’s index finger and subtly angled it aside so that Q wouldn’t place a fingertip square on one of his lenses.  Once Q had gotten the spectacles situated on his face, he didn’t feel up to sitting yet, but he did twist around enough to see 007 up on one elbow, leaning over him from behind.  “What happened?” Q grumbled, his thoughts still feeling sluggish.  

James sighed and his gaze briefly flickered around the room; nothing unusual there.  Quite without realizing it, Q had gotten used to the Hound's paranoid habits, the way he always checked, double-checked, and triple-checked the spaces around him.  “I’m assuming you remember getting kidnapped by C?”

“Moriarty, yes,” Q nodded and grimaced, automatically correcting to the name he’d heard Sherlock always using.  Now that he’d connected those things, ‘Moriarty’ seemed like a somehow truer name for the lunatic who had started all of this.  “And then you came and un-kidnapped me.”

Q’s phrasing was enough to trick the slightest hint of a smile onto Bond’s face.  “That’s one way to put it.  Do you then remember coming back here with Lecter and Graham?”

Q had to scrunch his eyebrows and think on that one, his usually eidetic memory suddenly miserly with the details.  With effort, though, Q was able to pull some more recollections from the vault of his mind, and he nodded.

Bond’s left arm was still draped over Q’s ribs, and it seemed like an idle gesture as the man tightened his hold a bit before going on, “And do you then remember that cannibalistic bastard drugging you?”

Now Q made a face in earnest and slumped back against the gym mat beneath him.  “Shit,” he sighed, then admitted with eyes closed, “No, I don’t actually remember that.  Did he elaborate on why?” Q suddenly snapped his eyes open, twisting so sharply to look at Bond that the back of his shoulder thumped against 007’s chest.  The Hound grunted but otherwise didn’t complain about Q suddenly leaning back into him.  “Did you kill him?” Q had to ask, trying to imagine all possible scenarios for how this had played out after he’d been rendered unconscious.  

Looking like he didn’t know whether to be frustrated or amused, Bond huffed out a brief breath (that ruffled Q’s hair, making him abruptly realize how close their faces were now) before admitting ruefully, “No, we didn’t even fight.  I was more worried about you, and it was pretty clear that Lecter only knocked you out so that I’d have to stay.”  At Q’s bemused look, James elaborated a bit grudgingly, “Hannibal can’t go anywhere until Graham is back on his feet, and likewise I couldn’t go anywhere until you were conscious and mobile.  That meant two Hounds to play guard-dog instead of just one.”

“Logical,” Q admitted, nose scrunching as he considered this.  He was still leaning back against Bond’s chest, and growing increasingly aware not only of the nearness but of how easily Bond was accepting that nearness - high-Pass agents were not known for their touchy-feely tendencies, yet Bond wasn't even fidgeting.  Perhaps that was what helped Q loosen up his tongue and asked tentatively, “So… you really did stay put just because of me?”

Looking around the room again, James didn’t meet Q’s eyes, but from this angle the Quartermaster could see a muscle in Bond’s jaw working.  “Well,” James started, and paused as if to restart his sentence.  The lack of eloquence was noteworthy, since usually James had quite a silver tongue.  Q half expected the man to just stop talking out of stubbornness, but thankfully the agent went on after an uncomfortable moment, “Well, you and I were having a conversation that I still wanted to finish, so I couldn’t very well disappear in the middle of that.”

Now Q was really wishing his brain was working at full speed.  It was clearing up, but he still found himself frowning in bewilderment.  “We were?”

Now James looked down at him, and it was with an almost comically grumpy expression.  “Yes.  Convenient of you to forget that,” he grumbled and then sat up.  Q’s back immediately felt cold, although he was startled to realize how tangled together their legs were - for a Hound who liked freedom of motion, James sure had to make an effort to unwind his ankles from Q’s.  “Can you stand?” Bond asked before Q could grab onto the previous topic.  

Realizing this his questions would have to take a backseat to basic survival, Q sat up and nodded before he was entirely sure of his answer.  Sitting wasn’t hard, but even when Bond reached down to offer him a hand up, Q’s equilibrium didn’t want to get with the program: the boffin made it shakily to his feet and almost immediately lost his balance.  His brain felt like it was somehow floating a good half-meter above his skull and his legs felt coltishly wobbly.  “Shit!” he hissed as he grabbed wildly at Bond’s elbows, feeling James clasp his forearms in return and take a significant portion of his weight.  He ended up with his forehead hovering above the slope of muscle between Bond’s neck and right shoulder, holding himself stiffly as he waited for his centre of gravity to stop fucking around.  

He was close enough, therefore, to hear and feel James draw in a sharp breath and stiffen like a stag scenting danger.  Q turned his head and cracked one eye open, and was only marginally surprised to see Agent 003 stepping out of the adjoining room.  The emergency lighting did unsettling things to the sharp planes of his face at this angle, and Q shivered involuntarily as he realized that this almost monstrous appearance probably matched Hannibal’s true nature.  Q tried his best to straighten up into a less pathetic looking posture even as he felt more than heard James growl, low and animal, in his throat.  

“Agent 003,” Q greeted, striving for some sort of professionalism and normalcy.  At least when he was acting the part of Eigengrau’s Quartermaster he felt more in control.  Still gripping James’ arms, Q nonetheless managed to lift and turn his head like a respectable human being so that he could nod in Lecter’s direction.

Hannibal returned the gesture, clasping his hands behind his back in a genteel fashion, for all the world like he wasn’t greeting someone that he’d recently drugged unconscious.  “Quartermaster.  I’m glad to see you up and about.”

“I’m up, but I don’t know if I’m ‘about’,” Q couldn’t help but retort a bit sourly.  He tried to let go of one of Bond’s arms only to sway alarmingly.  He ended up clutching at James’ shirt this time, and 007 bit off a gruff curse in startled response.  

“Will is in a similar condition, but I trust that you’ll both be reasonably agile within the hour,” Hannibal said magnanimously.  His smile softened the play of light and shadow on his face, but Q was beyond the point where he could be fooled by a pleasant smile.  Perhaps realizing that James was only silent because he was glaring daggers, Hannibal went on to add candidly, “The medication I gave you to help you sleep usually leaves one a bit wobbly, but it will wear off in a few more minutes, in my experience.  I have no reason to incapacitate you permanently.”

  Q somehow doubted that, but he didn’t have a good way to say so - at least, not without starting an argument, which seemed unwise given Hannibal’s history of eating rude people.

At that point Hannibal looked back behind him, changing the topic easily by calling out, “Will?  Are you ready to get moving again?  I’m afraid that it might be unsafe for us all to stay in one place for too long.”

“In one place with you, maybe,” Bond snarled under his breath while narrowing his eyes pointedly at 003, and Q not-quite-accidentally stepped on his foot to keep him from repeating that sentence in a louder voice.  James made an affronted face but had the good sense not to speak up and antagonize the cannibal in their midst.  

“This is not a fight we need right now,” Q hissed at him.

James gave him a belligerent, slantwise look.  “Speak for yourself,” he muttered, but nonetheless seemed to stand down.  He kept one hand tightly on Q’s elbow, but it was impossible to say if it was to help keep the boffin upright as his balance stabilised further, or if it was just to keep him close.  

They didn’t hear Will reply, but Hannibal disappeared out of sight again, likely to check on him.  Q briefly toyed with the idea of siccing James on him then - perhaps catching 003 by surprise - but it still seemed like an unnecessary risk, and one that James would have to bear all on his own, since Q didn’t believe that he’d be much help in a fight against a high-Pass agent.  True, he'd helped in the fight against Silva, but he'd been more able-bodied then, and it had still been a near thing.  His thoughts tangled up in concerns for 007’s wellbeing, Q instead started to sort through other possible plans, thinking fast because he knew that he’d have to be at his best mentally if he wasn’t physically.  

Therefore, by the time Hannibal appeared again (moving with the cautious step of someone who probably expected an ambush and was pleasantly surprised not to be met by one), Q was ready to say as if he’d planned this all along, “I’m not sure what your plans are, but 007 and I have to continue on our way.”

“Still towards Q-branch?” Hannibal asked, politely curious.  Will was quiet, but Will also looked like death warmed over with his head bandaged, so perhaps his silence was nothing more than a result of his condition.  “I’m hoping that C’s statement hasn’t dissuaded you from your goal of freeing 007 and myself.”  Hannibal lifted a hand to tug at the neck of his shirt, drawing attention to his collar.

Q was glad that the abysmal lighting made it impossible to see that he’d blanched.  He was acutely aware of how his bag was missing, and the key to the collars with it… although hopefully H still had it, and had made it to Q-branch ahead of them.  Now Q had even more reason to complete this mission, and hopefully before his dangerous allies noticed something amiss.  “I made a promise,” Q said firmly, able to speak the truth even if he was omitting some key factors, “I am invested in releasing you, and I’ll do it.”

“Very well then,” Hannibal replied congenially.  He gestured with a hand towards the exit, adding, “And I in return made a promise to see you safely there, so Will and I will of course accompany you.”

This felt almost too easy somehow, and Q pursed his lips.  His brain still felt maddeningly foggy, and he didn’t realize that he was clutching nervously at Bond’s bicep until he felt a reassuring squeeze of strong fingers around his elbow.  Q’s Hound was watching the proceedings with keen, shrewd eyes, and Q just had to hope that he’d catch any hint of trouble that a rattled boffin might miss.  

“Will?” Hannibal turned to Graham, smiling encouragingly as he checked on his own response.

It took a second for Will to smile in return, his face curiously blank until the smile pulled his mouth up at the corners.  He shrugged his good shoulder, his other arm bandaged to his chest in a way that potentially made him more vulnerable than even Q was.  “I’ve got nowhere better to be,” he said almost cheerily, however, and seemed happy to go along.  Hannibal’s smile immediately brightened, as if he was more pleased by Graham’s continued presence than by Q’s promise to remove his collar.  Fully aware of his own condition, Graham glanced at the rest of their party and added self-effacingly, “I’m not quite as battle-ready as I was before… but I’m sure I’ll find some way to make myself useful.”

For some reason, when Will said that last sentence his gaze settled on Q.  He looked almost… afraid?  Q wasn’t sure how to interpret the look, and their little quartet ended up heading out into Eigengrau proper yet again before the Quartermaster could either discern Graham’s look or recall the ‘conversation’ that had gotten Bond so worked up earlier.

~^~

“I’m going to burn him!  I’m going to burn the heart out of him!” Moriarty roared, despite the fact that Sebastian had made quite clear the need for quiet.  After all, they’d been stripped of their allies, thanks to the Quartermaster’s avenging angels… or perhaps avenging demons was more apt.  Stalking along ahead of Moran, Moriarty dropped the volume by half but continued seething with enough acid to melt through concrete, “This was a fun game, Sherlock, until all the pieces refused to play.  I was going to just use that brother of yours to get to you, but no - NO!”  Suddenly his voice was back to a roar again, and Moran started grinding his teeth.  At least they were still moving, leaving behind their latest catastrophe.  “Now I’m going to burn you, Sherlock, and I’m going to do it through that soft, stupid baby brother of yours!”

To Moran, this seemed like a lot of misdirected anger, but in his years of being Moriarty’s henchmen, he’d learned that Jim Moriarty was nothing if not complex and unpredictable.  Somewhere in the web of Jim’s mind, this direction to his rage probably made perfect sense, and it was just pitiful that a normal person like Moran couldn’t connect the dots.  One thing was clear, though: Moriarty was royally peeved and not very interested in hiding it.  

This was going to be one of Jim’s loud moods then.  Bloody fantastic.  Days like these, Moran’s usually simple job of keeping Jim alive got a lot harder.

Moriarty was still ranting, his words so tumbling rapidly out of his mouth that Sebastian had stopped trying to interpret them.  He was used to pushing them aside like white noise anyway, having long since accepted that the majority of things Jim said would go over his head.  Moriarty didn’t keep Moran around as a sounding board - he kept him around because he was uniquely skilled as an assassin/bodyguard (and perfectly capable of switching between those two options).  No, Moran was not there for intellectual stimulation… which was why Jim had started this whole business with Sherlock Holmes.

And that… peeved Moran more than he wanted to admit.  

Moriarty went from a harsh whisper to a shout without warning, and this time Moran acted without warning, too: lacking the kind of hesitation that might have held a low-Pass person back, the gunman reached out and grabbed two fistfuls of his employer’s jacket, then shouldered open the nearest door to drag Moriarty inside.  He closed the door by slamming Moriarty against the back of it, because that seemed efficient, and helped calm some of the temper boiling beneath the calm surface of his mood.

Instead of looking surprised, Moriarty just stood quietly a moment, eyes narrowed at his bodyguard.  Gods, but Moriarty’s eyes were dark; Sebastian had seen them in every permutation of light, from midday sun to nothing but moonlight, and even if they weren’t lit by lurid red emergency lighting, he knew that right now he’d be facing down intelligent dark pits.  Right now there was a powerful, banked anger within those pits, although with his usual quicksilver moods Moriarty had hidden the overt wrath that he’d been spouting up until now.  “Well, you’re rather bold now, aren’t you,” Moriarty mused in a singsong that somehow managed to hold a hint of a growl, the first warning of a predator.  

Moran worked to push his own emotions down deep, where he’d kept them all his life.  ‘You’re a reptile,’ people had told him from a young age, ‘You’re so cold that you’re barely human, but you’re good at what you do and more dangerous when we’re not watching, so we’ll keep you around.’  Being a cold snake was a good thing when you were a sniper and needed focus, but Jim always seemed to bring out the hot, angry side of Sebastian somehow.

When Seb didn’t answer, merely maintaining his threatening hold on Moriarty’s shirt and looking down at him with a blank face and half-lidded eyes, Moriarty lifted his own hands to grab his bodyguard’s wrists.  Sebastian tamped down on the instinct to instantly retaliate, a bit disturbed by how close the violence was to the surface.  Either not noticing the danger or ignoring it (definitely just ignoring it; Jim never missed a damn thing), Moriarty’s mouth started to stretch into a playful smile, if smiles were cut to size by razorblades.  “You know what happens to employees when they forget that I’m the boss, don’t you?  My organization has a disturbingly high turnover rate, as you well know.”

Oh yes, Moran knew.  He knew because it was usually his job to remove old employees - or at least their bodies, if Jim felt like doing the killing himself, as he sometimes did.  In fact, when he did, he was usually in a mood like this one.  Moran narrowed his eyes slightly, reminding himself that he was dealing with a dangerous and unpredictable viper now.  They were both snakes in their own ways.  

One full of poison.  One chill… almost to the bone.  

Some of that chill started to crack as Moriarty slid his left hand up from Moran’s wrist towards his elbow, fingertips dragging delicately.  “Come on, Seb, I know that you’re not talkative, but if you’re going to slam me around you should at least say something,” Moriarty chided, watching the progress of his hand as it slid around to trace the underside of Sebastian’s muscled upper arm to where it connected to tensed pectoral muscles.  Moriarty’s gaze snapped back to Moran’s, full of sudden, raging fire as he suddenly spat, “Otherwise I might just jump to conclusions about what you’re up to, and you know how dark my conclusions tend to be.”  At the same time that his words grew hateful and sharp, the slow movement of his hand turned into a whip-fast motion.  Sebastian gave a little grunt as he suddenly had fingers around his throat.

The gunman didn’t dodge, he didn’t move to break the hold.  He just took a deep breath and willed himself to stay calm and cold.

Moriarty, quite the opposite of calm and cold, was grinning again.  His fingers squeezed threateningly.  “Is this what you wanted all along, Sebby?” he cooed.

“No,” Sebastian finally answered in an irked grunt, “I wanted you to shut up before you brought all of Eigengrau down around us.”

“Then why didn’t you just say so!” Moriarty gave his eyes a melodramatic roll and loosened his grip around Moran’s windpipe - although he didn’t let go entirely.  Thumping his head back against the door, the mastermind went on, “I mean, I know that I hate boring, predictable things, but sometimes you just gotta use your words, man!”

Finding it hard to stay cold and calm again, as if Moriarty was a fire that he just kept stepping up to, Sebastian bared his teeth just a little in a snarl and retorted lowly, “You hate it when I use my words,” and then surged forward against the hand at his throat.  

Their mouths met in a clashing of lips and teeth, more of an attack than a proper kiss.  Moriarty belatedly went to squeeze Moran’s throat again, but this time his bodyguard was having none of it, and ended up slamming the offending limb against the door even as he forced Moriarty’s head back as well with the punishing movements of his mouth.  Instead of reacting with outrage or contrition, though, Jim started laughing, cracked giggled slipping out past the seal of their lips.  Angry despite his best efforts at remaining in control of himself, Sebastian pulled back just enough so that he could snarl against Moriarty’s laughing mouth, “Why can’t you just shut your fucking mouth and take anything seriously?”

All Moriarty decided to answer was a scornful, “For shame, Sebastian, for shame!  How dare you kiss your daddy with that foul mouth-!”

The insinuation set off Sebastian’s temper worse still, and this time he dragged Moran away from the door to slam him against the nearest convenient surface - in this case, a desk.  He bent Moriarty backwards over it, glad at least that he always had one advantage: Moriarty was horrifyingly smart and terrifyingly amoral even by Sebastian’s standards, but he was not a big man.  Sebastian was taller and stronger, his long, lean body wrapped in muscle and sinew that Moriarty didn’t really have a prayer against.  

Of course, Moriarty was still winning... because if Moran were still in control he’d never be acting this recklessly and they both damn well knew it.

“Oh, this is how you want to play then?” Moriarty challenged, something low and demonic in his voice now.  It was a voice that Sebastian heard more than anyone else alive - because most anyone else who heard this seething tone usually didn’t live long afterwards.  Feet on the floor but arse against the edge of the desk and shoulder blades pressed down against discarded papers, Moriarty’s smile had stretched to nearly manic proportions across his face.  He still had one hand free from Moran’s iron grip, and when he reached as if for Moran’s neck again, he got a literal snarl in response.  Moriarty’s mad smile softened as if it had been a gentle compliment.  “Going to bite the hand that feeds you?” he said in a quieter, infinitely more teasing tone.  Instead of grabbing Moran’s throat, he danced dexterous fingers across his bodyguard’s chin and lips.  

Quickly becoming irrationally angry - at Moriarty, at his endless conniving plans, at everyone who threw a wrench into them, at all of this - Sebastian bared his teeth in warning.  He should have known that Jim would call his bluff, however, because even when Sebastian caught a fingertip between his teeth, Moriarty didn’t so much as flinch.  

Fine.  Maybe Sebastian didn’t have it in him to bite Moriarty’s finger off.  Because as furious as Jim made him, it was Jim who had saved him from the Sybil System’s grasp - and had kept Sebastian in the system’s blindspot all these years.  Moriarty hadn’t done that for anyone else.  

But sometimes Sebastian wondered if that safety was worth it, because no one else in the whole goddamn world could make him as angry as this clever little man underneath him right now.  Quick as a thought, Moran used his free right hand to unholster his handgun, and he had it pressed up beneath Moriarty’s chin just as quickly.  

Dark eyes glittered.  Moriarty made no move to withdraw his fingertip from Moran’s mouth, and in fact wriggled another inside, petting the pads of his first two fingers against his bodyguard’s tongue.  “Now this is getting interesting,” he mused pleasantly, but in a gratifyingly quiet voice at long last, “Of course, you have to admit that this is hardly the best use for a gun.  It rather defeats the purpose of it being a long-range weapon.”

Feeling mean in a way that he hadn’t since childhood - since he’d learned that being cold worked better, being cold meant not getting caught when you did bad things - Moran shifted the gun until the muzzle was no longer pointing at flesh and bone.  Instead, the barrel lay alongside Moriarty’s head, close to his left ear.  Sebastian pulled his head back so that he could talk without fingers in the way, although he didn’t feel any need to fight the trail of saliva-coated fingertips against his chin and down under his jaw.  “How about this for putting a gun to good use?  You’ll not only be the world’s first consulting criminal, but the world’s first consulting criminal with no hearing in one ear.”  He grinned, baring his teeth.  “And no scars to blame on me.”

“Oh, like I’d actually mind a few scars given to me by my dear Sebby!” Moriarty crooned, reminding Sebastian that he was not only dealing with a psychopath but one with a very fickle sense of self-preservation.  Sometimes it worked very well (Sebastian liked those days), and sometimes it didn’t work at all.  “Come on!” Moriarty suddenly barked.  His legs moved, catching Moran’s hips and drawing him closer, even as Moriarty leaned his head until his cheek caressed Moran’s fingers around the grip.  “Are you going to add another disappointment to my very long and disappointing day?” he shrieked.

Moran dropped the gun in favour of fisting his hand in Moriarty’s hair, pulling his head back so sharply that the smaller man let out a wheeze - his first involuntary reaction yet.  The wheeze became a low groan as Sebastian leaned down and pressed his teeth to Moriarty’s cheekbone, biting down harder, harder…

“That’s going to leave a fun mark, but I’m going to make you be the one to explain it,” Moriarty threatened, as quietly as a butterfly knife snapping open.

Sebastian stilled.  He released.  

The room was quiet.  

Then Sebastian moved again, so fast that he caught his boss’s hand just as it closed around the grip of the discarded handgun.  Moriarty snickered at being caught.  “Can’t blame a bloke for trying!” he confessed without any audible sign of regret.  

“You’re an utter maniac,” Sebastian griped, relieving the gun from his boss’s grip and once again keeping it firmly within his own.  He pressed it warningly against Moriarty’s side his time - a threat that would most certainly leave a scar, if it didn’t outright kill the consulting criminal.  Instead of pulling back, though, he kept his head in close, drawn as if by gravity to turn his head to the mouth waiting for him.  He used his advantage of size and leverage (as well as the one wrist he still had trapped in his grip) to keep his boss in place, allowing himself the small pleasure of feeling their groins drag together.  Instead of rutting up against him, though, Moriarty caught Sebastian’s lower lip and bit down on it hard.  It seemed for a moment that he wouldn’t let it go, and when he did, Sebastian knew that he had blood dripping from his mouth - in fact, when he raised his head, panting, he could see a red string of blood and saliva connecting their mouths.  Moriarty’s lips and teeth were red for reasons other than the emergency lighting when he grinned delightedly.  

“But you love me,” Moriarty sing-songed back, drumming the heels of his shoes lightly against Sebastian’s arse.  

Bristling, Sebastian denied on reflex, “I love making you shut the fuck up,” even as he allowed Moran to guide his head back down.  This time he let Moriarty lead the kiss, clever fingers in his dark-blond hair and blood in both of their mouths.  

~^~

“Now, make sure that you don’t shoot until we can see Siger-”

“I know how to be a sniper - even in a hostage situation,” John interrupted to remind him patiently.  Sherlock made a face in response but stopped trying to tell John how to do his chosen job.  As the silence stretched a bit, John looked up at the taller man frankly to add, “We’ll get your brother back, Sherlock.”

Looking away and attempting an aloof demeanour, Sherlock grumbled, “No need for platitudes, John,” but then looked back out of the corner of one eye, clearly hoping for a bit more reassurance.  John fought a smile, knowing that it would do no good to point this out.  

“The last thing that Moriarty will expect will be for you to trust someone else to join in on your plans,” John reassured, managing a smile despite the circumstances.  As worried as he was about all of this, he also felt a fizzing excitement in his veins - the same kick of adrenalin that had urged him to sign up for a job at Eigengrau after his tour was done in Afghanistan and mundane life had proved too boring.  

Sherlock nodded firmly, indicating that John had a point there.  In fact, it was rather clear that Sherlock was uneasy about splitting up - because that would mean his control over half of their plan would cease.  John would be on his own and Sherlock would have to trust him to fulfil his part of the plan.  “You’re truly ready for this?” the consulting detective asked, voice low and serious now instead of edgy and fretful.  He turned to spear John with a level gaze made no less intense by the dim lighting.  “This will mean killing a man in cold blood.  There will be no option of asking him to stand down or give himself up.”

“Considering how many deaths this Moriarty bastard is already responsible for, I don’t think I’ll lose sleep over that,” Watson retorted, looking down to check his gun for the hundredth time.  Yes, plenty of ammo in there for a maniac or two - because John was more than happy to kill Moriarty’s murderous bodyguard, too, after hearing how Moran had gotten into Eigengrau and killed off that pilot.  John started and looked up in surprise when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  Sherlock had stepped in closer, and in a rare sign of camaraderie, gave John’s shoulder a hesitant squeeze.  

“Good luck,” Sherlock said awkwardly but sincerely.

“Good luck yourself,” John said back after a moment, unaccountably flustered by the simple gesture but doing his best to hide it with a blithe retort - like one army buddy to another, “I’m not the one who has to chat with Moriarty and get him to show his hand without showing yours.”

“My nonexistent hand, since 006 won’t be letting Mallory anywhere near this exchange,” Sherlock pretended to grouse, but a slight wrinkle alongside his nose - almost a smirk - gave him away.  John wondered if the Hound was feeling the building excitement, too, danger like a drug in both their veins.  

It felt natural to reach up and clasp a hand over Sherlock’s forearm, returning the supportive gesture as if they were comrades, rather than a Handler and a Hound that had been thrown together by the Sybil System.  “All the more reason to keep all the luck to yourself.  Try not to die.”

Sherlock snorted and they both let go, stepping back.  As Sherlock turned to leave, he said one last parting shot: “I’ll survive this if only to rub it in your face that I can, in fact, sweet-talk my way out of a wet paper sack.  Moriarty won’t know what hit him!”  And with that daring promise, Sherlock spun on one heel and started loping off down the hallway like some big deerhound with prey in sight.  

John found himself chuckling, and he gave his head a wondering little shake.  How his life had come to this, he had no idea, but he had to admit… it wasn’t all bad.  It was even a bit good, if he was being honest.  Setting his gun in his right hand but keeping it at ease by his side - ready for action but not ready to do something stupid - John turned towards his own goal.  He didn’t have as far to go in order to make it to the impromptu sniper’s nest that he’d be hunkering down in, but he also had a bum leg that wasn’t doing him any favours.  It was only a graze - nothing too bad - but it did ache, and would ache more if he pushed himself.  Instead of doing the cautious thing and pacing himself, however, John found himself taking a leaf from Sherlock’s book and pushing onwards at a more reckless pace.  He found a balance between speed and comfort, the pain manageable even as he made good progress down darkened halls and through abandoned rooms.  

He paused necessarily whenever he heard anything, of course.  Both he and Sherlock had agreed that they couldn’t get tangled up in anyone else’s battles - not with Sherlock’s baby brother’s life on the line.  Sherlock, with his admittedly high Psychopass, had admitted that it would probably be rather easy for him to ignore anyone else’s plight and stay focused on the mission. Watson was just hoping that he didn’t run into any situation that pulled at his heartstrings and forced him to make a tough decision between his task and his hippocratic oath.

In the end, though, he didn’t see anyone in trouble.  He didn’t see or hear anything, in fact, leading up to the sharp sound of a shot being fired and an explosion of pain that had his gun flying out of his nerveless grip.  As John stumbled against the wall, gasping out a wordless cry of pain and clutching at his left shoulder - already feeling blood beneath his fingers - he saw a tall figure step confidently out of the shadows of an alcove he hadn’t even known existed.  He immediately recognized the agent, 017, who had tried to take his leg out earlier.  Her smile said she remembered the same.  “And here I thought all of you Handlers were too afraid to wander around out in the open,” she said almost pleasantly, but her smile was cold.

~^~

Chapter Text

John panted and tried to force himself to focus.  He needed to push past the pain at least enough to assess the damage to his shoulder.  His left arm wasn’t responding right.  He could feel it and maybe move it, but the agony was crippling enough to make his entire arm shake.  One way or another he needed to get it together if he was going to survive the next five minutes, though - because he already knew from experience that Agent 017 was about as high-Pass as they came, a deadly combination when you added in her fighting skills.  ‘Keep it together, Watson!’ he screamed at himself from the confines of his head, in a voice that reminded him a lot of his old drill sergeant.  

Watson’s eyes followed Agent 017 carefully as she moved her gun-hand, but it was only to eye it like a foreign object and then frown at it.  Out of bullets, John guessed, even before the woman tossed it aside with a clatter.  Her hand was almost immediately filled with a knife, the blade seemingly appearing out of nowhere like a morbid magic trick.  “You know, I thought I recognized you,” she went on, striding a bit closer while John tried - and failed - to firm up his leg.  The adrenaline and pain roaring through his system were probably doing a lot for the pain, but it seemed to be making his already unstable leg shakier.  Seventeen - Hela - on the other hand, looked entirely too fit and capable.  “Ah, yes, the Handler with the Hound in Holding.  It sounds almost poetic.”  Her eyes tracked down to John’s knee, and she smiled just a little.  “Should you really be walking around on that leg?  I know I didn’t do my best job on it, but I clearly remember hitting you hard enough to at least lay you up a bit.”

As the distance between them slowly closed, John cast about rapidly for an escape plan - unfortunately, his options were slim.  He was trying to recall everything he knew about Agent Hela besides the memorable fact that she’d been the one he’d tangled with earlier, earning him his bum knee.  At least she’d run out of bullets.  Oddly enough, she wasn’t really paying much attention to John’s dropped gun either.  Belatedly (his thoughts difficult to corral through all of the adrenaline and choking fear that came with deadly threats) Watson recalled that Hela was far more known for her knifework than her gunplay.  Unfortunately, John knew that he could die just as easily by being stabbed as being shot, and he didn’t like his chances of getting to his dropped handgun before Hela could gut him.  So with a snarl of effort he braced himself to do something very desperate and very foolish.

His injured knee gave out.

With a curse and a cry of pain he collapsed, and it was immediately clear how Hela’s heavily kohled eyes lit up at the sight of weakness.  John barely managed to twist over onto his back - getting his limbs between him and her, even if only two of those limbs were currently working - before she was on him.  “You should have stayed in hiding,” she said, voice husky and untroubled, as if she weren’t currently trying to kill someone.  She dodged the kicks that John aimed at her, focusing on his good limbs as the only obstacles she had to get past.  “That’s unfair, I suppose - I shouldn’t blame the victim,” she kept talking thoughtfully, even as she suddenly lunged forward.  She made it far enough past John’s defences to straddle his good leg, removing it from the equation, “It’s really my fault for not finishing you off when we last met.”  When her knife darted towards the smaller man’s face, he managed to catch her wrist, but his left arm - the one she’d shot - gave out even faster than his bad leg had.  Hela’s eyes, so green even in the emergency lighting, slit with happiness as her grin became more real.  “Poor thing.  You’re learning what happens when men like you play with fire, aren’t you?” she cooed, leaning in.  “Eventually, that fire gets loose, and it burns you.”

John grunted, swearing again, as the knife edged closer to his neck.  “Dammit,” he panted, even as he realized Hela was playing with him - he’d heard that about her, too.  She was like a cat with mice when it came to fights.  She liked to get in close and personal, and draw out the end.  Right now, for example, Watson could feel with horrifying clarity that she was using only a portion of her strength and leverage.  Uninjured and on top, she could have driven the knife home already.  Instead, she was letting it hover between them, watching John’s eyes for the moment when he realized just how truly fucked he was.  They both knew that he only had two uninjured limbs to fight with, and one was currently immobilized beneath Hela’s weight while the other was engaged in the ultimately hopeless task of keeping her knife at bay.

And then Hela freed up one hand and produced a second knife, letting it twirl playfully in her grip.  Watson tried to take advantage of the moment, but his left arm wouldn’t lift, and it was still all his right arm could do to hold Hela’s first dagger at bay.  “You know, our first meeting was so hectic - this really is better,” she mused, giving the knife another flip.  She moved it as easily as she’d move a part of her own body, a testament to her skills.  She didn’t need a gun to be effortlessly deadly.  “I can take my time now, and work out some of the anger issues that dear old Daddy always said I had.”

This wasn’t the first time that John had faced someone with a knife; nor was it the first time he’d been up against a sadist.  War brought out the worst in everyone.  Therefore, from experience, he knew that the moment that second knife finished its latest rotation, he’d feel it.  

He braced himself for pain.

And slammed his bad knee hard into the high-Pass agent’s side.  

Now it was Hela’s turn to cry out, as much in pain as in shocked rage.  John’s knee - nowhere near as useless as he’d led her to believe in the last few minutes - connected solidly with her floating ribs, a part on the body that John knew (from experience as a doctor and as a soldier) to be fragile.  He still wasn’t able to completely knock the woman off, but it did destabilize her position and give John some much-needed wiggle room.  At the same time, Watson got his left arm moving again, shamelessly relieved that Hela had bought the act and thought that it was useless.  When he’d fallen, he’d angled himself so that his damaged arm was closest to his gun, and now in the seconds where Hela’s weight wasn’t on him so heavily (nor her knives so threateningly close) he twisted and reached and closed his fingers around a familiar grip.  His whole arm was screaming and his fingertips tingled with misfiring nerve-endings - he didn’t want to think about what that meant about the damage to his shoulder.  Granted, kneeing Hela with his bad knee had already opened up a whole new world of pain, so in John’s mind, things could hardly get worse.  

Blinded by pain but glad that Afghanistan had given him exactly the kinds of reflexes to work through the kind of haze, John fisted his numbed hand and trusted that it had the gun in it.  His eyes were already tracking back to Hela, to the knives she hadn’t dropped despite what had happened - she had battle-honed reflexes, too.  As John dragged his arm back in, aiming on instinct, he stared into an expression of pure rage, and red emergency lighting glinted off twin knives that immediately came for him.  

He pulled the trigger even as he gave his body one last desperate twist.  

Hela’s expression of fury became one of shock, eyes going wide within their dark shadows.  Her first knife had missed when John had suddenly ceased trying to hold it back - letting momentum carry it into the floor by his ear as he simultaneously jerked out of the way.  Her second knife likewise hadn’t quite gone where it was meant to, although it had punched through the side of John’s shirt.  And blood was starting to stain the fabric.  And John could feel the metal grinding against the outer edge of a rib.  

Hela looked down at her own side, where decidedly more blood was spreading.  John had aimed for the centre of mass.  “Oh, damn it all,” she muttered, then coughed - red flecking her mouth - and then she was sagging off to one side like all the wrathful tension in her had been turned to liquid.  

John laid there for a moment.  He knew that it was stupid to stay still, because he’d been trained in the military and then again here at Eigengrau to never trust that an enemy was finished until they were disarmed or dismembered, but fuck… everything hurt.  So he risked death for the few seconds that it took to just try to surmount the pain as it washed over him in waves.  His gun-hand trembled but didn’t let go, his fingers spasmed tight around the grip now.  

The good news was that Hela didn’t get up to finish him off.

The bad news was that the pain wasn’t going to magically go away, so eventually John just had to grit his teeth against it and sit up.  The effort of that simple task had him releasing a string of curses and swaying where he sat.  “Damn it all indeed,” he echoed the Hounds words under his breath, even as he checked the wound at his side - thankfully, his ribs had done their job, although Hela had cut him nearly to the bone.  “Gotta stop the bleeding,” he found his mouth forming words to himself, words he knew by rote because he’d said them so often - usually to others, but sometimes to himself.  They centred him, even as he ignored the suggestion and fought to stand up instead.  Sherlock needed him.  He’d promised Sherlock that he’d get into position and cover him.  Fuck, Sherlock wouldn’t even know what happened if John didn’t show…

Suddenly determined beyond all reason, John clutched his good hand to his wounded side (bunching the fabric of his jacket against the wound would do some good, he told himself) and got both legs under him.  His right knee hurt more than ever.  It had already been injured, and being slammed against Hela’s side hadn’t helped it any.  John merely glared down at the limb with a look that said ‘You’ll hold me up if it kills you!’  Surprisingly, the limb listened.  John took one step forward, then two, then two more, leaning heavily on the wall the whole while.

How much time had he lost?  The very thought of letting Sherlock down sent a spasm of agony through John’s chest that had nothing to do with physical injury - and yet somehow burned hotter than all his other pains - so he forced himself to keep moving forward.  His pace was torturously slow, and if anyone came upon him now… well, he did have quite a few bullets left, but he wasn’t sure he was up for any sort of fight.  Besides, he needed to save those bullets for Moriarty and his minions.  

Singlemindedly focused in a way that he hadn’t been since Afghanistan, John forced himself to stumble onwards.  His whole arm shook but somehow, his hand remained rock-steady around the gun.  And somewhere beneath the haze of pain, that little spark of excitement still burned, the little spark that Sherlock Holmes had lit when he’d dived into trouble and let John come with him.

~^~

“Of course you’ve got a sniper rifle hidden in the Eigengrau laundry room,” Eames said, shaking his head as he and the others just stared at Arthur - the hider of the sniper rifle in question.  It had taken a bit of work to get them all organized and on the move after Agent Hart had explained the situation and what they wanted from Arthur.  Well, mostly it had taken a bit of explaining and a lot of threatening, but thankfully Arthur had settled down a lot after being tied up.  Eames was going to have to remember that fact…  

“I like to be prepared,” Arthur grunted back, expression and tone disinterested.  It was the demeanour he’d affected from the moment Hart had explained that they wanted to take out the Director-General, C.  Bound as he and Eames were, action and anger weren’t good options any more, and bondage jokes aside, Eames had to admit that was forever impressed by Arthur’s ability to compartmentalize.  

So, with Arthur being calm instead of murderous, they’d all negotiated.  Eames had mostly stayed silent; no one was talking to him, and it only took a glance to know that his input wouldn’t be taken well.  Besides, Arthur had it pretty well handled, and the other four men had likewise put violence aside in favour of diplomacy - well, three of the four had.  The pilot that Arthur had been fighting still looked murderous, but it was a quiet kind of murderous, and rather understandable, really.  Eames had had days where he felt like strangling Arthur, too, and usually it took a lot fewer bruises exchanged to reach that point.  

Watching the pilot and ultimately deciding that he wasn’t the kind of person to backstab Arthur later, Eames almost didn’t hear it when Arthur’s voice had suddenly firmed up, a bit of fire re-entering it: “If I do this for you, he comes with us.”  

Twisting his head around (most of this conversation was occurring behind him, everyone facing Arthur), it took Eames a moment to realize that the ‘he’ in that sentence was himself.  Eames was rarely surprised by people, but he was nonetheless surprised and touched now as Arthur continued with ironclad stubbornness that echoed through his voice and radiated down his spine, “I won’t have you quietly finishing him off when nobody’s looking.”  Eyes never leaving the people in front of him, Arthur nonetheless jerked his head a bit Eames’ way, and where their backs were leaned up against each other, Eames could feel piano-wire tension threading through Arthur’s frame.  This was Arthur preparing for a knock-down-drag-out fight, and he was doing it… for Eames.  “My cooperation is dependent upon his safety.  Take it or leave it.”

Despite what he was saying, there was not an ounce of affection in Arthur’s words, which seemed to be visibly confusing everyone - everyone but Eames, who was fighting the urge to grin like a lovestruck idiot, because he could see right through Arthur on the worst of days.  Arthur was about as emotionally constipated as a person could be, but Eames was the best when it came to reading people, so Arthur had merely been a… particularly rewarding challenge… from the day they’d first met.  

The two Hounds, Hart and Harkness, had exchanged perplexed looks, but then one of the others (introduced simply as ‘Jones’) had leaned in and said, “Just bring them both along.”  He was clearly the softest of the four, but his word must have carried weight, because now Eames and Arthur both were standing in the laundry room, both with their hands still bound but both still alive.

The whole time since Arthur’s ultimatum, he’d never once looked at Eames - doing a very good job of pretending that he didn’t actually care about the man that he’d demanded they keep alive and safe.  If they got out of this alive, Eames was going to tease him relentlessly about the entire thing.  

Harkness had a firm hand on Eames’ shoulder while Hart likewise was keeping a hand on Arthur’s upper arm, all silent warnings while Jones and the pilot, Eggsy (odd name, but Eames had had weirder aliases), followed Arthur’s instructions to locate the hidden sniper rifle.  From a meter behind Arthur, Eames could see the way Arthur’s back and shoulders were ever-so-faintly tense, disliking the touch on his person but doing his best to hide it.  He continued speaking when the pilot made a scoffing noise at his last comment, “You can make fun all you want, but my preparedness is the only reason we’re going to have a high-powered sniper-rifle right now.  You can bet that the armoury’s been ransacked.”

Eames couldn’t help but comment smoothly, “I love how you reframe your rampant paranoia as ‘preparedness,’ love.”

It was probably the ‘love’ rather than the jab that had the slight tension in Arthur’s shoulders becoming extreme tension.  Eames couldn't fight the grin this time.  God, he’d missed Arthur and his stuffiness and temper - said temper always being well hidden from pretty much everyone but Eames, because Eames was skilled like that.  “Eames-” Arthur started to say, and while everyone else heard rigid control, Eames was already hearing the death threats.

Eggsy’s call of, “Found it!” cut off any threats that might have been forthcoming, however.  Everyone turned to find Jones and the pilot returning from where they’d been halfway into the ceiling.  

Harkness whistled at the long weapon nestled in Eggsy’s grip.  “Well, that’ll get the job done.  Don’t you agree, Hart?”

Even Hart’s expression looked impressed.  “Indeed.”  His eyes cut to Arthur, who turned when the older Hound gave his upper arm a squeeze.  All Hart wanted, though, was to ask curiously, “You don’t have more impressive weaponry squirrelled about this facility by chance, do you?”

Arthur paused, eyes narrowed and mouth turned down in a frown, clearly distrustful.  “No,” he said clearly, though.  

Eames snorted because he knew Arthur was lying.

It was possible that Hart also suspected a lie, but decided not to go after it. Instead, he merely said, “Pity,” before turning his attention back to the individual who clearly meant the most to him: Eggsy.  Eames could see from miles away how gone Hart was on the pilot, and only had to wonder whether Eggsy or Hart himself noticed it themselves.  “Eggsy, if you wouldn’t mind carrying-”

“Actually, I do mind,” Eggsy surprised everyone by saying.  Then his face flushed, and he looked down with the most adorable shyness to clear his throat and amend, “I mean, I’m better with my hands empty.”  He scuffed his feet.  “If we get into a tight spot, I’d rather have my hands free for fighting, you know?”  He glanced up from under his lashes at Hart, pressing, “Jones can carry it, right?”

At that moment, Eames strongly suspected that absolutely everyone but Harry Hart realized that Harry Hart was very much whipped.  Because all it took was that one bashful look for Hart to fold.  “Of course.  Er…”  Belatedly, Hart turned to look between Harkness and Jones.  “That should work, yes?”

Harkness had a tiny, Cheshire smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but all he did was shrug and say grandly, “Works for me.  What do you think, Jones?  You up for carrying the big guns until the real party starts?”

Jones, arguably the most bookish of their entire group, was already taking the sniper rifle from Eggsy, accepting his help in putting the strap on and getting it slung over his back.  He’d been carrying their shared handgun, but now, after a moment’s pause - and a telling glance to Harkness, who in return gave a nod so small that Eames only saw it because he was looking for it - handed it over to Eggsy.  “All right, now that I’m the pack-animal of the group and we’re all sorted, can we kindly get moving again?” Jones pressed.  When he shifted awkwardly, clearly not liking the new and unfamiliar weight of the rifle, Harkness let go of Eames and eased past Eggsy until he could reach forward himself and adjust some things.  

For some reason, this required Harkness to stand very, very close.  Eggsy eyed the situation and then pointedly rolled his eyes, turning away as if he and his own Hound weren’t just as ridiculous.  Arthur made a face like a fastidious cat being presented with muddy water.  Hart politely pretended to notice nothing at all, ostensibly switching his attention to both prisoners, since Harkness had left his position.  

Jones, for his part, flushed hard enough that it was visible even in the emergency lighting.

Mouth curling in a smile that was dangerously close to a leer, Harkness gave Jones’ vest a peremptory little pat and then declared, “There.  Now we’re ready to go,” and with that, he turned on his heel and led the way out of the laundry room.  

“You know, I think I like that Hound,” Eames said as he was momentarily in step with Arthur.

The eyeroll he got in return was predictable.  “Of course you do, Eames,” Arthur sighed, giving in to the tug on his arm to walk forward.  Before they were parted again, however, Eames caught something in Arthur’s expression… it was just a gleam.  The faintest of expressions.  To most, it would have been nothing at all, but to Eames it may as well have been a warning sign in neon.  It made him frown worriedly, because somewhere in the slide of Arthur’s quick eyes, the firm set of his jaw, the subtle way he flexed his dexterous hands against their bindings, he was coiling up like a snake.  At the first sign of weakness, there was no doubt that Arthur would do something unpredictable.  He wanted to reach out and give Arthur’s nape a squeeze, to say his name lowly and warningly, to give him a look that said he knew what was going on in that quick mind of his - but with Harkness once again holding him back and his own hands firmly tied, all Eames could do was breathe out a sigh of quiet anxiety.  

He just had to hope that whatever Arthur did, it was spectacularly brilliant - as Arthur frequently was - rather than spectacularly, impulsively stupid.  Arthur was not a trusting man, and clearly he didn’t trust the group they were with now, so it unfortunately looked very likely that he’d try something before this was all over.  “Goddamit, Arthur,” Eames muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Harkness immediately turned his head and asked.

Eames was able to paste on a disarming smile with ease.  “Oh, nothing, nothing, just muttering to myself about these infernal emergency lights.  The red is starting to give me a headache...”

~^~

Everyone at Eigengrau, Handlers and Hounds alike, were there because they had skills that made them noteworthy.  Besides the high Psychopass that allowed her to do amoral things without flinching, Lorraine was an incredibly skilled fighter - a person who could survive a war on her own, even if she came out the other end looking like shit.  Her Handler, Delphine, was decently skilled in self-defence, but her real skills lay in her ability to gather information on the sly - she was able to get photos of things and people in impossible situations.  Merkel was useful, too, beneath his big innocent eyes and youthful looks - he was low-Pass, true, but he knew his way around a forgery.  

Percival… Percival’s skill was that he was exceptionally good at finding out things people didn’t want him to and equally good at getting into places where nobody wanted him - and then miraculously being the only person to walk out again alive.

Delphine had managed to find Merkel and lead him to a location that she and Lorraine had found long before the current siege of Eigengrau: a small outbuilding that went generally unused except by groundskeepers.  No one really spent much time outside on the island, preferring to stay inside Eigengrau or leave the island (and its bitter, wet weather) entirely.  Being borderline abandoned, it was the perfect place for two people to hide out.

Right up until Percival, forever hunting up things and places that he wasn’t supposed to, tracked them right to it.  Because even as Lorraine and Delphine had been finding this place, so Percival had been watching them.  He wasn’t against spying on his own kind, especially considering that he’d betrayed Lorraine at least once.  Oops.  He made enemies so easily anyway that it was second-nature to treat everyone like someone that he’d potentially have to fuck over.  

Sadly, no amount of preparation on Percival’s part had fully prepared him for what a wildcat Lorraine’s Handler was.  

“Goddammit, why couldn’t she have just fucked you?” Percival gasped, dragging himself away from the cliff edge that he’d nearly fallen over, “Why did she have to take the time to teach you… fucking fighting skills!”  He hissed in a breath as the slash across his collarbones - gained earlier, when Hannibal-fucking-Lecter had shown up for a fight - pulled, bleeding anew.  He had some other cuts and bruises now, too, courtesy of Lorraine’s little bitch.  Merkel had been easier, although Percival had only managed to knock him unconscious before the other little Handler had hit him.  

He’d chased both of them from the outbuilding and to the very edge of Eigengrau, where the air was wet with the sea-spray far below and everything echoed with waves crashing.  He’d gotten the better of Merkel, his own Handler, but the fight with Delphine…  Well, he wasn’t actually sure yet how that had turned out.  Staggering back to the edge of the cliffside, Percival looked down, hoping to see her bobbing lifelessly amidst the craggy rocks below.

Sadly, Percival’s luck really wasn’t with him lately.

“Bollocks,” he hissed, seeing a ledge some distance below - with Delphine on it.  It was quite a fall, but it wasn’t the surefire death that would come from falling all the way down to the waterline.  He couldn’t tell whether she was dead now or just stunned, but he also didn’t know how to get down to her to check.  "Women are always getting in the way of progress," he snarled to himself as he was forced to accept the fact that he really couldn’t get rid of her like this.  He didn’t have a gun and he sure as hell wasn’t going to climb down there just to snuff her out.  Although perhaps a big enough rock…

He cast about for some sort of heavy, drop-able object.  It would be messy, but since when had he cared about that?  When nothing instantly appeared in his line of sight, he glanced over the edge again… still no movement.  Muttering, “This would be so delightful if you were just dead,” Percival decided to turn his attention to other matters - because while he wasn’t sure if the fall had killed Lorraine’s precious Handler, he was sure that his own precious Handler was alive and waiting for him, albeit probably concussed.  

The thought improved Percival’s mood markedly.  Pushing aside the various pains in his body and the way blood was making the front of his shirt sticky, Agent 012 started stalking back the way he’d come.  Merkel was a lump in the grass, just starting to sluggishly move.  

“Merkel, my dear friend!” Percival called out loudly, making sure that his voice was heard over the sounds of the nearby ocean - just to see the dazed body of his Handler flinch in alarm.  Percival’s grin widened.  “So sorry for leaving you unattended.  You see, your friend-”  He reached Merkel, who was almost up to his hands and knees, but in no fit state yet to fight back.  “-Was being atrociously rude, and pulled me away.  But don’t worry-”  Percival reached down and fisted his hand in the younger man’s hair, dragging him roughly upwards even as Merkel staggered.  Percival kept up his one-sided chatter with barely a hitch, “-I think I’ve got her handled well enough.  So now you have my undivided-”  He punctuated his words with a solid punch to Merkel’s middle, watching with delight as his Handler’s body tried to fold in half but couldn’t because Percival still had a grip on his hair.  “-Attention,” he finished, pleased with himself.  Merkel made a choking noise, both hands coming up to grab desperately at Percival’s wrist.  Even at his best, the Handler wouldn’t have been able to easily get loose from the Hound’s grip, unfortunately - Percival wasn’t big and muscular like some Hounds, but he was all muscle and sinew.  Meanwhile, Merkel was fit, but he wasn’t trained to kill or be killed like a Hound was.

Pleased that Merkel was at his mercy - something that Percival had wanted for a fucking long time, ever since he’d realized that Merkel was cosy with Lorraine, ever since he’d realized that Merkel wasn’t as stupid and easy to get rid of as his last Handlers - Percival turned and began ruthlessly dragging Merkel to the cliff-edge.  This time, he planned to find an overhang with nothing between them and the water below.  “Don’t take it too hard, darling,” he grunted as Merkel made pained noises of protest and tried to struggle, “It’s not that you’re a bad fighter, it’s just that… well, you’re a Handler, not a high-Pass agent.”  Merkel swore something in German that made Percival chuckle, even as he ignored the Handler’s clumsy attempts to untangle Percival’s fingers from his hair.  “Lorraine could destroy you just as easily as I,” Percival felt compelled to add, glancing over briefly, as if giving advice to a cherished nephew who had made some bad decisions, “And trust me, if you’d kept circling into her orbit, she would have.  She’s a maneater, that one.  I’m just getting the job done first.”  They’d reached a likely spot - leaning forward, Percival saw no promising rocks in the water below, but at least there were no life-saving ledges either.  Percival could work with that.  

“It’s nothing personal, Merkel,” Percival said, even as he kicked his Handler’s legs out from under him, driving Merkel to his knees with a frustrated cry of surprise.  “Okay, actually, it is personal.  You’ve been an utter pain in my arse, and I’ve wanted to kill you for ages now - especially since you’ve cosied up with that feral bitch, Broughton.  Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”  Seeing that Merkel was starting to finally shake off the stupor of being hit on the head earlier, Percival let go of the younger man’s hair but then gripped his left arm.  Without warning, he twisted it, not even twitching as he heard the tell-tale pop of a shoulder leaving its socket.  Merkel’s noises of frustration rose in pitch to a scream.  

“You know, my only regret in all of this,” Percival said, leaning down so that he could snarl the words up close, nose and lips brushing Merkel’s ear, “is that Lorraine won’t ever find your body.  Or Delphine’s.  And I plan to get the hell out of here while she kills herself looking for you both.”  Digging the fingers of one hand into Merkel’s dislocated shoulder, Percival gripped the long hair at the crown of the boy’s head again with the other - forcing him to look out over the crashing waves.  “What do you think, Merkel?  Hm?  Fancy a swim?”

~^~

Chapter Text

The altercation had been inevitable from the start.  Harold felt stupid for not foreseeing this.  

“Three hours have passed,” he said as sternly as he was able, fighting down the waver that always seemed to try and break into his voice when he raised it.  Harold was not a man built for conflict, and it showed - but that didn’t stop conflict from being necessary.  He kept his gaze firmly on his fellow Q-brancher, Merlin, as the Scotsman looked more abashed than the Handler next to him even before Harold pressed, “Need I remind you of your promise earlier?  Three hours of radio silence, then you turn off signal-jammer.”

Merlin and Roxy were both standing next to the signal-jammer, as they had been since Harold’s arrival.  Harold had left Reese farther back in the maze of cubicles that was Q-branch, ostensibly to be the first line of defence if any dangerous individuals came crashing in.  Harold was now wishing that he had the Hound with him, if only because Reese was much better than he at being imposing.  Harold had thought (naively, perhaps) that he wouldn’t need the back-up, not when dealing with a logical coworker like Merlin.  

Unfortunately, despite the rather guilt-stricken look that Merlin gave him, it was ultimately Roxy who took a pointed step to the left - placing her even more firmly between H and the machine preventing anyone from calling the mainland for help.  “We can’t do that, H.  I’m sorry,” she said, clipped and professional.  Harold could only see the way she had a hand on the gun at her side.  

“I’m sorry as well, I really am,” Merlin added in, voice low and far more gentle, although it did nothing to soothe the frustration and mounting panic in H’s breast.  “But one thing I should have told you earlier is that C has hostages - and if we stop jamming signals and things get dicey, you know that C will be quick as hell to start pulling strings.”  Merlin shook his head solemnly.  “I can’t have those deaths hanging over me.”

“But you can have the deaths of the many innocents here in Eigengrau?” Harold snapped back.  The information about the hostages had hit him hard, however; despite the sharpness of his tone, he could feel that his hands were shaking.  He balled them into fists.  “By keeping all of the lines of communication closed, more may die here and now with that madman running around!”

“There are no true innocents here in Eigengrau,” Roxy said with such stone in her voice that Harold jerked as if slapped.  Even Merlin’s head whipped around to look at her.  The young Handler was showing that she wasn’t just some pretty face that Eigengrau had hired to create some female representation - she had the spine to work in a place like this.  

Harold had to wonder if having a spine like that was worth it, however, and he said so in a low and cautious voice, “Has it occurred to you that if we think that way, we become no better than the high-Pass individuals that the Sybil System tracks down?”

Gratifyingly, that got Roxy to flinch, albeit only for a second.  Then her expression grew firm again, and she said quietly, “We all have to do what we think will save the most vulnerable people.”

“We also made a promise to Hart - to Agent 005,” Merlin clarified, his tone and expression making it clear that he wanted to smooth things over, however impossible that was, “He’s working to end this, but he needs the signals to stay jammed for as long as possible.”

Harold could feel something like a panic attack coming on.  He’d felt helpless quite a few times since the siege of Eigengrau had started, but somehow this moment overshadowed all else - because for a brief moment (about three hours, in fact), he’d thought that the end was in sight.  He’d hoped that soon this would be over, and he only had to hold on for a few more hours.  Now he was being shown quite clearly that that was not (and had never been) the case.  It was almost too heartbreaking to endure, and he realized with sudden, last-minute clarity that if he didn’t exit the situation, he was going to start screaming and throwing things.

Instead of doing that, Harold took in as deep a breath as his painfully tight chest would allow, said in a tight whisper, “I see,” and then turned on his good leg to limp away.  It was a miracle that he managed to make it into the shadows without stumbling and falling on his face.  He leaned on quite a few cubicles and his leg was starting to give out by the time he made his way blindly (but unerringly, like a magnet desperate for true north) to John Reese.  

The Hound’s eyes briefly flashed, but if he was surprised by Harold’s sudden and unceremonious appearance, he didn’t show it for long.  “H,” his familiar, dry-edged voice greeted the techie, “Everything all right?”

Harold more or less collapsed into the nearest chair.  He found himself selfishly taking comfort in the way Reese padded a bit closer, an unasked-for gesture of support even as the Hound’s eyes did a quick sweep of the area - a habit of Reese’s, Harold already knew.  “How much did you overhear?” Harold asked instead of answering the question.  If he had to explain if he was okay or not, he’d likely say something snippy about having not been okay in almost two days now.  

Reese’s slow, slightly pained sigh was an answer all on its own.  When Harold’s breathing became loud in the silence - too fast, too shallow still - Reese moved a hand to rest it on the smaller man’s shoulder.  He didn’t squeeze, didn’t remind Harold of who was strong and who was fragile in this hellish place.  Instead, he rubbed his thumb slowly back and forth across Harold’s cardigan.  Harold had stiffened at even the faint touch, but as soon as he focused on it, he was struck (not for the first time) by the incredible carefulness of a man who was capable of the exact opposite.  Beyond all reason, that got Harold’s heart rate to slow down just a bit.  Reese just continued to stand next to him, expression neutral, eyes scanning the red-lit dimness constantly, thumb only stilling when Harold didn’t seem on the verge of hyperventilating.  

Only then did the Hound speak.  Still as calmly as before, tone almost off-hand, Reese rasped, “So what do you want to do?”

Harold held his breath for a moment, because he’d known Reese long enough to know that it was a sincere question - and that the Hound would support any answer Harold gave, no matter how radical it sounded.  Somewhere during the time they’d known each other, Reese had come to trust Harold, and that trust was a humbling thing.  “We need to disable that signal-jammer,” Harold said with growing assuredness.  The shakiness from before was leaving him.  He wasn’t trying to argue his point against two illogical people; he was explaining something to an agent who could move (and had moved) mountains for Harold.  

What Harold truly valued about Reese was that he was always thinking - he often acted a lot like a mindless drone, but the day Harold had truly become impressed by Agent 008 had been the day he’d realized that Reese wasn’t stupid enough to jump off a cliff blindly.  “I assume the easiest way to do that would be to shoot it, but it might be difficult to get a clear line of sight,” he observed, his tone sounding tired but not yet troubled.  Half-lidded eyes glanced around them again.  “Lots of things to block line of sight.”

“There are fewer cubicles when we get closer.”

“True, but then I lose the advantage,” Reese had no trouble raining on Harold’s parade. While the Q-brancher frowned, Reese reached up and tapped the rifle slung over his shoulder.  He elaborated with his usual succinctness, “This is better than Roxy’s weapon at long-range.  Up close, she and I are on equal footing.”  Only now did Reese glance down at Harold, raising one eyebrow as he finished, “I’m pretty sure that the moment she sees me lining up, she’ll shoot me.”  This last wasn’t said with any rancour; in fact, Reese shrugged.  It was said with the same neutrality as one might say, “If it gets too cold, the water will freeze.”  

As always, Harold was slightly unsettled by the easy way with which Hounds like Reese talked about possible death, but now wasn’t exactly the time to try and lecture a Hound on self-preservation - especially when, of the two of them, Reese was far more likely to keep himself alive to the end of this siege.  “I’d rather do this without inciting more violence,” Harold felt the need to remind.  

Another shrug, another sideways glance with a raised eyebrow.  “We might be a bit past that, Harold.”

“I know.  I know!”  It took effort now to keep his voice down, whereas before Harold had been struggling not to just squeak like a mouse.  He took a few calming breaths to settle himself, even as he pushed his brain to work through the situation, trying to run different odds and scenarios in his head.  “I was just now talking with Agent 005’s Handlers about how we cannot afford to become the evil that we wish to stop, though, so I’d rather not eat my own words so quickly.”

Thankfully, instead of arguing, Reese merely eyed Harold for a moment longer before looking away and grunting in a manner that indicated acquiescence.  Yet another thing that Harold liked about Reese, now more than ever: despite being a very skilled high-Pass agent, Reese didn’t ever use brute force to win an argument, despite the fact that he could very easily gainsay Harold with just a small application of strength.  “So you have a better plan?”

“I’m working on it, Mr. Reese,” Harold replied.  Lifting his hands to steeple his fingertips - starting to tremble again, but not as badly as before, with Reese nearby like an encouraging bulwark - Harold stared forward at nothing while he kept his mind turning through impossibility after impossibility, “But ultimately, it seems we’ll need a distraction.”

Reese hummed again to show agreement, and thankfully asked no more… because at the moment, Harold didn’t have a single clue as to how to create a distraction that would get Merlin and Roxy out of the way without also involving violence and gunfire.

~^~

Will still felt shaky on his feet, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his barely treated injuries or because he could still feel the echo of Hannibal in his head.  Usually it was like waking up from a deep sleep, the dream - or nightmare - barely lingering on the precipice of his psyche, quick to tumble off and into oblivion once he was fully conscious again.  Now, though, he was having a harder time becoming fully himself, and the more he woke the more real the nightmare felt.  Since this whole attack on Eigengrau had started, Will had found himself far more intimately aware of just how flexible - and sponge-like - his own mind was, and even if he hadn’t stepped right into Hannibal Lecter’s shoes, he’d have certainly blamed the high-Pass Hound for this new awakening.

Right now Hannibal walked in the lead, as confident and solid as ever, as if he fully trusted all three men at his back - a patent lie, Will knew.  Hannibal’s trust in the Quartermaster had been so totally broken that it was like a wound that Hannibal nursed, licking at it as a compulsive dog would, keeping a scab from ever forming.  No one would ever know it, though, by looking at the man.  Hannibal’s smile was unchanged, his posture showing only the expected tension that came from walking through inherently hostile territory.  Even though Agent 007 - at the back of the group - was the only one of them with a gun, Hannibal was turning his back to the man in a universal sign of either stupidity or trust, and no one thought Hannibal Lecter was stupid.

But only Will knew him well enough to know that an absolute hellscape of rage was roiling beneath that untroubled veneer.  Hannibal was magma beneath the earth’s crust.  

And Will was also one-hundred per cent sure that if he informed Q and Bond of this fact, Hannibal would gut him like a fish.  

Even with painkillers, Will’s skull was throbbing, and he was also pretty sure that Hannibal had prescribed just enough medication to slow him down a bit, too.  He needn’t have bothered, as Will still had one arm strapped across his chest, the damage to his shoulder likely to linger for weeks even if he were to get medical attention this very minute.  Will’s brain might have been certifiably cracked, but his survival instincts worked just fine, and he felt his blood humming constantly with the awareness of just how easily he could die right here, right now.  Unless he could time it correctly and alert Q and his much more capable Hound…

Grimacing as the drugs in his system slowed the churning of his brain in non-useful ways (it would have been nice if it turned off his strange empathy, but all it seemed to be doing was making it hard to strategize), Will kept walking.  Hopefully an opportunity would present itself so that he could let Q know that, “Hey, Hannibal knows that you’re lying about being able to set him free - and the only thing he hates more than lying is probably being punched in the face.  So if you don’t act yesterday, you’re going to die in a really creative way.”  Hopefully Q and James wouldn’t ask how Will knew that, because then he’d have to admit that he’d felt that same need for revenge in his own heart, hot and devouring as a mythical Greek fire.  Even now, if he let his mind relax even a little, he could feel himself slipping back into that feeling like a warm bath… making it hard to remember why he needed to save the Quartermaster at all… because lying was unforgivably rude…

Will sucked in a breath and lifted his free hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, breaking out in a cold sweat as he realized how easily he’d slipped back into being Hannibal.  

“Will?”  Hannibal’s voice was gentle, the question lacking any pressure behind it - no judgment if Will did not respond.  Perhaps because Hannibal, the bastard, already understood everything.  Will’s head still snapped up to stare at him as if he’d heard a wolf’s cry, too close to the fire.  Hannibal had stopped and was watching him with deep-set eyes lost in shadow.  He was only peripherally aware that the others had stopped behind him, 007 himself so silent that Will merely felt his presence like the edges of an earthquake.  

Hannibal cocked his head slightly and turned fully towards Will, taking a smooth stride forward.  Will had to lock his knees so as not to quick-step back, but he was afraid that the way his breath stilled was obvious.  Lecter had to notice, but gave no indication of it.  Instead, he lifted a hand to lightly cup the side of Will’s neck, other hand resting steadyingly on Will’s good shoulder.  “Are you well, Will?” he asked with all evidence of concern.

Will kept his eyes on Hannibal’s chin because he knew that if he looked at his eyes, he’d splinter down the middle - Will Graham would schism in half and a monster would step out.  If he looked into Hannibal’s eyes he’d also have to confront the possibility that the older man’s concern for him was possibly the most genuine part about him.

Swallowing thickly, a random muscle twitch causing his jaw to move against Hannibal’s palm as if nuzzling it, Will murmured wryly, “I think the answer to that is pretty obvious.  I’d be far more ‘well’ if I hadn’t bounced a bullet off my head.”

“I’ve been told that that is the only thing a thick skull is good for,” Q’s voice, tentative but kind, piped up from behind him, “Deflecting injury, that is.  We can pause if you need, Mr. Graham?”

When the dry, warm surface of Hannibal’s hand fell away, Will’s skin felt cold and too alive with lost sensation.  “A short rest might be wise.  Thoughts, Mr. Bond?” Hannibal looked past Will to ask the question to those behind him.  You’d think that they were truly a team, and not merely a slaughter waiting to happen at the slightest wrong move.  

Cautious but accepting, Bond’s British accent filled the quiet, “So long as it really is a short one.  We’re out in the open with too many people after us.  I think there’s a conference room not far from here - two exits.”

“Not so many that we cannot watch the exits - not so few that we can be boxed in,” Hannibal said consideringly, all of him still taking up all of Will’s vision, even if the conversation was being carried out over his head.  Lecter smiled his usual small, polite smile.  “I like it.  Will, can you make it that far?”

Bridling a little at being thought weak, Will turned his head aside far enough that Hannibal could now only fill his peripheral vision, as if that could somehow cut the man away from him.  “My legs work just fine.  We could get all the way to Q-branch if we wanted - we really don’t have to stop.”

“A stop shouldn’t matter in the long-run,” Q chimed in, probably trying to be helpful but just making Will feel pitied.  It was odd to be pitied by someone whom Hannibal was likely to cut into bite-sized pieces, and Will felt the sudden urge to let loose some manic laughter.  He contained it, although he had to bite his cheek against a mad smile and his chest jerked as he caught the laughter.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hannibal’s head turn minutely toward him, deigning to notice this when he’d played obliviousness for Will’s almost-retreat.  Q was still speaking, words clipped and rueful, “It’s true that Moriarty created a deadline of 3pm tomorrow… today?”  Will swivelled his eyes enough to see Q turning to 007, who nodded without hesitation even as Q did the same, both of their internal clocks almost visibly syncing up.  “But that only applied while I was in his custody, and I wasn’t very interested in punctuality then either.”

Hannibal’s chuckle was a low, rough thing, and Will felt as though the rasp of it touched his skin.  He felt like nothing more than a tuning fork, mindless and metal, resonating to a cannibal’s note.  “While usually I am a great defender of punctuality myself, I agree that this situation calls for such rules to be cast aside.”  The hand that had lingered on Will’s shoulder slid away as Hannibal once again turned to face down the hallway before then, calling back as calmly as if this were a field upon a summer’s day, “I believe I know the room that Bond is referring to, and it’s not far.”

~^~

The conference room was actually barely around the corner, and for once the warren-like structure of Eigengrau was a blessing - there were rooms everywhere.  Had they been further from this one, they could have easily found another to their liking at the next turn.  The novelty, however, was that this was the first room in ages to have a window, the outside sky visible beyond.  It was the first actual daylight that Will had seen in what felt like an eternity, to the point that he squinted and raised a hand before his face even as he approached the window.  Fittingly, it was grey and stormy out, waves crashing against the side of the island far below.  

Will sympathized with that rocky shore.  He knew what it was like to be pounded against until bits and pieces fell off, everything sinking beneath the waves.

“Bond and Q are guarding the doors, but we should still be quick, I think,” Hannibal’s voice broke into Will’s thoughts.  A glance around the room told him that he’d lost time - he remembered everyone talking, words blurring, but now Q was sitting with his back against one door while James leaned watchfully against the other.  Both were taking measured sips from bottles of water, hydrating while they could.

Hannibal was filling Will’s worldview again, a physical representation of the situation in Will’s mind.  More than just Eigengrau was besieged.  Even as Will thought this, Hannibal stepped forward, and this time Will’s muscles were propelled by instincts and he found his ass bumping into the windowsill.  Hannibal’s eyes looked very grey as they reflected the stormy daylight, but Will detoured his eyes to the other man’s mouth - too quickly to tell if the smile there reached Hannibal’s gaze.  “Sit,” Hannibal encouraged, a tip of his chin towards said windowsill, “I said this won’t take long, but there’s no reason to stand for it.”

“And what is ‘this’ exactly?” Will asked, feeling edgy and uneasy.  Staring out at the waves had cleared his head a bit, but the less the inside of his skull felt like Hannibal, the more afraid he became.  It was always easier to be afraid of the dark once you stepped out of it and into the light - Hannibal was the monster whose eyes glowed brighter and brighter from the shadows.  Still, with Hannibal sidling in closer and closer, there was no other option besides compliance, so Will awkwardly slid himself up to sit on the ample ledge.  The coldness from outside was poignant here, seeping through the glass as a knifing chill.  At his post, Q had his arms wrapped around his knees; without heating in Eigengrau and with the room so close to the outside, everyone had to be feeling the cold.  Yet somehow it felt sharper here, like a physical thing closing its jaws around Will’s body.

Hannibal’s hand, by contrast, felt kiln-hot as it reached out and rested lightly on Will’s injured right arm.  “Checking on your wellbeing, of course,” Hannibal answered ungrudgingly.  He also offered up a water bottle, reminding Will abruptly how thirsty he was - with only one working hand, he hadn't actually been able to unscrew lids by himself.  He was glad that Hannibal did so now without prompting, extending the bottle like it was instinctive, so that Will could take it and drink.  Lecter’s body language was slipping into that of a doctor, his eyes seeking out injuries with a single-minded focus and his hands unapologetically following.  Will reminded himself to breathe as Hannibal switched his attention, instead moving up to Will's head the moment Will had lowered the water bottle from his lips.  It got harder to avoid eye-contact as one of Hannibal’s big hands cupped his jaw, tilting his head so that the back of Will’s skull came to rest in Hannibal’s other hand.  “And now that we finally have some natural light, I can check your pupillary reaction.”

“I thought we were already quite sure I had a concussion,” Will managed some levity, although his smile felt sharp on his face, a last-minute slash. 

“We are.”  Hannibal’s mouth ticked up on one side.  “The severity of that concussion is still up for debate.  Now, look at me, please.”

Will really didn’t want to.  He’d known since he was quite young that looking at people’s eyes in particular set off whatever hyper-empathy he’d been born with, and the events of the past days had driven home just how horrific his skill could become.  He settled for staring uneasily at Hannibal’s left eyebrow as the hand on the back of his skull moved to instead shield Will’s eyes from the weak sunlight.  The outside of Hannibal’s hand just barely brushed his temple before Lecter moved it away again, and Will’s pupils must have contracted accordingly because the older man smiled, pleased.  Somehow, that loosened a knot in Will’s chest enough that he was able to joke more naturally, “So?  Am I going to live?”

“Barring complications - yes,” was Hannibal’s pleasant retort.  The hand still cupping Will’s chin moved with deceptive smoothness, and without warning Will felt the high-Pass Hound’s fingers around his throat.  Will froze, although the grip didn’t tighten.  Hannibal tipped his head like he was contemplating Will’s pulse, or perhaps considering how easy it would be to snap his neck.  “Unless there is some danger to your health that you have not revealed to me yet,” he added to his first statement, and suddenly Will felt like he was stepping out onto thin ice.  

‘God, I’ve had too many painkillers to be having this conversation,’ Will thought a bit frantically, swallowing unconsciously against Hannibal’s hand.  His own hand clenched around the water bottle despite his best efforts to remain calm - because the fastest way to end up dead around a man like Hannibal was to lose one’s cool.

Fortunately, Hannibal didn’t pursue the topic like Will feared he would - while Will was thinking about the dangerous knowledge he carried, apparently the Hound was pondering other things.  In fact, his hand settled a bit lower on Will’s neck, palm warm against the meeting of his collarbones, and he changed the subject with a musing tone, “You know, I often wonder what it feels like - to not have a weight. Here.”  Strong fingers slid beneath the collar of Will’s shirt to kiss his skin, forming a torc of flesh and bone.  “I have worn a collar so long I fear I have forgotten what its absence feels like.”

“I don’t think you forget anything,” Will accused in a voice that was just a whispered breath.  It was as if Hannibal had somehow managed to cut off all his air without even squeezing.  

Hannibal’s expression had grown melancholic as he watched his own hand around Will’s throat (his own collar a dull glint above his shirt), but now he cracked a smile again.  “You flatter me.”  When his hand fell away from Will’s throat it felt like a ceasefire.  The Hound moved on to Will’s shoulder, where he pushed back the jacket that Will was still wearing jauntily (one arm through the sleeve, the other side just hooked over his shoulder).  He began unwrapping the dressings to check the wound beneath.  “If only memory were a more malleable thing - as there are times in life when simply forgetting would be an easier business.  But alas, you might be right.”  Will hissed as the bandage pulled away from stitched skin, some blood having leaked out to cling to the wrappings.  Hannibal’s voice remained unaffected as he finished, “I do have a keen memory.”

Will didn’t need to slip back into Hannibal’s mindspace to read beneath the words: ‘I cannot forget what the Quartermaster did.  Nor can I forgive.’  By the tone of Hannibal’s voice, it was hard to tell if this was a stated fact or a preemptive apology for what was to come.  

‘Why are you apologizing to me?’ Will nearly replied out loud, before remembering that his interpretations were entirely his own.  Damn those painkillers.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try and centre himself, which Hannibal misinterpreted as pain.  

“Am I hurting you, Will?”

“No, two bullets hurt me.”  ‘What I know hurts me.  What I can do hurts me.  You only want to hurt Q.’  He loosened his hold on the water bottle, feeling how light it was; Hannibal must have drunk from it first, allowing Will to drain the rest of it without regret.  

“That is very magnanimous of you.  To blame the tool instead of the hand behind it.”  

‘If Q had hurt you with a tool - with a gun, with a knife - would you be able to blame it instead of him then?’  “The hand behind it is always more complicated.  Sue me, but sometimes I like making things easy on myself.  At least from time to time.”  He found himself relaxing into the conversation, secluding his mental dialogue from his verbal one becoming easier as he did it, the dual sentences wearing separate paths in his mind.  Hannibal had unwrapped his shoulder enough to look at the exacerbated bullet wound, but not enough to unbind Will’s arm from his torso.  By now, having the coat pulled away was making Will’s entire right side speckle with goosebumps.  

Hannibal made a contemplative sound, nodding just a little in acceptance.  “That I can believe.  You live a difficult enough life in other ways that you have perhaps earned the right to take the easy path in others, if anyone can earn such a thing,” he opined.  When Will just snorted (drawing attention very briefly from 007 across the room, although the British Hound quickly turned away again, more focused on the door), Hannibal was quick to pick up on that and press, “Have I misinterpreted you?  Do you not believe your difficulties great enough to warrant a bit of ease?”

Will shifted where he sat, uncomfortable with the chill - and the way it urged him to chase the heat of Hannibal’s hand when it drafted briefly against the bare skin of his chest.  “I believe that there is no scale for difficulties.  There is no ‘great enough’ or ‘not enough.’  Difficulties are unique to us,” he did his best to keep up with Hannibal even as he felt his mind slipping again into the drugged fog.  He leaned again towards Hannibal’s warmth, and perhaps it was interpreted as unsteady swaying, because Hannibal’s hand paused in rewrapping Will’s wound to instead land solidly on the slope of muscle between Will’s neck and shoulder.  The breath that eased out of Will’s nose was slow and deep and involuntary.  

“What do you really want to say to me, Hannibal?” Will said tiredly on the end of that exhale. It was as if some bulwark had fallen away, and the words just fell inelegantly out - blood from a wound.  

Because of how Hannibal’s hand was pressed so flush to his skin, Will didn’t need to look up from Hannibal’s chest to see him tense in surprise - he could feel it.  The brief motionlessness.  The turning of fingers into claws momentarily.  The palm becoming harsh and heavy against his right collarbone.  Hannibal had been feeling in control of the conversation up until now - up until Will had broken from their winding, polite path.  He was not a doe wandering through the woods; he was the arrow.  Giving in to the drug-induced fog as its push became more insistent (and since fighting it really didn’t do much good), Will sat with his eyelids at half-mast and his eyes unfocused, pressing, “I think that if my difficulties have been great enough to earn me an easy way out, then you’ve earned something easy and straightforward, too.”

As Will spoke of ‘difficulties,’ he raised his eyes the few inches necessary to stare straight at Hannibal’s collar, the symbol of all that Eigengrau’s Hounds endured.  When Will dropped the nearly-empty water bottle to instead reach out towards the silver torc, Hannibal’s hand jumped up with snake-like speed to catch him by the forearm.  The grip wasn’t the usual Hannibal grip - there was nothing calm, nothing controlled.  It was instantly a bone-grinding grip, and Will knew he’d have bruises.  Hannibal’s breaths had also become audible, although all of this had still stayed quiet enough that it was like their own little bubble of chaos.  Will knew that Hannibal’s grip would relax in another heartbeat or two, because he knew that Hannibal didn’t want to draw attention.  He made no effort to hide a small smile as he was proven correct three seconds later, as the fingers locked around his left forearm unclenched grudgingly.  Will used the new freedom to finish his reach and hook just one finger beneath the body-warm metal at Hannibal’s neck.

A glance told Will that 007 had looked over at them at the sound of the fallen water bottle, but then the British Hound looked away the moment Will had touched Hannibal’s collar, as if the interaction was something private - as if Will had stripped away Hannibal’s clothing to press a kiss against his heart.  Will was touching something vulnerable and exposed, and apparently one didn’t need Will’s empathy to know that this was a taboo gesture, because Q seemed to be pointedly diverting his eyes as well.  Based on Hannibal’s expression, Will may as well have been feeling around inside of his chest for his heart, and the dangerous man didn’t care for the invasion - although he didn’t move away.  

“I know you, Hannibal Lecter,” Will said very softly.  He had stopped asking where the words were coming from.  The painkillers were dragging more and more heavily on him by the minute, and it was too late for him to ask why that was.  He might have had his metaphorical fist around Hannibal’s heart, but he was no less vulnerable, his brain and body detaching piece by piece, faster by the second.  

He thought of the water bottle.  

Hannibal had given it to him, before Will had thought that the Hound was onto him.  

The tension and anger Hannibal had initially shown at the reminder of his collar faded suddenly to a small, melancholic sadness.  A smile just touched his mouth.  “You do, Will,” he said so quietly it was barely possible to hear it.  He reached up to unhook Will’s finger from the collar, and the smaller man found that he didn’t have the muscle strength to resist.  Everything was starting to feel heavy.  “And right now, I fear, that is something of a liability to me,” Hannibal finished with an apologetic stroke to Will’s hair.  

Will remembered hearing Hannibal mentioning a drug he’d given to the Quartermaster.  To make him sleep.

Everything toppled sideways without further warning, and all of Will’s thoughts of warning the others fell away into darkness.  

~^~

Chapter Text

“What happened?” Q scrambled to his feet the moment he saw Will Graham toppling.  Muscles that had gotten stiff from sitting in the cold room screamed in protest, and predictably, James was halfway across the room by the time Q was fully bipedal.  007 looked as tense as a bowstring, and Q counted it as a small miracle that the man hadn’t drawn his gun - Q could see that James’ right hand was itching for it, so when he reached Bond’s side he touched careful fingertips to Bond’s elbow before directing his attention to the problem at hand: Will, limp and unresponsive, supported only by Hannibal’s grip on him.  “Is he breathing?”

“Yes,” Hannibal answered succinctly, with a calmness that must have been inherent to doctors.  He was already starting to ease Graham down to the floor, propping him so that he could sit against the wall beneath the windowsill.  “I was afraid this would happen - he overexerted himself more than any of us realized.”

Bond’s voice was a low, careful rumble, “And he passed out only once we came to a stop?”

That did feel suspicious, but when Q looked between the two Hounds, Lecter’s expression didn’t falter.  His answer came without hesitation, although it was matched with a rueful sort of grimace, “The painkillers he is on also have side-effects - they were undoubtedly tiring him before now, but he was able to hold out until the dangers around him had lessened.”  Hannibal looked up from where he’d arranged the jacket over Graham’s bandaged shoulder almost gently.  “It’s not unlike how people stay healthy under stressful situations, but then as soon as the stressor is gone, their immune system crashes and they will fall prey to a cold or the flu.  It’s a survival instinct.”

Nodding slowly, James grudgingly confirmed, summarizing, “It’s better to be sick when you’re safe than sick when you’re in danger.”

“Precisely,” Hannibal smiled.  Then the smile fell away and he looked regretfully at the unconscious man he was kneeling beside, “Unfortunately, this might necessitate leaving Will behind.”

Q’s eyes flicked to the side but he otherwise didn’t startle as he felt James’ hand appear on his shoulder; through the grip, Q could feel that the man was tenser than he looked, and took that as a warning.  Unsure what was going on but knowing that Bond had instincts for trouble that Q couldn’t even imagine, the Quartermaster bit his tongue and let James do the talking.  “We could wait and see if he recovers,” James pointed out.  He sounded relaxed and perfectly helpful.  

Just like Hannibal looked concerned and perfectly benign.  “While we have noted that there is no deadline, I doubt that waiting would help - even when he wakes, I’m afraid that Will is in terrible shape.”

“Are you sure you should be leaving him alone then?” James continued without missing a beat, words smooth and sympathetic, “You mentioned earlier that he likely has a concussion, from the bullet that glanced off his skull.”

If this was a facade, it was a good one, because Hannibal’s response came as naturally as James’ had.  Q had the strange sensation that he was watching a strange play unfold - or a deadly game, one in which he didn’t know the rules for.  Hell, he felt like he couldn’t even see the whole board, what with how the two Hounds kept their real emotions and expression masked.  “When last he slept, I was able to watch him - nothing suggested any dangerous swelling inside of his skull, so in that regard he’s out of the woods.”  Hannibal stood and James’ hand tightened on Q’s shoulder.  “Besides, I rather think that my presence is more useful to both of you.”  Eyes as grey as the turbulent waters beyond the window fixed on Q, a thoughtful but otherwise impenetrable sort of look.  “After all, it’s when you travelled alone that the Quartermaster gained his worst injuries.”  Q tried and failed to read something beyond the calm, reassuring demeanor that Hannibal was projecting, but was unable to learn anything by the time Hannibal looked away to James again.  “The Quartermaster is a valuable commodity, and I wouldn’t want to see him fall into the wrong hands before he gets a chance to free you or me.”

James lightly drummed his fingers now on Q’s collarbone; he was thinking, although still wary.  Q felt a little bit proud that he was at least able to read 007 so well, even if Hannibal remained a dangerous enigma.  

Before 007 could answer, Hannibal suddenly smiled and guessed, “You are still wary of me.”

“Yes,” Bond said without hesitation.  Q breathed out a little exhale of something like relief, because he was glad to hear 007 saying what he felt.  Hannibal felt like ozone, like the crackle in the air that told you lightning was about to strike close by, but you didn’t know exactly where. 

Instead of being offended, Hannibal’s smile deepened until the laughter reached his deep-set eyes.  “That is very laudable.  I would respect you less if you suddenly claimed to trust me.  In fact, I would think you were lying to me.”  Unsettlingly, Hannibal’s eyes slid to Q by the end of that last sentence, but just as quickly returned to Bond.  “You and I both have similar motives to keep the Quartermaster alive, though, don’t we, James?  He is our only hope for salvation.”  Lecter lifted a hand to tap a finger against his collar, a very brief touch as if even Hannibal himself couldn’t overcome his aversion for the thing.  

“True,” James had to admit, grudgingly this time.  His fingertips were pressing harder against Q’s collarbone, almost uncomfortable.  James didn’t like this situation, but wasn’t sure what to do about it.  Q sympathized, as he felt exactly the same way.  

And then Hannibal gave them an offer they couldn’t refuse: stepping forward so that James tensed visibly now (what Q was feeling through the man’s hand now radiating throughout 007 as a whole), Hannibal leaned in to murmur against James’ ear, “Think of it this way: better to have me with you as a pirate aboard your ship than trailing after you like the shadow of a shark.  The former might be threatening, but is far more visible.”

The words had been pitched so that Q could hear, even though he was beginning to realize that this conversation was rather pointedly excluding him.  It was a talk between Hounds.  This would have annoyed Q more, except… he honestly wasn’t keen on the idea of getting involved in this.  Hannibal was as calm as the heart of a glacier, and somehow all the more frightening because of that - while James was clearly showing his disquiet now, his expression set in a deeply distrustful glower even as he tolerated the other agent’s nearness.  It was like a contest to see which flinched first, which one would be the first to drip blood into the water.  James still had one hand on Q’s shoulder, and it was gripping so hard now that it hurt, but Q dared not flinch because the potential for violence felt like gas fumes filling the room.  Bond with his clearly raised hackles and Hannibal with his deadly, unnatural calm - if a spark ignited those metaphorical fumes, Q didn’t want to think about the fight that would ensue.  It would be a bloodbath.

Maybe that was why he said, “Stand down, James,” very quietly.  When both James and Hannibal’s head snapped to the side to look at Q like he was some alien that had just beamed down in their midst, Q took a subtle deep breath and went on as levelly as possible, “Hannibal already knows where we’re going, so parting ways with him now won’t do us any good.  Besides-”  Q forced himself to look directly into Hannibal’s eyes now, briefly clenching his jaw to steel himself before he continued, “-Agent 003 must know that if he turns on us, he’s now outnumbered.”  Surprise flashed in Hannibal’s eyes, the barely-hidden threat clearly not what he’d been expecting.  Good.  If Q couldn’t be dangerous then he sure as hell could be unpredictable.  “And if he is injured - as he surely will be, if he picks a fight with you, James - then that vastly reduces his ability to make it back to Mr. Graham here.  As I assume you wish to do, Dr. Lecter?”

At the polite question at the end (with Lecter’s old title attached), Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, but a grudgingly respectful smile seemed to be pulling at his mouth.  He sounded faintly amused, of all things, as he replied slowly, “Very astute of you, Quartermaster.  I do indeed wish to return to Will, although I intend to barricade this room before we leave - so that I can leave him here safely for some time.”

“The sooner I get both your collars off, the sooner you can return here and check on Mr. Graham’s recovery then,” Q nodded, still fighting to maintain eye contact, even as he felt increasingly like he was staring into the amoral eyes of a snake - or the maw of a ravenous abyss.  He suddenly wished he could go back to when Hannibal Lecter had been an unreadable facade of pleasantries; the truth beneath was far worse, and Q was only getting hints of it.  “I assure you, though, Agent 003, that if you attempt to play the shark in the water, 007 is more than capable of doing the same for you.”

For a long moment, Q held his breath, terrified that he’d pushed too far.  He was blatantly threatening a Hound now - a cannibalistic one, no less, who had a record of killing people for rudeness.  At the same time, though, 003 seemed to respect forthrightness, so Q just had to hope that his words were seen more as candid than impolite.  

Hannibal seemed to be deciding between the two options as well, as he narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, seeming to be searching for something on Q’s face.  He was still very close, and Q wanted nothing more than to back up, but forced his legs to stay still.  “You presume to speak for James quite boldly,” Lecter chose to comment next.

James was more than happy to speak up, his words a threatening growl, “He presumes because he knows my thoughts on this.  You can take his words as mine.”  

Even though Q had been pretty sure that James would back his play, he still felt a wave of almost dizzying relief to have Bond voice such unflinching support.  

Perhaps that was what decided it.  Hannibal was looking between them now, perhaps finding what he wanted in Q’s expression or perhaps not, but certainly noticing the level of threat that 007 was promising.  After what seemed like eons, Lecter stepped back.  “I can appreciate your distrust - and cannot fault you for your threats,” he finally said with a diplomatic nod of his head, a respectful gesture from one predator to another that actually seemed to be directed at Q as much as at Bond.  “If anything, I appreciate that we have this all out in the open.  There is a comfort in seeing the sharks’ fins, to continue the previous metaphor,” Hannibal ended with a faint, dry smile.

And with that, the three of them began moving things around in the room so that their unconscious fourth member would be safe from the roving brigands of Eigengrau for the time being.  

As James and Q both worked together to move a conference table, shoulder to shoulder and finally warming up a bit under the exertion, James hissed in Q’s ear, “I don’t look this.”

Q panted back, “Good, because I don’t either.  I don’t see any safe options presenting themselves, though.”

“I hate it when you’re right,” James grunted, and then gave the final heave to move the table into place.

After that, there was nothing left to do but head out into Eigengrau proper again, leaving an unconscious Will Graham behind - Q still wasn’t sure he believed Hannibal’s story, but at least Graham wasn’t dead - and feeling like every second had the potential of a nuclear bomb just waiting to explode.  Q officially didn’t know what was worse: having Hannibal as an ally or an enemy… probably because he didn’t even know which of those Lecter was right now.

~^~

Travelling with an unstable cannibal at his side was going to give James ulcers, and that was before they heard a Russian-accented English echoing up the hallway from behind them, “I have good ears - I can hear you!  So now you can either make this difficult or-”

“Or for fuck’s sake,” another female voice cut off the first.  The first laughed, a musical noise that echoed down the halls like a flock of mad songbirds.

“Interrupting me doesn’t make you commanding or worthy of my respect - it just makes you rude,” the first speaker returned, still sounding unnaturally amused.  If James hadn’t already recognized his fellow Hounds, he would have then.

By this point Q had shifted closer, enough to just lightly lay his hand against Bond’s sleeve.  “Is that-?” the boffin started to ask.

Hannibal interrupted, as if identifying a vegetable at the market, “Agent 020? Yes.”

“And Agent 019, sounding distinctly unamused by the partnership,” Bond finished in an irked growl, “I’d rather hoped that one or both of them would have been killed off by now.”

“Twenty is something of an ambush predator,” Hannibal continued to muse, although when Bond glanced over, he was gratified to see that 003 at least had a knife in one hand, bared and ready.  They’d reallocated the weaponry somewhat, finding a few more in the fifteen minutes since they’d left Will Graham in the conference room, although James was quite happy to still be the only one with a gun.  There was a bit more chatter breaking the quiet behind them - 019 sounding peeved enough to kill and 020 sounding like she enjoyed that response.  Raising an eyebrow, Hannibal merely finished his thought, “Despite being a lighter model of Hound, however, Twenty has more than earned her rank.  I suppose one must take this as a lesson not to underestimate the small ones.”

“Not when the small ones are crazy,” Q spoke up again, clearly recalling a few things about 020 himself.  “We should just try to stay ahead of them. This is not the time to get bogged down in a fight when we’re so close to our destination.”

“A wise assertion,” Hannibal agreed magnanimously.  However, just seconds after he’d spoken Lecter became alert, the gentlemanly pleasant look on his face sliding away so that the reddish emergency lighting reflected off an expressionless mask.  

A beat later, and James heard what had made Hannibal tense: footsteps.  Ahead of them.  Almost - but not quite - masked by the noisy bickering of 020 and 019.

“We may not get to avoid this fight, Q - we’ve got trouble from two directions,” James whispered in an undertone even as the predator in him came alive just like it was in Hannibal.  In this moment, at least, they were aligned: any good Hound knew that survival came before grudges or manipulations.  It was instinct for James to chivvy Q behind him a bit, even as he turned so that his back was to the wall and his eyes were scanning around them for other exits - they were in a hallway with many doors, but doors were not the same thing as escape routes.  Diving into a room with no other exits was just a glorified kill-box at worst, the location of a long, unrewarding siege at best.

“That explains how Agent 020 has survived,” Q commented dryly, although James was near enough - and, by now, knew the bespectacled man well enough - to hear the fear hiding underneath, “Subterfuge and planning ahead.  Am I right in thinking that we’ve walked into a trap?”

“That does seem likely,” Bond admitted.  

Right on cue, a more masculine voice filled the hallway from somewhere ahead of them, “Come out, come out, whoever you are!  Too late to run now.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, and the fact that James was able to pick up on Lecter’s disquiet said something for how extreme it was.  “Do you recognize the voice?” James asked, as he himself didn’t find the new speaker familiar.  Q himself was also shaking his head, silently offering his own negative answer.

“I do,” Hannibal admitted in a low tone.  When James arched an eyebrow expectantly, Hannibal sighed a little and divulged further, “If I’m not mistaken - and I rarely am - this is Matthew Brown.  He worked as a prison guard at the facility I was at before being transferred here, although it was always a mystery to me how he himself was not arrested for being high-Pass.”

“Moriarty seems to have a particular skill for shielding high-Pass individuals around him,” Q noted quietly.  James glanced over at Q, knowing that this was a sore spot for the boffin, but Q was merely looking off down the hallway with his lips pursed.  Despite having Q explain the Sybil’s fickle ‘blindspots’ to him, James didn’t really understand how monsters like Moriarty and his crew would remain uncaught and yet Q’s brother could be so suddenly dragged into Eigengrau.  Q at least was no mystery: he was low-Pass through and through, and the only person James could think of who would be worthy of access to Sybil’s systems.  

“Regardless, we have little time now to decide how to proceed - we are within a set of closing jaws,” Hannibal said, sounding vaguely put out but not worried.  Hannibal met James’ eyes.  “As that is the direction we need to go anyway, and I hardly think that 020 will listen to reason, I suggest that we charge forward.”

“No argument here,” James nodded swiftly, “Villanelle might not be built for a fistfight, but she’s mad as cats, and I’ve seen what Gazelle can do to a person.  I’d much rather take my chances with this Matthew Brown character.  Q-”  James looked back sharply to the Quartermaster, who was already alertly waiting for instruction.  Bond loved him a little bit more then, for so clearly knowing when it was time to just be silent and do as told.  Q was a certifiable genius and had skills that the rest of them couldn’t even dream of, but they were in James and Hannibal’s world now - and Q’s kind of smarts mattered very little right now.  “Keep up but do everything in your power to not engage.  Three paces behind, no more.  Got it?”

“Got it,” Q nodded.  His hands were tightened into fists at his sides, full of tension, but his eyes were clear and quick and ready.

James wasn't finished yet: “Good.  How’s your aim?”

Q’s features immediately morphed into a look of bewilderment.  “What?”

Unholstering their one gun - and hoping he didn’t regret this - James flipped it in his grip to present Q with the grip.  “Take this.  If Twenty or Nineteen get too close behind you, shoot one of them.”

Hannibal was observing the exchange with a judiciously raised eyebrow, but his only comment was to add, “Preferably both of them.”

Clearly flustered, Q nonetheless took the weapon.  He didn’t say anything, but he did a quick check of the gun that looked practiced, and then smoothly took the safety off.  If Q was not a marksman, it looked like he at least knew his way around a handgun.

Trusting that Q would at least be able to point and pull a trigger, James switched his entire focus back to Hannibal - who was now watching him with expectant, patient eyes.  It was like meeting the gaze of a predator, and because of that, James felt suddenly right at home.  

He and Lecter were wolves.  And they’d hunted together before.

“I’ll lead,” Hannibal said without prompting, then tossed James a knife.  James dipped his chin acceptingly, caught the knife, and with no further ado, Hannibal twisted neatly on his heel and charged forward down the hall.  Bond exploded into motion after him, only glancing back for a second to confirm that Q was on the move, too.  Eigengrau’s 00-agents could keep up a brutal pace and were far more athletic than the Quartermaster - but despite being injured, Q looked like he’d be able to keep up for now.  He had a determined look in his eyes that was visible even in the emergency lighting, and it gave James a little bit of hope that he hadn’t been expecting.

His mood buoyed by Q’s continued ferocity in the face of danger, James turned his attention forward - to the impending chaos.

Hannibal reached the nearest corner and rounded it without hesitating, using the element of surprise and his own size and momentum to turn the tables on the ambush.  It very nearly worked, too.  

Matthew Brown turned out to be a pretty typical bright-eyed white boy - a bit on the manic-looking side, but his eyes widened in pure shock when he saw Lecter charging towards him.  Surprisingly, recognition lit Brown’s eyes, and he relaxed a bit, calling out, “Hannibal-?”  Then in a louder, still confused voice, “Randall, it’s Hannibal Lec-!”  

That was all he got out before Hannibal ducked a shoulder into Brown’s gut and hit him without slowing.  

A gunshot went off then - not from Q and not from behind them, proof that Brown’s previously-unnoticed companion, Randall, was armed.  By the sound of the ricochet, the bullet didn’t hit anyone, and James took a chance on the gun being slower to reload - by the sounds of it, he was working with an older style rifle, not a handgun or something faster.  Ignoring the sounds of Brown swearing and shouting at Hannibal (who hadn’t deigned to respond, as predators didn’t talk to prey), Bond lunged in the opposite direction, towards the silhouette of someone frantically fumbling to reload.  

Randall was similar looking to Matthew, but built a little lighter, which was just fine with James.  Randall was smart enough to look up and realize that he was out of options, but when he tried to swing the rifle like a bludgeon, he didn’t have the strength behind it that a bigger man would have - unfortunately, strength and size weren’t everything. James was reminded of that when Randall released a nearly animal snarl, and the fervor behind his swing was enough to have 007 reevaluating his expectations for this fight.  Swerving to avoid having his face bashed in by the stock of a rifle, James switched the knife in his grip into a more defensive position - this was not going to be a quick kill.  

He could hear the chaos of Hannibal and Matthew Brown in the background, and as James dodged another swing from Randall, he caught glimpses out of the corner of his eye: Hannibal was a very collected, put-together man in professional settings, but he tossed all of that aside when fighting.  All while remaining eerily silent, Hannibal was moving in like a crocodile, all surges of strength, bringing his superior size to bear without hesitation.  The flashes that James saw of Matthew’s face showed that he was still trying to get over the shock of the attack - wherever Matthew knew Hannibal from, it had not prepared him for what Lecter was like in a skirmish.  Matthew also appeared to be armed with a knife, but even when he managed to scrape the tip of the blade across Hannibal’s chest, it didn’t slow 003 down.  The hound just kept coming, and James had the pleasure of seeing Lecter slam Matthew up against the wall with a bone-shuddering thud before Bond’s own opponent took up all of his attention again.

Hannibal might have lost his professional aplomb in the name of survival, but the younger man James was fighting was an animal.  Teeth bared, he switched his grip so that his next attack was a one-armed swing with the rifle - followed so swiftly after with an open-handed attack that it actually caught James on the chin.  It was barely a hit, and more surprising than anything - because the only reason the hit had connected was because Randall had extended his fingers like claws, fingernails scraping James’ chin wildly.  It forced James a step back, closer to where Hannibal and Matthew were now exchanging body-blows, the latter having recovered from his initial shock enough to fight for his life.  James still didn’t have high hopes for him.  After all, whatever luck or fate had kept Matthew out of Eigengrau had put Hannibal in it, and at the cost of collaring and incarceration, Eigengrau had trained Hannibal into an even better killer.

It had done the same to James.  

Q had just come into view - they were at a T-intersection in the hallways, Q now facing the way they’d come, gun raised.  Trouble was incoming.  Time was dwindling away.  James had promised himself that he’d trust Q, but that didn’t mean he was about to overestimate Q’s ability to hold off two trained Hounds, so with a shake of his head (feeling drops of blood fly from his chin, where Randall’s fingernails had actually broken skin), James bared his own teeth and stopped being cautious.  “You like fighting like an animal, do you?” he breathed, more to himself than anyone else, feeling the rush of the fight like a fire in him, “I can do that.”  He moved the knife so that it was like a claw in his right hand.  

Something like recognition flashed in Randall’s eyes, but when the young man opened his mouth and fucking roared (or did a human approximation of it), James took a leaf from Hannibal’s books and waded back into the fight silently.  Good predators knew not to waste breath on useless noise; noise was for intimidation.  Silence was for survival and killing.  The next swing of the rifle-turned-club was aimed at James’ center of mass, so this time he just took it, ducking down and rushing forward at the same time.  He felt the impact of the middle of the rifle against his shoulder, but he’d had worse in tussels with Trevelyan, and it sure as hell didn’t slow him down.   A bruise was worth the end result of getting in close enough to slash through clothing and flesh with his knife - he felt it scrape off bone, Randall’s ribcage doing its job of protecting heart and lungs, but when James reversed to stab again, lower, he met far less resistance from abdominal muscles.  Randall shrieked as honed steel pushed into his belly.  The gun was dropped behind James with a clatter.  

Crazy was hard to kill, however - and hard to predict - because instead of trying to retreat, Randall immediately grabbed Bond’s knife hand at the wrist.  With his other hand, now empty, Randall went for Bond’s throat like a wild thing.  Too late, Bond swore and tried to pull back, but his opponent was stronger than he looked and simply followed after every step James took. Fingernails sank into either side of his throat and James wasn’t sure if Randall was trying to choke him out or dig open his jugular.  He had just had the thought of, ‘Where does Moriarty find these maniacs?’ when there was the resounding crack of a gun going off in a confined space.  ‘Q!’ was James’ first alarmed thought, thinking that Villanelle and Gazelle had gotten close enough to threaten him.

But then Randall’s grip slackened, the animal light left his eyes, and he slid off James’ knife to land in a heap.  

James looked over even as Q, smoking gun still in his grip, moved to kick the rifle his way.  “Thank me later,” the Quartermaster said, the clipped, tight quality of his words the only indicator that he’d done anything out of the ordinary - like shoot and kill another person.  Already the boffin was turning to watch their backs again.  He was just in time, too, as a blonde-haired young woman suddenly raced into view, a too-eager grin stretched across her face.  The grin disappeared into shock as Q’s gun barked again.  He missed, but it was enough to have Villanelle yelping and ducking into the nearest room, out of sight.  

A glance back told James that Hannibal was still struggling with his opponent - this Matthew fellow was no slouch, and was quick enough that he’d avoided being gutted... so far.  Hannibal might have been bleeding from a few new places, but they were nothing but scratches on the nose of a bear, and James foresaw Matthew meeting his end sooner rather than later.  A glance back towards where Villanelle had retreated, however, showed James the first glimpse of more trouble coming around the corner.  “Q! Down!” he barked, snagging a hand in Q’s shirt collar and physically dragging him backwards even as he gave the command.  007 managed to get himself and Q around their own corner and to safety just in time for bullets to pierce the air where they’d been.  

“It would appear,” Q panted, eyes wide behind his glasses, “that Agent 019 has found herself a semiautomatic weapon.  That is definitely not regulation-issue.”

“You can ask M to write her up for stealing when we all survive this,” James said optimistically, even as he shouldered his new rifle and slid past Q to try and set up a shot.  Their sides brushed heavily in passing, leaving James’ skin tingling with awareness and adrenaline even as Gazelle put out another warning shot to keep him back.  “How’s Hannibal doing?”

“Disturbingly well, although his opponent doesn’t appear dead quite yet.”

Raising his voice but keeping his focus on the two women down the hall behind them, James yelled, “Lecter, quit playing with your food and finish it already!”

“You, Mr. Bond, have no appreciation for fine dining - I would never play with good food,” was Lecter’s entirely-too-cheery response, although it was hardly the first time that James had encountered morbid humor in the thick of battle.  If anything, it felt normal, even as he heard the familiar sound of bones grinding - a snapped neck, if the aftermath of stillness and silence was anything to go by.  Q sucked in a sharp breath, but otherwise didn’t react to what he must be seeing.  “However, you might want to finish up your current dish, as I fear we might have another course about to be served to us.”

That was pretty easy to translate: more trouble.  “Damn,” James swore softly.  He tried to lean around the corner to get a shot off, but nearly had the rifle blown out of his hands.  There was the manic sound of 020 cackling.  “What kind of trouble?”

The answer became a bit self-evident as there was the blast of a handgun going off - this time from Hannibal’s direction, although Lecter remained unarmed.  Leaving the body of his fallen foe, 003 backed up to the relative cove of safety where James and Q were crouched.  Before Lecter could say anything, Q frowned and piped up, “That’s coming from Q-branch.”

Bond glanced back and up in time to see Hannibal nod down at them in agreement.  “It would appear that not everyone has abandoned your branch.  I caught a glimpse of the shooter just before it became unhealthy for me to stay put - I believe that it’s actually Agent Hart’s Handler trying to shoot us.”

As if on cue, there was a female voice ringing out commandingly from down the hall, “I suggest you either surrender or turn your arse around and leave, Lecter, because those are the only options I’m giving you that end with you maybe breathing later.”

One raised eyebrow his only response to the threat, Hannibal corrected, “Trying to shoot me, at least.  But in her defense, her line of sight hasn’t revealed any other living targets to her.”

“Well, she won’t shoot me,” Q said firmly.  He gripped James’ gun-harness briefly to help himself get up, his collection of injuries starting to show in the wincing way he moved - James had also admittedly yanked him back rather hard.  Bond twitched a bit as Q leaned over him, however, one hand splayed on his back and the other sliding the handgun into one of James’ shoulder-holsters.  “Keep that.  You two stay alive while I tell Q-branch not to shoot you.”

“See if you can get Miss Roxanne on our side,” Hannibal suggested.  He sounded for all the world like this was just another day at the office, and they perhaps needed another person to help with filing patient charts or shredding paper.  “Having her assistance right now would be very useful, especially as it has not missed my notice that you have given all of our guns to 007.”  

Bond tensed a bit at Hannibal’s tone at the end, which had hardened ever-so-slightly.  Rapidly flipping through potential solutions while still keeping himself focused on Gazelle and Villanelle around the corner, James ended up glancing back at Q - who nodded at him after a moment.  That was all the conversation they needed.  James lowered the rifle and turned to hand it back to Hannibal.  “Apologies,” he said as lightly as possible, keeping up the facade that they all trusted one another, “Everyone seems to be exchanging weapons at a dizzying pace around here, and I lost track for a moment.”  Rifle now with Hannibal, James took out the handgun - a more maneuverable weapon if things got dicey.  Guns in general were not made for close-quarters combat, but it was a lot harder to get the long body of a rifle properly aimed at a person up-close, and it was also easier to see it move around if Hannibal decided to aim it at James’ back.  At the same time, James couldn’t afford to ignore 020 and 019, who were far more overtly threatening than Hannibal right now.  “Go, Q.  And Hannibal’s right - another gun on our side wouldn’t hurt, and if I recall, Roxy’s a damn fine shot.”

At that point 019 apparently got tired of waiting and bolted into the open, perhaps hearing a murmur of noise to indicate that James was talking to someone and therefore not 100% focused on covering the hallway.  Things got hectic then, as the two parties exchanged gunfire and Villanelle shrieked as she was just barely grazed by a bullet before finding herself another doorway to hide behind - closer to Bond’s group than she’d been before.  Hannibal tried to cross to the other side of the hall, to get a better angle, but Gazelle just about gave him some unwanted new holes for his troubles.  Over the continued exchange of gunfire, James wasn’t able to hear much about how Q was getting on, which made him more anxious than he wanted to admit.  A glance back showed him nothing but an empty hallway with the bodies of Matthew and Randall strewn across it like speedbumps.  

“He made it,” Hannibal said, far too attuned to James’ thoughts - a good thing in an ally, a problematic thing in an enemy.  Right now, though, the other Hound was working in tandem with James, standing while James crouched closer to the floor, both of them working to cover the hall.  It was actually Hannibal who had just nicked 019 with a bullet, his aim impeccable despite his unwieldy weapon.  “The last I saw of him, he had his hands in the air, and then he lowered them and walked out of sight - the body language of someone approaching a friend.”

The words reassured James despite himself.  “At least one thing is going according to plan,” he grumbled, then twisted around the corner just long enough to get a glance at the situation - he thought he saw Gazelle’s location, right before a bullet drove James back into hiding again.  

Q’s voice startled him: “Lecter!  Bond!  Don’t shoot - it’s Hart’s Handler!”  

“So much for things going to plan and Q running to Q-branch,” Hannibal murmured, although he sounded amused.  Sure enough, though, when James glanced back it was to see a fairly familiar face trotting towards them, her body close to the wall for cover and her hair tied back out of the way from focused, pretty features.  She didn’t look particularly happy to be approaching them without shooting, but her gun was aimed low, so Bond kept his own weapon trained at the real enemies, Gazelle and Villanelle.  

“It appears that there was another option that ended with me still breathing,” Hannibal observed once she’d reached them.

“Don’t get smug,” the woman snapped back, “You’re just lucky that you aren’t the first Hounds I’ve had to work with during this little siege.”

Hannibal kept up the conversation even as he refocused his attention on their enemies, “Who else has graced you with their presence?” 

“008 - Reece,” Roxy said shortly, “He’s back in Q-branch, being stony and silent like usual.”

The presence of some Hounds in Q-branch - where Q was headed - would have made James supremely nervous, but of all the various high-Pass agents in Eigengrau, John Reece was the least offensive.  He was deadly as hell, yes, but he lacked the mean-streak and hunger for violence that some Hounds had.  The only way Reece would be a danger to Q would be if Q attacked him first, and even then, Reece would probably only react in kind if Q had a weapon on him.  So the boffin was about as safe as he could be right now.  

Roxy was still talking: “I’ll ask you later how and why you’ve both managed to keep the Quartermaster safe for this long, but right now I want to know what we’re dealing with here.”

“Nineteen and Twenty have hiding places just around the corner, and seem determined to shoot rather than run,” James explained succinctly, right before all hell broke loose.

Because it turned out, at that moment, that Villanelle had either found or created a smoke bomb.  

Looking back, James would kick himself for forgetting how resourceful Villanelle was.  As noted earlier, she was built for stealth, not for power - but there was a reason that she was a Hound at Eigengrau, and it was because she could get a lot done with very little assistance.  She was rising the ranks rapidly, and it was because of moments like this, where she pulled tricks out of nowhere.  Gas filled the hallway almost instantly, turning everything into a dark red haze as the emergency lighting struggled to get through.  Villanelle gave a cheer at her own good work, and for a moment her laughter was the only sound - besides Gazelle swearing from further away, proof that this was not something that she’d been made privy to in advance.  James and Roxy swore, too, as the smoke spilled towards them, acrid and thick.  

James barely heard anything coming at him, because Villanelle had taken her shoes off, making her barefoot and silent.  She was ducking under Bond’s gun-arm like she was a liquid, and instantly trying to put a knife under his ribs.  His own gun useless, he stumbled back, instincts screaming that he needed to put space between himself and the knife - a gun went off, but he wasn’t sure whose.  Pain lanced up his side, but since his heart didn’t stop and he was still breathing, he knew instantly that Villanelle hadn’t hit his heart or his lungs.  Her curse in Russian was also a good indicator that she’d missed.  Someone else was near him in the smoke; an ally, since they grabbed at Villanelle rather than him.  Or else they were a confused foe, as everyone’s eyes were watering with the smoke.  More shooting. It was coming from two directions now, but also closer.  Gazelle was a sensible killer, but was also determined enough to take her chances in the smoke.  The repeated bark of her weapon was easy to distinguish, even as James and his ally tried to peel Villanelle off him.  James’ helper in this was definitely Roxy, which created its own problems, as she and Villanelle were built very similarly: both fairly slender, blonde hair pulled back in ponytails.  It got worse when Villanelle, struggling like an eel, somehow got hold of Roxy’s gun.  She immediately pulled the trigger and Roxy screamed, although the gun had been pointed down at the time - meaning she was probably not lethally injured, but possibly crippled by a bullet to the foot.  James didn’t take time to ponder it, and instead brought his own gun around.  They were still all too close - this wasn’t what guns were for - but he managed to repeat Villanelle’s own trick before she could repeat it on him.  Her shriek was honestly eardrum-popping, but her left leg buckled, and Roxy followed her down, wrestling for her gun.  Somehow Villanelle managed to kick a leg out hard enough to nearly take James down to the floor, too, and by the time he recovered his balance he’d nearly lost the two women in the smoke.  

He found them when he heard the gun go off again - close, loud, and final.  He went towards it, his own gun drawn.  

He found two shapes tangled up on the floor, unmoving and almost indistinguishable in the foggy darkness.  Just impressions of limbs and long, dark-blonde hair.  Blood like ink spread across the floor.  When one of them moved, James immediately lifted his gun and aimed at her head, partially depressing the trigger and wishing he could see where Roxy’s gun was.  He suspected it was trapped between them, but tensed for it to appear out of nowhere, aimed at him - then it would be a race to see who could put a bullet in whom the fastest.   

No gun appeared.  Only Hart’s Handler’s face, strained with pain and stray strands of hair sweated down across her cheeks and forehead.  She was wild-eyed and clearly surprised to be alive still, and only belatedly noticed 007 standing over her like a wraith, aiming at her forehead.  

“007-” she started to say, lifting an open hand as if to stop him.  

James shifted the gun away from her and fired off a shot over her head, then dove down on top of her immediately after.  To her credit, Roxy didn’t scream, and before she could think to struggle, there was the sound of a semi-automatic shotgun spraying off bullets into the darkness.  The noise stopped quickly, though, replaced by the thud and clatter of a gun and body falling.

“Agent Twenty,” James said belatedly, by way of explanation.  He lifted his head, pleasantly surprised that the gunfire didn’t resume.  “That was probably one of the luckiest shots of my life,” he added, feeling a bit drunk on adrenaline all of a sudden.

As James got up off her, Roxy sat up, too, scooting away from the Hound’s body beneath her.  “How do you know you didn’t shoot your friend Lecter?” she said, wincing as her left leg dragged - most of the blood on the floor was from the bullet hole in Villanelle’s chest, but some was from Roxy’s calf.  

“Different shoes.  I heard the scuff of a footstep sneaking up to us, and it was too light to be his,” James said.  He didn’t mention that if it had been Hannibal sneaking up to them through the smoke, then he’d have shot him, too - because there was no peaceful reason for Hannibal to be slinking around right now.  

Unfortunately, that left another question, which Roxy voiced even as she retried her gun and sat against the wall with it in her white-knuckled grip: “Where is Lecter?”

Warnings were going off in Bond’s head.  “I’m not sure.”  

He couldn’t hear any more fighting or movement.  He started to walk slowly through the smoke (which was finally starting to dissipate, sinking to the floor), making his own footfalls silent and putting distance between himself and Roxy as she called out, “Dammit, 003, make some noise if you’re not dead and don’t want to be shot out of principle!”

Instead of Hannibal answering, another voice did - masculine and with a distinctive Scottish brogue, “Roxy!  Roxy, are you alive?”  

She must have recognized the voice, because instead of sounding pained and peeved, the young woman sounded relieved as she replied, “Yes, Merlin.  Two Hounds neutralized.  007 is with me and Hannibal…”

“We’re not sure where the fuck Hannibal is,” James growled, stepping out of the smoke just in time to nearly run into the new arrival - whom he recognized now as one of Q’s underlings, Merlin.  The bald Scotsman immediately backpedaled, brandishing what looked like a chair leg.  James opened both his hands in a show of harmlessness, letting his pistol dangle from his thumb for a moment.  While he outwardly made peace, however, internally his blood was starting to roar.  “Where’s Q?” he demanded.

Merlin’s brows lowered, along with the improvised club.  “Q?  What do you mean, ‘where is he’?  It seems like this whole bloody island is looking for him, and H said he was with you, last anyone checked.”

There was a painful, stretching silence as James closed his eyes and just tried to think, tried to breathe.  The right side of his ribcage stung every time he inhaled, and he could feel now where Villanelle’s knife had traced the edge of his lowest rib, from his Solar Plexus outwards.  His blood was already sticking his pullover to his skin.  

Roxy wasn’t mobile, but she had apparently heard the exchange, and her question floated out from the remaining smoke, “Have you seen Agent 003?”  Her words were heavy with trepidation.

There was bewilderment on Merlin’s face still.  There were footsteps coming from behind him, but the hobbling cadence meant that no one was surprised or alarmed to see Q’s right-hand man, H, stepping into view.  He had a familiar messenger bag over his shoulder, and by the wide-eyed look on his face, he’d heard a lot of what had been said - and was connecting the dots.  It was him who replied, “No one has entered Q-branch since you left, Miss Roxanne.  The only new arrival I’m seeing-”  He turned his attention to Bond, although by the way his shoulders tensed, he clearly didn’t care to interact with a bloodied hound.  “-Is you, 007.”

James’ ears were ringing.  He felt like suddenly his skin was too tight, the air was too thin.  His brain told him that the smoke bomb was fading and wasn’t affecting his ability to get oxygen, but he felt like a band was tightening around his chest anyway.  Q and Hannibal had both disappeared like ghosts, and he’d never felt so painfully, stunningly helpless in all of his life - not even when Vesper had been alive, threatening to end him with his collar if he didn’t bend to her wishes.  

Because when Vesper had threatened him, it was only his own wellbeing on the line.  Now… now it was Q’s.

“Are they dead?” Merlin had the guts to boldly ask, although the grimness of his face said the question hurt him to say.

“I don’t think we’ll be finding their bodies when the smoke clears,” James answered, though, with plenty of grimness himself.  “Fuck,” he finally snarled to himself, wanting nothing more than to punch something.  Rend something.  Destroy something.  But destruction wouldn't help, and besides - the only thing he really wanted to destroy right now was probably Hannibal Lecter, who was not here.  “I’m going to find them,” he spat the words out like chunks of broken glass.  

No one questioned him.  

No one stopped him.  The look on James’ face must have been the only warning anyone needed, and perhaps Roxy heard something lethal in his voice.

The only one who moved was H - he stepped forward just as James made to step away.  When 007 tensed and glared at the little man, H gulped visibly, but then slipped Q’s messenger bag free of his shoulder.  “For when you find him - he’ll want that,” was all H said.  

James nodded and then sank back into the thinning smoke, anger and fear so thick in his throat that he felt like he was choking.

~^~

Chapter Text

“Where are you taking me?”  Q would have shouted it, but the strap around his neck (possibly a tie, he hadn’t had the luxury of being able to check) was not only acting as a collar and leash, but it was also cutting off a significant portion of his air.  Hannibal’s fist holding the material closed at Q’s nape also allowed the larger man to viciously tighten it further at the first suggestion that Q might start screaming for help.  

Q had already tried that twice.  The second time he’d blacked out and come to again on his knees, Eigengrau’s very own cannibal still standing over him.

They were walking again now, at a pace that was further taxing Q’s limited oxygen allowance.  It also made it difficult for Q to pull up his usual pristine map of Eigengrau in his head, so he truly had no idea where they were right now.

“Where do you think, Quartermaster?  Your mental acuity is legendary,” Hannibal replied, only the slightly lower pitch of his voice indicating that this wasn’t any normal, idle conversation over tea, “I’m sure you can narrow down the possibilities.”

Q’s hands weren’t tied, but he’d already tried to get his fingertips underneath the strap around his neck multiple times, to no avail.  He’d have loved to use his free limbs to attack Hannibal, but the Hound was canny enough to be forcing Q to walk in front of him - and much like James, Hannibal was quite good at reading body language.  That meant the second Q so much as twitched to try and spin around and start something, Lecter would twist his hand and the throttling noose around Q’s neck would tighten.  Blinking in a futile attempt to clear the spots from his vision, Q panted, “Somewhere quiet where you can kill and eat me in peace?”

“Quaint, but no.  Try again,” Hannibal replied dryly.  He pushed Q to go a bit faster, then nearly unbalanced him as he tugged the boffin into taking a right turn down another hallway.  In an unexpected gesture of politeness peculiar to Hannibal, the Hound did use his free hand to grip Q’s elbow, steadying him.  

Q blamed lightheadedness on his next brash response, “Somewhere James won’t track you down and remove your head from your shoulders?”

For a moment, it seemed certain that Q’s growled words would earn him another strangling, but while the hand around Q’s elbow did tighten for a moment, it then released without injuring him.  “I can see why you’d think that,” Hannibal allowed, sounding thoughtful rather than angry.  Were it not for Q’s current circumstances, he’d have thought that 003 were merely continuing a pleasant conversation with him.  “Bond’s attachment to you is rather obvious.  I must admit, I’d resigned myself to the necessity of killing him just to get to you.  I’m glad that it didn’t come to that - Agent 007 is someone whom I have great respect for.”

“But not for me?” Q wheezed.  He tried again to slip his fingers up under the strap around his neck, anything to relieve the pressure.

Hannibal’s hand closed down on Q’s wrist, tightening painfully even as the hold on Q’s neck yanked him to a halt.  “I’m afraid, Quartermaster,” Hannibal said, voice a low rumble behind him, “that you lost much of my esteem when you chose to lie to me.”

Biting back a whimper as his hand was forced away from his impromptu collar (what an irony, being collared by a collared Hound), Q managed to get out, “Lie to you?  About what?”

“About something very important to me, I’m afraid.”  Hannibal got them moving again, taking them into a stairwell.  Q was forced to stumble up the stairs, feeling like he was breathing through a straw, vision tunneling.  “I have to wonder if you lied to James about the same, to keep him so stalwartly by your side.”

For some reason, that more than anything else set Q’s blood to boiling.  He bared his teeth, trying to awkwardly wrench his left wrist (the one he’d burned seemingly so long ago) free.  “I haven’t lied to James about anything,” he seethed with what little air he had.  

At that point, Q tripped, and apparently any considerate nature left in Hannibal had worn thin - like a snake’s skin finally being outgrown, splitting at the seams - because the Hound proceeded then to simply drag Q by his neck.  By the time Q frantically got his feet under him again, they were on a landing at another door, and Q was coughing raggedly just in an attempt to get some air.  Hannibal had let go of Q’s burnt wrist, but the act of coughing and being dragged around had Q’s bruised ribs throbbing, and he had to grab at Hannibal’s trousers and shirt for balance just to stay up on his knees.  A remaining flicker of defiance told him to punch the man in the balls while he had the chance, but then Hannibal twisted his grip on Q’s makeshift collar - making breathing all but impossible while also forcing Q to look up at him.

In the emergency lighting, Hannibal looked like some dark god of death, or a passionless skull, all cheekbones and shadows looking down at Q.  “Are you sure?” he said, a low, cold rasp.  “Does James also believe that you will free him?”

Bewildered and honestly barely conscious Q clawed at his throat and blinked in confusion.  Still, he somehow managed to get out in a reedy whisper, “I… wouldn’t... lie… to James.” 

Hannibal cocked his head.  It was hard to tell what he deduced from Q’s response.  “You’re a curious individual, I’ll grant you that,” he finally cast judgment, then diverted his attention to reach for the doorknob, turning it.  He began to open the door to whatever room or hallway was next, murmuring, “Perhaps it is best that I am not the one to decide your fate, ultimately.”

Before Q could get his oxygen-deprived brain to untangle that sentence, Hannibal pushed open the door and then hauled Q through it with a burst of easy strength.  Q ended up collapsing into a brighter room than before - lit by watery, cloudy-day sunlight rather than the incarnadined emergency lighting.  Gasping and gagging in shock as the strap around his neck loosened and fell to the floor (a cloth belt, not a tie), it took Q a moment to realize that there was a pair of polished shoes in front of his nose.  Trying to get his breathing under control and desperately working to get his brain fully online again - everything felt like it was underwater, in slow motion, foggy and delayed - Q lifted his head.

And found a familiar, manic smile directed down at him.  Q’s entire heart felt like it solidified in his chest.

Moriarty spread his arms like a benevolent messiah, no cross necessary.  “Welcome back, Siger!” he cheered, voice then dropping drastically to a coo, “Now, don’t be bashful - tell me you missed me.”

~^~

James had always enjoyed working with Hannibal Lecter before the man was dependable.  You could expect him to act upon certain internal rules (mostly revolving around politeness and survival, in that order), whereas other Hounds could be annoyingly unpredictable.

Right now, though, James was going mad because he couldn’t begin to imagine what Hannibal was going to do to Q.

Oh, he could imagine some possibilities.  Vividly.  But there were a hundred ways in a hundred places that Hannibal could hurt Q in Eigengrau, and Hannibal had a headstart.  James didn’t have the luxury of time for a leisurely hunt, so instead of banging his head against a metaphorical or literal wall to try and figure out exactly what Lecter’s game was, James went for someone that he did know the location of: Will Graham.  

Considering Lecter’s attachment to the man, there was even the possibility that James would find the Hound there, too… and hopefully Q, still in one piece.  God, he needed to find Q still in one piece.

They’d carefully set up the room to make entering it difficult, to protect the unconscious fellow from Hounds just like James.  Therefore, 007 braced himself for a difficult entrance, and was therefore surprised to hear swearing and furniture moving as he approached the door.  It took all of his self-control, but James made himself stand quietly and silently, counting off the minutes as Will Graham unbarricaded the door from the inside.  

The second he heard Graham sigh, “Fucking finally” and start to pull open the door, James snapped into motion like an alligator coming out of the water.  

He’d shouldered open the door in seconds, sending it crashing against the adjacent wall, and soon had Graham pinned against another.  The profiler cried out in pain as his bandaged head was rattled around again, but James had lost all capacity for sympathy.  “Where is he?” he growled, low and steady, although it was a struggle to keep from shouting like a madman.  Some of his fury and desperation nonetheless slipped through as he gripped the coat slung over Graham’s shoulders and gave the other man a shake, “Where is Lecter?  And don’t you fucking dare tell me you don’t know.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Graham replied wincingly, to James’ surprise.  While James paused a moment, just blinking, Graham squeezed his eyes shut against what was probably a pretty spectacular headache - James had had concussions before, and knew that Will’s head had to be an unpleasant place right now.  Did he care?  No.  Did he understand?  Analytically, yes.  One of the upsides to being High-pass was that he could compartmentalize those two reactions.  

Then Will kept talking, and James just about lost his ability to compartmentalize and be analytical: “Hannibal took Q, didn’t he?”

Graham only had one arm in the jacket he was wearing; if he’d had both in, James would have used his grip on the coat to lift the other man right off the floor.  As it was, he moved one hand to the profiler’s throat before he could so much as inhale after his sentence.  “What do you know of it?” James growled, low and lethal, from millimeters in front of Graham’s face.

There was a flicker of panic that crossed Graham’s face before he looked away, refusing eye contact.  His free hand slithered out and grabbed James’ wrist, but 007 didn’t care, because he strongly suspected that even if Graham were to stab him through the heart right now, he wouldn’t feel a fucking thing.  After the initial spark of fear, however, Graham swallowed thickly against James’ palm and seemed to collect himself.  James could still feel his heartbeat, rabbit-fast, but Graham was staring somewhere in the vicinity of James’ chin and his voice was quiet but steady when he replied, “I know that Hannibal has a problem with people keeping secrets from him… but that he was also keeping secrets from all of us.”  His words cut off with a little choking noise as James tightened his grip, anger rising.

“Don’t give me riddles,” James warned, “Lecter might find them entertaining, but I don’t.”

Will was trying harder to get James’ hand off now, but his fingernails couldn’t do much through James’ pullover-sleeve.  “If you… choke me… you won’t get anything… riddles or otherwise!” he eventually gritted out, and James reluctantly loosened his hold a few degrees, and then let go entirely.  As cathartic as anger and destruction felt, he knew that killing Will Graham right now wouldn’t help him save Q.  It would hurt Lecter a great deal, he was sure, but only after all was said and done, if and when Hannibal found out that his obsession was dead.  

Coughing twice and massaging his throat, Graham at least had the good sense to speak up quickly - and more directly than before.  “Fine.  You want to know where Hannibal is?  He’s taking the Quartermaster to this Moriarty character.”  Another cough, another pained grimace, before Will let his head sag gingerly back against the wall.  Eyes closed, Graham added, “In Lecter’s mind, that’s retribution.”

For a moment ignoring the fact that Graham had instantly deduced that Lecter had Q, James demanded, “For what?”

“For Q lying to him,” Graham said tiredly.  He ran a hand down over his face.  “He found out that Q doesn’t actually have the means to get his collar off.”

James swore under his breath, realizing in an instant how things had gone so horridly wrong over something so simple.  With these facts, Lecter’s actions made entirely too much sense - he simply hadn’t had any way to predict that Hannibal would figure that out, or at least jump to those conclusions.  The irony also didn’t escape James: if they’d all managed to reach Q-branch, and get the very bag that James now had slung over his shoulder, then Q’s lie would have become truth again.  Because James had checked, and the messenger bag contained the missing key to unlocking the collars.  

  “I’d have warned you sooner, but it’s a bit difficult to talk about Hannibal behind his back when he’s right there,” Graham went on, finishing with obvious ire, “And then he fucking drugged me, so there’s that.”

This final revelation also made perfect sense.  James made a mental note to beat himself up over this later, when Q’s life wasn’t on the line.  “Well that’s just grand,” he muttered, voice dripping poisonous levels of sarcasm.  He turned back towards the door, already plotting his next steps out in his head.  “At least I know where that bloody psychopath Moriarty’s going to be.”  By his internal clock, he didn’t have much time either - 3 pm was looming, wherein Moriarty had promised to trade Q for M, if Q’s brother could follow through with his end of the deal.  The need to get to Q right now overwhelmed the previous urge to murder Will Graham out of spite.

Just as James was about to charge out the door again, though, Graham’s voice grabbed his attention: “Hey.”  It was said relatively quietly, but with a level of gravity that had James pausing and turning despite himself.  For the first time, Will was looking him in the eyes, an unexpected sort of determination in his expression.  James had always found Will Graham to be rather fidgety and fragile so far - injured and nervous, always looking away - so now it was almost like matching gazes with a different person.

Will inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.  “Take me with you,” he ordered firmly, free hand clenched into a fist, “If nothing else, I’ll make a good hostage - Moriarty won’t think twice about me, but Hannibal will.”

“You really think Hannibal cares about you?”  James meant to put a healthy dose of spiteful derision in his tone, but it came out sounding cautious and hesitant instead.  Suddenly, he wasn’t sure what to think about Will Graham - this strange, quiet man who already knew too much.

Graham didn’t blink, and he didn’t miss a beat, immediately shooting back, “As much as you care about Q.”  

The sentence hit James somewhere vulnerable, somewhere painful and visceral, and for a moment his hand twitched for his gun.  The urge to put a bullet between Will Graham’s eyes - for daring to say such a thing out loud, a thing that James was still struggling to think - faded, though, as he accepted the truth of it.  “Fine,” he grunted, already turning to the door again, but this time waiting for Graham to follow, “Just realize that I might shoot you at the end of all this.”

“Yeah, I was pretty sure I wasn’t signing up for a leisurely walk in the park,” Graham retorted, but despite his snark, he was soon matching James’ pace, following him to the top floor observation room where everyone’s face would be decided.

~^~

The moment they got up onto the roof, the cold wind hit them, rushing off the turbulent waters all around Eigengrau.  Arthur immediately hunched his shoulders and glowered, as if personally offended by the weather.  

“Hey, you chose the spot,” Harkness said, catching sight of the expression.  He pulled Arthur towards him, causing the much slimmer Hound to stumble and swear quietly under his breath at the manhandling.  Notably, a short distance away, Eames frowned and tensed a little at Arthur’s treatment - but neither Eames nor Arthur were in much of a position to do anything about it, hands bound behind them as they were.  While Eames saw a lot of merit in keeping Arthur tied up to prevent him from causing mayhem, it also made Arthur very vulnerable, something that bothered Eames more than he wanted to admit.  

Fortunately, Harkness’ interest was purely in Arthur’s bound wrists.  “All right, Thirteen, time to earn your keep.  Believe me when I say that if you aim that sniper-rifle at anyone but Moriarty, I’ll dislocate every joint in your body before moving on to do the same with Mr. Eames over there.”

Because Arthur was very diplomatic right up until he was pissed off, he replied under his breath, “Good to know that you’re the one I should shoot first.”

“Arthur!” Eames berated in what was admittedly more than a stage whisper - in order for Arthur to hear it, everyone would have to hear it.  “At least pretend to have some self-preservation instincts.”

Arthur gave him a withering look but eased his posture into something slightly less combative, and to his credit, he didn’t try anything when Harkness untied him.  For his part, Harkness looked amused rather than bothered by the threat - the upside of dealing with high-Pass individuals was that their sense of humor allowed for death threats.  Harkness then gestured Ianto over, who awkwardly unslung the rifle and handed it rather gingerly over to Arthur’s capable hands.  Apparently deciding to be businesslike (and to hide his murderous attitude more deeply), Arthur gave a perfunctory nod and checked the weapon over with the swift efficiency that Eames was by now familiar with.  It was oddly relaxing to watch, like a little dose of normalcy in this chaotic situation.  

It was almost enough to allow Eames to ignore Hart standing at his back, rather transparently prepared to kill him if Arthur tried anything.  

The location Arthur had chosen (having apparently scouted it out months ago, because of course he had) was one of Eigengrau’s various observation towers.  It was quite distant from the location Moriarty had promised to be, but of a comparable height, and Arthur immediately went over to the lower wall that circled the roof, hunkering down and looking through the scopes.  “I can see him,” he called back over his shoulder not long after, without turning from his sights.  

Eames, being an observant man, noticed how Eggsy and Hart seemed the most interested in this news.  From what he could gather, they had the biggest interest in wanting Moriarty dead - Harkness and Ianto were more just along for the ride, not exactly minding if the madman got murdered.  “Is it a good shot?” Hart asked back.

“He’s smart, and not making a target of himself, but that observation tower has a lot of windows,” was Arthur’s analytical response.  No anger.  No anticipation.  Just coolness, like a breath of winter.  Then just a hint of well-earned hubris: “I could hit him.”

“Not until you see Mallory,” Ianto piped up swiftly, stepping forward.  Now it was he and Harkness who exchanged looks, complicated frowns from both of them.  It ended with Ianto’s expression growing stubborn, and Harkness’ expression easing into something understanding and accepting.  That was apparently the cue for Ianto to step a bit closer to Arthur and finish firmly, “We’re here to take out Moriarty, yes, but also to secure M - so we need to have sights on him, too.”

Arthur hadn’t reacted at all to being talked to; one would have thought he hadn’t even heard Ianto for how little he moved.  However, before anyone could ask if he was deaf, Arthur was replying flatly, “I’m not seeing any sign of him.”

Ianto seemed to deflate a bit.  “Great,” he muttered, pacing away and back to Harkness, “Just fucking fantastic.”

“Can you see Moriarty’s right-hand man, Moran?” Harkness asked.  He and Arthur both had been around the man enough in the past day that they could recognize him on sight.

“No eyes on him either,” Arthur grunted.  “Does it count as good or bad news that I can see the Quartermaster and Agent 003, though?” was what Arthur said next, however, and that definitely had everyone paying attention.

Eames was the only one who frowned, having to ask, “Who, pray tell, is Agent 003?  Someone important?”

Apparently even Eggsy knew the answer to this one, because he looked somewhat pale beneath his blossoming bruises, and he said in a numb sort of voice, “He’s Eigengrau’s damn cannibal.”

~^~

“Well, that certainly went tits up at the last second,” Roxy said, as Merlin and H found her in the dispersing, acrid smoke, “And here I thought we’d won, when Agents 019 and 020 went down.”

“I’ve come to realize that ‘winning’ is relative in Eigengrau, at least since C’s takeover,” H said pessimistically, even as he tried to get down to help Roxy with her bleeding leg.  He quickly realized that his own bum leg wouldn’t let him, but thankfully Merlin appeared out of the fog next to him to do the job.  It was quickly assessed that the injury was painful but by no means mortal, and Merlin wasn’t squeamish about tearing shirtsleeves from the nearest corpse to make a quick bandage to stem the bleeding.  

“So what are we going to do about the Quartermaster?” Roxy said, already pushing down the pain and refocusing, “I couldn’t see anything through this damn smoke-bomb, but I heard everything - about Lecter running off with him.”

Even as he slung one of Roxy’s arms over his shoulders, standing up and taking her weight, Merlin stated, “Well, you are certainly not going anywhere.”

“I can still shoot,” she snapped.

“But you can’t walk.”

While the two bickered lightly, H stared off in the direction where Bond had disappeared.  “I think we might have to leave this to Agent 007,” he finally said, suddenly enough that both Merlin and Roxy stopped speaking to stare at him.  “Merlin’s right: you aren’t in any fit state to chase down a Hound, Miss Roxanne, and I certainly can’t step up to the plate either.”

“I suppose I could go,” Merlin said, but he sounded torn - his eyes kept drifting back to Roxy, brows drawing together with concern.  He ended up adding, “But 007 took off like a bat out of hell, and there’s no tracking anyone in this damn place.  It’s a maze even when the power is up and phones are functional.”

“I honestly don’t even know how Bond is going to catch up with-” Roxy started to say, when suddenly they heard a resounding gunshot - this time, coming from Q-branch.  Both Merlin and Roxy tensed immediately, the latter reaching for the weapon she’d holstered at her hip.

Harold, notably, didn’t flinch at all.  In fact, all he did was close his eyes and breathe out slowly - either in relief or regret, there was no telling.  ‘Thank you, Reese,’ he thought very solemnly to himself.

~^~

Eggsy still had the phone that he’d pilfered, the one he’d been using to text back and forth with Harry prior to the lines all being jammed.  Since then, it had simply been a useless lump in his pocket - he’d half-forgotten it was there, besides being briefly shocked that it had survived his skirmish with Agent 013.  Damn phone was tough.  

As Harkness, Ianto, and to a lesser extent Arthur discussed the best ways to kill off both Moriarty and Hannibal before the Quartermaster got killed (all a moot point until M could be located, apparently), Eggsy felt something that honestly made his heart stop for a second: his phone buzzed in his pocket.  Already feeling coldness like Death dragging a finger down his spine, Eggsy reached for the mobile, hoping that it was just a buzz indicating that the battery was almost dead.  

Instead he saw a text message, obviously very belated, sent from Hart: ~Nearly at your location. Comms should be jammed soon.~

Eggsy had never received the message before, obviously, because the signal jammer had already done its work.  Now, though…

“Harry,” Eggsy said, his tongue feeling leaden in his mouth.  He was starting to hear a ringing in his ears that had nothing to do with how many times Thirteen had clocked him in the head.  Hart turned to him very quickly, perhaps hearing something in that one very softly-spoken call of his name.  Eggsy was staring at the phone like it was a piece of a corpse.  All he could think of was his mum, his baby sister.  Hostage again his good behavior.  Eggsy said woodenly even as it felt like his world was starting to collapse, “Harry, I think the phone lines are open again.”

~^~

Chapter Text

Eggsy was hyperventilating; he was aware of that.  He couldn’t do a fuckin thing about it, thank you very much, but he was aware of it.  Staring unblinkingly at the phone with its full bars of signal - no longer blocked by the signal-jammer - had his whole body freezing and going into panic mode, because Moriarty had said that all it would take would be one phone call to get Eggy’s mum and baby sis killed, if Eggsy were to so much as step out of line.  

And boy had Eggsy stepped out of line.  

At Eggsy’s stunned, “Harry, I think the phone lines are open again,” the older Hound had twisted towards him and frozen, too.  Seemingly, neither of them know how to move past this hammer blow of information.  When Harry broke into motion again to grab the phone that was in Eggsy’ fingers, the pilot didn’t stop him - just kept on staring at his bare hand, watching how it trembled.  He heard Harry swear.

Speaking up, Harry called over to 001, “Harkness, we’ve got a problem.”  At Harkness’ quizzical look, Harry went on in possibly the most deathly serious tone that Eggsy had heard yet, “The signal jammer seems to have stopped working.”

Everyone but the sniper turned around at that news; Thirteen just stayed motionless where he was, apparently too focused on his task to give a damn about anything else.  “So does that mean we can call the outside world for help finally?” Ianto asked, with obvious hopefulness.  Eggsy let out a choked noise somewhere between a manic giggle and a sob, because of course everyone else saw this as good news - and not a death knell.

Harry’s eyes darted back to Eggsy, likely worried by the little noise that had been torn out of him.  He responded to Jones, though, and Eggsy felt like he was hearing the whole conversation from a great distance.  

“It does, but it’s not that simple.”

“How is it not simple?  There’s a mad bastard loose in Eigengrau, and you have a phone to call in the cavalry to stop him.”

Harkness’s voice, entering the conversation with exasperated fondness: “Ianto, you’re forgetting: the cavalry considers most of us mad bastards, too.”

“Oh.”

“There’s also another potential issue,” Harry added, sounding very grim.  All Eggsy could think was that that ‘Yes!  Yes, there is!  My family,’ but instead Harry said, “The same machine that has been jamming the phones was also responsible for jamming all signals to our collars.”

There was a pause, and then Harkness saying loudly, “Fuck.”

Eggsy tried to feel sympathy but couldn’t, because it was like his heart was imploding in his chest.  He didn’t doubt for a second that Moriarty’s promise was true, and that he’d carry it out - if Eggsy didn’t do exactly as he was told, then Moriarty had people waiting with their fingers on the triggers already.  And as much as Eggsy sometimes hated his mum for marrying Dean, he still loved her, and Eggsy would cut off his own arm before seeing a hair on little Daisy’s head get harmed.  He started backing away, even as Harry and Harkness began to discuss the topic more heatedly.  Without having a Handler there - with one of their fabled watches, ready to activate a collar - there was no clear way to test if the collars were active again.  The others were getting into it a bit, too (even that mean prick, Thirteen), but to Eggsy they were white noise.  

He was off the roof and running back the way they’d come before anyone could notice.  All he could think was that he had to get to his baby sister - he couldn’t fix this, couldn’t suddenly tell Moriarty, “Hey, sorry about helping get your men killed in the hanger,” couldn’t undo that he’d sided with Harry Hart.  But he could damn well fly a helicopter, and he knew where one was right this second.

~^~

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time his brain had felt this completely engaged - this genuinely challenged.  He also couldn’t remember the last time that he’d almost hated that sensation.  Usually, he chased down this high with single-minded abandon, never once considering the potential negative side-effects of, say, sticking his nose into a murder investigation or three.  That had gotten him into Eigengrau, true, but it had felt worth it every step of the way - anything to relieve the boredom.  For once, though, as he walked quickly towards Moriarty’s designated meeting place, Sherlock found a part of him sincerely longing for a simple, dull, boring reality in which his youngest brother was not in mortal danger and his unexpected new ally (friend?) John Watson was not risking the same.

When had he gotten so soft?  Surely being taken to Eigengrau and officially recognized as high-Pass should have further inured him to such sentimental things?

John could take care of himself, though, Sherlock reminded himself - and conversely, his baby brother wasn’t going to get out of this on his own.  So with that firmly in mind, Sherlock did his best to ignore this new voice of caution in his head, instead focusing on the task at hand. The game was afoot, and for once, Sherlock had the distinct impression that he was dealing with someone capable of keeping up with him.  That thought alone was as invigorating as a shot of absinthe, but at the same time, he could clearly imagine John rolling his eyes at him.  

For a second, Sherlock paused, wishing that John were there with him.  The problem was, he wasn’t sure if he wanted John by his side to keep him in check… or to glory in the thrill of the chase with him.

Possibilities and probabilities unfolded and refolded like fractals with every step Sherlock took, each second bringing with it different factors that he efficiently cut through and stored away - the likelihood of Moriarty leaving someone behind to waylay him, the likelihood of Moriarty himself changing his location, the likelihood of Moriarty surprising Sherlock entirely… Sherlock pushed aside that last one stubbornly, even as it sent a cold shiver of worry down his spine.  This all hinged on his ability to keep Moriarty busy for as long as it took for John to shoot, and while Sherlock trusted that John would be ready to act the second that Sherlock’s brother was safe, Sherlock also believed in Moriarty’s ability to put a wrench in things just as swiftly.  

And then, of course, there was the poisonous little bird chirping in Sherlock’s ear, asking: ‘Do you really want to lose the only worthy opponent you’ve ever found?’

By the time Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, only a door between himself and the brilliant mind that he’d been chasing for months now… he still didn’t have an answer to that question.  “I suppose, John, you’re just going to have to make up my mind for me,” he murmured under his breath, wishing for again that the other man was there to hear him.  

Sherlock didn’t knock.  Moriarty was expecting him.  He pushed the door open and strode in without hesitation.

He was immediately greeted by the best-lit room he’d seen in the past two days, stormy grey light coming in through a plethora of tall windows in a round room.  There were some desks and chairs, but they’d been pushed to the side, leaving just one chair in the middle of the room with Sherlock’s little brother Siger sitting moodily upon it - and standing behind him, eyes bright with an eagerness that Sherlock could feel coiled within his own chest, was Moriarty.  Despite never being formally introduced, he knew the man instantly, and knew that he was recognized in return.

“Sherlock,” Moriarty purred, voice playfully high and almost musical.  Q grimaced like he’d heard too much of the voice already, even as Sherlock felt nothing but his heart rate kicking up with adrenaline.  “I thought you’d be taller.”

“And I thought you’d be more original,” Sherlock found himself replying instantly, words coming out of his mouth without hesitation even as he stepped the rest of the way in, letting the door close.  He took in more of the room in quick glances.  “A hostage exchange?  Really now, that’s positively pedestrian.”  He spied a fourth figure in the room, and raised an eyebrow at the older man sitting nonchalantly in a chair against the far wall, between two windows. There was a rifle leaned against his side, a quiescent threat.  “And I also thought you’d have more backup.  Don’t tell me he’s your sidekick?” he said, slipping easily into a derisive tone.  He had to buy time for John to act - surely he was lining Moriarty up in his sights right now, but couldn’t shoot because of how close the madman was to Siger.  

Moriarty’s expression dissolved easily into a sad, offended mien, and he glanced over his shoulder at the other man dramatically. “Oh, you don’t believe that he works for me?”

“I don’t think the notorious Hannibal Lecter works for anyone,” Sherlock purred.  It felt good to reveal that he knew who the room’s fourth occupant was.  For his part, Lecter merely smiled and gave a polite nod, as if this were just a polite meeting of gentlemen and he was pleased to be recognized.  Notably, he did not speak up to confirm Sherlock’s words, but neither did he deny them - and he didn’t so much as turn his head to meet Moriary’s gaze.

Moriarty turned back to Sherlock again with a put-upon sigh.  “Touche, Sherlock.  In my defence, I had more allies earlier in the game, but someone-”  He reached for Siger, and Sherlock stiffened instinctively - thankfully, all Moriarty did was tap Q had on the top of the head with two fingers, making Q flinch away in irritation.  “-Has winnowed away a great number of them with his shenanigans.  You Holmes, such trouble!” he finished in a sudden shout like he was on a stage, projecting to the back row.  

“You haven’t met our older brother yet,” Q growled with quiet venom, clearly not entirely cowed despite the fact that he looked quite battered and tired, “How about we call him in?  It’ll be a full family reunion and he’ll make Sherlock and I look delightful by comparison.”

“Well, since someone-”  Moriarty’s voice turned suddenly vicious and this time he reached around to grab Q’s chin with snakelike speed.  Sherlock actually lurched forward, barely stopping himself from doing something impulsive as Moriarty twisted Q’s head to the side so that he could glare at him.  Despite being nose-to-nose with a maniac, Q kept his composure, however, narrowing his eyes right back - Sherlock took that as his cue to stay still.  He didn’t know Moriarty’s full game here, and he’d promised to let John act.  Moriarty didn’t seem armed, Q was injured but not restrained, and Lecter hadn’t done anything but watch yet, but Sherlock had good instincts for trouble even if he didn’t listen to them all that often.  Moriarty wouldn’t have invited him here if he didn’t think he was in control.  

Moriarty finished his sentence, smiling into Q’s face, “-Appears to have cut all communications, then we can’t really do that.  Now, you didn’t have anything to do with that, did you, Siger dear?”

“I didn’t, actually,” Q said quite calmly.  

Unexpectedly, Moriarty’s grin didn’t fade - it just got slier and meaner.  His grip on Siger’s chin must have tightened because Sherlock’s little brother bared his teeth in an involuntary grimace.  “You underestimate your influence, like always.  What a shame,” he finally said, then released his hold abruptly.  Q turned his head forward again, and only his slow breath in and long breath out gave away how stressed he was.

“Speaking of a shame,” Moriarty said musingly, leaning forward so that his arms draped over Q’s shoulders and his chin rested atop his head - too close for a clean shot for John, surely.  That had to be why there was no gunshot yet, no window splintering and Moriarty falling.  While Siger tensed up all over at the close contact, Moriarty kept his eyes focused unblinkingly on Sherlock.  “Where’s your part of the deal?  You’re not wearing anything with pockets big enough to hide M, no matter how small you fold him.”  He sounded more disappointed by the infeasibility of folding a human being than the lack of M’s presence.  

“He’s got a knife,” Q murmured softly, a split-second before Sherlock spotted the switchblade folded away against Moriarty’s palm - and entirely too close to his little brother’s neck.

“Yes, he’s got a knife,” Moriarty parroted back in a gratingly clownish voice, rocking side to side enough that he forced Q to move with him.  Sherlock felt anger rise in him at the way his brother’s hands were fisting helplessly - perhaps Siger wasn’t the swift analyst of people that Sherlock was, but clearly they both know how swiftly Moriarty would snap that knife blade out at the smallest provocation.  “And what have you got, Sherlock, hmm?” too-bright eyes flashed back to Sherlock, “You didn’t decide to bring a weapon instead of Mallory, did you? Because that would be so boring, and then I’d have to do horrible things to your baby brother.”  He rubbed his cheek against Siger’s as he cooed the last three words, and Sherlock felt the last of his excitement fade away.

He’d been so excited to meet Moriarty, this man who felt like someone who was finally his mental equal.  But now, seeing Siger flinch helplessly, unable to move away from the threats and invasion of personal space, Sherlock couldn’t find happiness or delight anymore.  A lot of things were just a game to Sherlock… but not his family.  

Feeling his own hands tighten into closed fists, Sherlock got his brain moving again.  He wasn’t sure why John shot yet, but he knew that he had to keep Moriarty talking - and Q safe - until John did.  Despite the rising anger in his gut, Sherlock’s words came out low and smooth, “You didn’t think I’d just waltz in here with a prisoner to trade, did you?  How pedestrian.”

“Hmm, true,” Moriarty admitted, a twinkle in his eye.  He also snapped the knife blade out, however, waving it entirely too close to Q’s face, “I imagine Siger rather hoped you had.”

Watching Moriarty, Sherlock realised something, however.  “You didn’t hope that, though, did you?”

The smile on Moriarty’s face froze.  Q’s eyebrows twitched downwards in confusion, as he clearly didn’t follow - but then again, how could he?  This was a conversation started between Sherlock and Moriarty ages ago, a confrontation long in the making.  

“You set this all up quite simply - too simply,” Sherlock went on, “And with such small gains.  You’ve only got one Hound in this room - well, besides me, but I don’t count - and like you said, you’ve lost allies.  What use do you even have for the leader of Eigengrau?”  Hannibal Lecter seemed to be paying more attention, his polite, smiling mask souring a bit, but Sherlock wasn’t paying him any attention.  “If your entire goal was to free the killers here, you found an incredibly inefficient way to go about it.  If I thought that were your goal, I’d be disgustingly disappointed.”  

“Well, I hope I haven’t disappointed you,” Moriarty purred.  Q opened his mouth to likely retort something, but Moriarty tapped his chin with the knifepoint, chiding, “Not now, Siger, the parents are talking.”  The whole while, his eyes didn’t leave Sherlock, eyes wide and enraptured as a moth staring at an exploding sun.  

“Not yet,” Sherlock replied automatically, the pieces falling together now.  He had a sudden wish that John were here to listen.  “Although I might have something to say later about all of your plans being needlessly complex.”

“No art is ever needlessly complex,” Moriarty argued with a smile, “But do carry on.”

“I will.  Let’s go back to what you’re most certainly not doing,” Sherlock returned to his narrative smoothly, his previous anger and anxiety falling away as his mind latched onto pure facts, patterns, and conclusions, “You’re not actually here for Eigengrau’s leader, or for its high-Pass Hounds.  At best, you could release a score or so of particularly skilled killers into the world - but that would be a minor amusement for you at best, and is that really worth your time?  I doubt it.”  He made a scoffing noise.  “And even if you were, there would be far more efficient ways to get hold of Mallory.  Did you really expect me to serve him up on a silver platter?”

Instead of getting angry at this roundabout admission that he didn’t actually have M, Mallory merely shrugged, giving his knife an idle twirl as he continued to lean on Siger’s shoulders.  “No, not really, although it would have been nice of you if you had,” he said in a thoughtful voice, almost childlike, even if the look in his eyes was wild and monstrous.  “It would have shown how much I mean to you.”

“Oh, I think we’re beyond showing tokens of affection,” Sherlock responded, even as he heard a faint noise behind him.  He was peripherally aware that Lecter had stood up, but it didn’t register - nothing registered but Moriarty.  Not even Siger, who was beginning to look very alarmed.  Maybe he was also, at long last, coming to the conclusions that Sherlock’s powerful mind was reaching.  “We know how much we mean to each other, don’t we?  I hunted you all over the world for months - and you, Moriarty...”  Sherlock found himself smiling and shaking his head, adrenaline still a heady cocktail in his veins even as he found fondness and disgust somehow mixing in equal portions in his heart, as he looked at this genius villain in front of him.  “I know that you did all of this just for me.”

“Bravo, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, the name like something sweet upon his tongue, “You’ve solved the last puzzle.”

The moment he said it, the noise behind Sherlock became percussively loud as the door was kicked violently open.  Sherlock was so focused on this puzzle that he was sluggish to turn around - and when he did, he found himself facing two men he’d never met before in his life: one man was black-haired and clearly injured, arm bandaged across his front and more about his head; there was another man directly behind him, however, a collared Hound with blue eyes and a gun in his hand.  

As if time were moving in slow motion, Sherlock - directly in the line of fire - saw those eyes move over him with all the dispassionate chill of a glacier before moving on to someone else.  ‘He must be looking at Moriarty,’ Sherlock impulsively thought, because who else in this room mattered?

But then the new Hound merely growled out, “Lecter,” in a conversational tone and turned his gun back in towards the bandaged head of the man directly in front of him.  Sherlock found himself in the peculiar position of having not a single clue what was going on.  

“Ohhhh, now this is entertaining,” Moriarty was the only one to seem unruffled, his voice low and pleased.  Sherlock looked back to see Moriarty hiding more fully behind Siger now, one hand wrapped around Q’s jaw, knife tucked under his brother’s chin as he murmured against the youngest Holmes’ cheek, “Siger, you really have to teach your boyfriend how to knock.  But he is quite dashing, coming to rescue you, isn’t he?”  

Looking at his brother’s face - a mixture of hope, fear, surprise, and determination - snapped Sherlock back into reality.  No longer were he and Moriarty the only two people in existence, two gods alone in the world they created.  His baby brother, Siger, who had followed him into Eigengrau was in danger.  He, Sherlock, was also in danger.

And all the while, there was no sign of John Watson.  

‘Why haven’t you taken the shot already, John?’ Sherlock asked helplessly in his head, resisting the urge to look out the windows to find him.  He knew that he wouldn’t be able to spot him, their chosen sniping location being beyond Sherlock’s current range of sight.

Also far beyond Sherlock’s range of sight, in a hallway lit by ghoulish emergency lighting, along the path that John Watson had promised to take, was an ever-increasing trail of blood.

~^~  

The moment Eggsy heard footsteps catching up behind him, he knew who it was.  His heart fell inside of his chest, but he nonetheless braced himself to fight Harry Hart, despite how he’d started to see the man as something like a friend.  Putting a wall up between him and the crushing sense of loss, wishing that he didn’t have to choose between his family and Harry, Eggsy spun around and threw a punch the moment he felt a touch to his shoulder.

He actually managed to hit the man.  It was indeed Harry Hart behind him, and the Hound was clearly a bit off his game with the graze to his leg, because his look of shock was comical as Eggsy’s punch glanced off his jaw.  Eggsy’s aim was a bit off because he’d been moving, and even now he stumbled and nearly lost his footing, but the pilot wasn’t exactly focused on finesse right now.  “Stay out of my way, Harry,” he growled with as much threat as possible.  

Rubbing at his jaw and recovering quickly, Hart’s eyebrows winged upwards, but he also quickly did exactly what Eggsy had told him not to do: jumped into his way.  When Eggsy told him to “Back the fuck off,” Harry tried to grab him instead, so Eggsy threw another punch.  This one Harry managed to dodge, so Eggsy threw another one, hissing between his teeth as he felt the pull of various bruises.  After his fight with Agent 013, he didn’t want to be doing any of this, but he couldn’t leave his mum and baby sister at risk.  “I swear to god, Harry, if you don’t get out of my way I’ll lay you the fuck out!” he roared.

This time Hart managed to catch his fist, and after a messy bit of struggling, Eggsy ended up fetching up against the wall.  Harry’s greater height and weight kept him pinned in place, and Eggsy felt his fear and frustration start to boil over.  “Let me go!” he barked, heaving forward with all of his weight.  Desperation must have been lending him strength, because even though he was tired and battered, he very nearly broke Harry’s hold.  Despite being a bit injured himself, however, the Hound managed to hold out.  

Ignoring Eggsy’s demands, Harry gritted back in clear exasperation, “Eggsy!  Eggsy, stop it!  Listen to me-!”

Every second that ticked by was another second for Moriarty to realize that the lines were open - that some of his men weren’t answering - that his helicopter pilot had mutinied.  Every second, Eggsy imagined another way in which his family died.  “Harry, you’d better be ready to kill me, because that’s the only way you’re going to stop me!” Eggsy finally snarled out, right in Harry’s face.  He was ashamed to realize that his voice sounded thick, impending tears making his eyes watery and hot.  It didn’t matter, though: even if he were blinded by tears, he’d still fight his way forward.  This was his family.

The problem was that Harry had started to feel like family, too - something comfortable and safe, someone who had known his dad and who cared about Eggsy.  

Even as he made up his mind to push through Harry by any means possible, Eggsy felt something buckle and die in his chest, because he didn’t have enough people like this in his life to afford losing one.

He didn’t expect for Harry’s look of frustration to suddenly soften.  He didn’t expect the man to suddenly speak with fondness instead of anger, saying inexplicably, “Oh Eggsy, you stupid boy.”

Disarmed by this, Eggsy stopped fighting for a moment.  In that time, Harry let go of his arms and instead reached up towards his face.  Feeling raw, old reflexes came to the foreground, and Eggsy flinched hard.  Harry merely shushed him, moving a bit slower, so that Eggsy’s body and mind could catch up with one another - and realize that the hands coming towards him weren’t meant to hurt.  Harry cupped his face so gently between his hands that Eggsy’s bruises didn’t even twinge.  “You stupid boy,” Harry repeated, but in the kindest voice that Eggsy had heard in years, and leaned their foreheads together, “I’m on your side.  I was coming after you to help.”

“What?” Eggsy stuttered, and suddenly felt his legs nearly give out - it took him a second to realize that it was a reaction of relief and shock.  He kept himself on his feet mostly through pure stubbornness, needing to keep his face between Harry’s hands.  Feeling wetness on his lashes as he blinked, Eggsy went on, “What about Harkness and the others?  Did you just… run out on them?”

Harry pulled back enough so that Eggsy could see that the man still had an easy smile on his face - he nodded.  “Harkness and Jones have each other, and will manage quite well without me, I think.  And I don’t even know Eames.  As for Agent 013…”  Harry frowned, and then moved his thumb; it brushed over Eggsy’s lower lip in a motion that at first sent a shiver down his spine but then sent a spark of pain sharp enough to make him hiss.  Oh, yeah, he had a split lip there.  Harry went on darkly, “After what he did to you, I’d really be quite happy to see him suffer.  So really, it’s for the best that I made my exit.  Now give me your phone.”

Harry’s hands dropped away, and Eggsy found himself leaning forward pathetically to chase the contact.  He caught himself before he overbalanced.  “My phone?  Oh!  Why do you need the phone?”  He was nonetheless fishing it out of his pocket as he spoke.

“Because, as you noted, the phone lines are open again - Moriarty isn’t the only one with connections,” Harry said with a small smile that nonetheless had Eggsy’s entire world lighting up.  Something in his chest unclenched as Harry finished, eyes glinting with challenge behind his spectacles, “I haven’t exactly been a social butterfly since I came to Eigengrau, but I think I can still call on enough people to give Moriarty’s men a run for their money.”  As he started typing numbers into the phone (presumably from memory), Harry’s expression grew a bit grimmer as he finished, “But we should also keep heading towards the helicopter, just in case.”

“I always like having options,” Eggsy agreed with a shrug, feeling better already.  He wasn’t fighting alone now; having Harry at his side again added an unexpected level of hopefulness to the situation.  “Can you keep going on that leg of yours?”

“Oh, I think I can keep up,” Harry said loftily, and Eggsy snorted before breaking into a run again.  True to his word, Harry was fast at his heels.

~^~

Digging the fingers of one hand into Merkel’s dislocated shoulder, Percival gripped the long hair at the crown of the boy’s head again - forcing him to look out over the crashing waves.  “What do you think, Merkel?  Hm?  Fancy a swim?”

Percival loved the irony of it all, really he did: the last time he’d tried to kill his Handler, he’d nearly drowned the kid in an icy river, and now he was offering him another watery death in the waves surrounding Eigengrau.  “Try and survive this time, you irritating brat,” Percival snarled and then laughed.  True, Merkel had dodged death last time - but last time Delphine had been near enough to help him, and last time Merkel had had all of his limbs working.  Percival liked to think that he learned from his mistakes and corrected accordingly.  

“Any last words, Merkel?  In English this time, please - I’m not in the mood to translate you,” he said, aiming for a sweet but slightly bored tone.  He hissed as Merkel finally dug his fingernails right into the joints on three of his fingers, releasing his Handler’s hair.  Merkel fell forward onto hands and knees again, swaying because you didn’t just shake off a blow to the head like Percival had given him.  In fact, Percival was pretty sure that he could see blood darkening the roots of Merkel’s brown hair in places, which made him quite chuffed.  

“Fuck you,” Merkel growled throatily, before trying - and failing - to get up again.

“Not exactly original, but I’ll take what I can get,” the Hound shrugged.  Deciding that he’d wasted just about enough time, he then set his boot to Percival’s side and kicked him over the edge.  

Or, at least, tried to.  In reality, another struggle started as Merkel suddenly twisted like the weasel he was and grabbed Percival’s ankle.  Swearing a blue streak, Percival himself just about went down, and it was nearly a full minute of inglorious pandemonium later that the stronger, more able-bodied agent was finally able to free himself.  “You know what, just for that, you fucking ponce, I’m going to make absolutely sure you drown!” Percival sheathed, pinning Merkel down while pulling free his belt.  When Merkel spat in his face, Percival hit him across the cheek with the belt buckle.  That left his Handler limp and stunned again, and Percival hoped he’d cracked his zygomatic arch at the very least.  With Merkel blinking dazedly, Percival turned so that he could tightly bind up his Handler’s ankles with the belt.  “I’m going to miss this belt a damn sight more than I’m going to miss you, but it’ll be worth it to know that you sink that much faster,” he declared before standing.  

For a moment he just looked down at Merkel (although he glanced around him nervously at least twice to make sure that Lorraine hadn’t somehow found them, because ultimately Percival was a smart individual who enjoyed living).  After he was sure that he was still safe, however, and that Merkel was also coming around again, Percival reached down without preamble and heaved his Handler the last half-meter over the edge.  Merkel yelped out an aborted “No!” of panic and clawed for a handhold, but he only had one of his arms to work with, and there was nothing but feeble grass and muddy earth to hold onto anyway.

Percival, panting, watched with satisfaction as his Handler free-fell into the waves below.  He bared his teeth in a grin and let out a wild laugh, feeling more alive than he had since before he’d come to Eigengrau.  

As he lifted his head to shout his triumph to the waves, however, he caught sight of something - off in the distance.  Smile falling away, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes a bit from the perpetual sea spray, squinting.  It took him just another second or two before he realized what he was seeing.  “Boats.  Fucking boats.  Shit,” he muttered to himself.  If he was seeing boats, that could mean only one thing: play-time was over, and the Siege of Eigengrau was about to come to an abrupt end.  

And here was Percival, out in the open, injured and unarmed.

He suddenly realized that he’d have been better off to keep hold of at least one Handler if only to use them as a hostage.  A quick glance to the left allowed him to just barely see where Delphine was - he couldn’t see her body from his angle, but just glancing at the precarious bit of outcropping that he could see made him grimace.  It was already a miracle that Delphine had landed there without sliding off, and the rocks beneath made the risk not worth the potential gain - especially if she truly was dead.  Corpses made bad hostages.

Merkel, though…

“Bollocks,” Percival muttered to himself, catching sight of Merkel’s head still just barely managing to stay above the waves.  Regretting that he was so good at murdering people, but grateful that he had decided not to just shoot Merkel right through the skull as he’d originally planned, Percival jumped off the cliff himself, feet first and limbs tucked close to his body to lessen the impact with the water.  With any luck, Merkel would be just alive enough to be useful, and then once Percival had used him to escape Eigengrau for good, he could finish him off.

~^~

The room around Q was devolving quickly into chaos: it was bad enough when Sherlock’s selfishness and Moriarty’s rampant megalomania had been going head-to-head, but now James was here holding Graham hostage while Graham tried to talk sense into Hannibal (who was having none of it so far), all the while Moriarty was taunting Sherlock and holding a knife to Q’s throat, in turn aggravating James.

And Q was ignoring all of it, because he was still reeling from the revelation of what Sherlock had said.  

‘Moriarty… did all of this… just because the Sybil System had locked up his favourite playmate?’  It all seemed so trivial.  It made everyone here seem so trivial, except Sherlock and Moriarty themselves, because of course Moriarty didn’t care about anyone else.  Suddenly Q wanted to rage-cry, or just scream at someone for answers: ‘Did anything any of us did even matter?!’  Another, sullen part of him wanted to mutter, ‘Thanks, Sybil.  You were the one who set this all in motion.  If you hadn’t suddenly unfrozen Sherlock’s Psychopass, he’d have never come here - and dragged everyone into this craziness.’  The Sybil System was only designed to hunt down dangerous people, however, not answer questions - and Q was beginning to doubt her ability to do even that.  

Q came out of his depressing thoughts as Hannibal spoke lowly, clearly to 007, “You’re sorely mistaken in your assumptions.  I bear Mr. Graham no ill will, but neither do I hold as much affection for him as you assume.”  This, Q was certain, was a lie - otherwise, Hannibal would have already taken a shot at James, right through Will Graham if necessary.

Apparently in no mood to argue the matter, James instead snapped back in steely tones, “Maybe so, but I’ve got something else I’ll bet you like.”  And with that he produced something in the hand not holding a gun - Q’s eyes widened as he recognized the key for all the collars.  Mind suddenly whirring with new possibilities, Q barely heard as James went on, “You thought Q had it, didn’t you?  Well, here it is.”  Bond sounded positively furious, but Q, by contrast, was suddenly feeling like he might have some cards to play.

“Bravo, 007,” Moriarty drawled, still too close to Q’s head for comfort, “You’re a bit late to the conversation, though - right before you barged in, I was just talking to Sherly here about how he forgot to bring Mallory.  So I’m afraid your little key won’t do you any good. Sorry.”

Q decided then to speak up.  He cleared his throat, ignoring the brush of the knife against his skin when he did it.  “We don’t need Mallory,” he enunciated clearly.

Everyone else immediately fell silent and turned to stare at him.

Moriarty, of course, was staring from far too close, and Q struggled not to flinch at the hot breath against his cheek.  He seemed to have surprised the maniac, though, because Moriarty didn’t have a fast reply - giving Q time to keep talking, “If Moriarty can undo his own virus enough to get one of these computers up and running, I can use my codes and then spoof Mallory’s to get the key working.”

“You can?” Sherlock was the one to say.  By his tone of voice, he was surprised that Q could do something that neither he (nor, it seemed) Moriarty had anticipated.

Q rolled his eyes.  “I faked my entire documentation to get into Eigengrau, didn’t I?”

Now Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter were both staring at Q like he’d grown a second head.  There was no particular reason to keep secrets now, though - not when it seemed incredibly likely that he’d not survive to see tomorrow.  If he survived long enough to be arrested for faking documents and essentially breaking into Eigengrau to try and free his brother, Q would gladly take the jail-time - he was probably high-Pass anyway.  A ‘virus in the machine’ like Moriarty was, Psychopass number frozen for unknown reasons.

Now Moriarty spoke, and Q winced as he felt the knife blade knick the underside of his chin, “And what makes you think that I’d want to do that?  Even if I could.”  He’d spoken quietly, a low purr, no doubt because he didn’t really want Hannibal to hear that he was avoiding an opportunity to free Hounds.  

Q didn’t bother to hide his volume, or his temper, as he glared at Moriarty and retorted, “Because even if you never meant any of your promises to Eigengrau’s agents, I know that there’s one Hound you do want freed: my brother.  Because Sherlock might not have any Smartblood in him, but he’s going to be awfully hard for you to play with so long as he’s wearing a collar that could be used to incapacitate or kill him the moment someone gets a signal through.  So-”  Q raised an eyebrow, ignoring that he could feel a bead of blood dripping down the underside of his jaw towards his Adam’s Apple, “-I’ll ask again: can you get one of these computers working again?”

For a moment, Q was sure that Moriarty was going to snap and cut his throat open from ear to ear.  He saw a flash of rage and pure madness like a gas-fire contained within those dark brown eyes, and in that moment Q knew that the worst thing anyone could do to Moriarty was to outsmart him - he was like Sherlock that way.  Forever a bit of a child, hating to be outdone and wrathful when embarrassed.  Thankfully, the flash of anger came and went, and then Moriarty was suddenly smiling and standing.  Both guns in the room snapped to him on reflex, but Moriarty didn’t show any indication of caring.  Just shrugged, knife blade throwing a droplet of blood as he took it away from Q’s throat to idly gesture with it, “Of course I can!  I created the virus, didn’t I?”

Creation and destruction of a thing were two totally different skills, Q knew… but considering how much easier destruction was on average, he decided not to say anything.  Instead, he just nodded, and then got up and walked over to the computers with Moriarty when the madman beckoned him.  He spared a glance towards 007, who was watching with hard, wary eyes.  Q couldn’t read what was behind them - worry?  He hoped not too much.  He needed James to stay steady and logical if this was going to work.  There were too many unpredictable factors in the room, and Q needed James to not be one of them.  

‘Just act like the high-Pass agent that you are,’ Q begged internally, while another part of him said that a heartless psychopath of Eigengrau wouldn’t have stayed by Q’s side for a fraction of this length of time.  There was still the possibility, of course, that Q was still just a means to an end for James - after all, as Q had just stated himself, he was now the most important thing in the room.  He could free the Hounds with nothing but the knowledge in his head and the key in James’ hand.

“Watch and learn, Sherlock!” Moriarty singsonged without turning around, pulling out a seat for himself at the nearest computer, “And don’t get jealous - your brother and I have computers, but you and I will always have murders to bond over!”

“Please shut up,” Q sighed, perching on the next nearest chair.  He saw a slim chance for at least some of them getting out of this alive, but Moriarty was the definition of a wildcard - so even as Q got his cooperation now, he didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.  As he watched Moriarty boot up the computer in safe mode and get to work dismantling his own virus, Q metaphorically crossed his fingers that Moriarty was good enough to counteract his own work… but not good enough to be Q’s match.  The fact that Moriarty hadn’t hacked the system to fake the necessary code for the collar-key hinted that Q was the better tech-wizard, which Q was betting on now.  It was the only advantage he had, and he was damn tired of feeling helpless.

~^~

Chapter Text

Q actually had reservations about whether or not Moriarty would manage to bypass the virus that he’d used to crash Eigengrau’s systems, but figured it wasn’t conducive to mention that to the sociopath in the room.  Granted, according to the Sybil System, there were three psychopaths in the room and Moriarty was somehow not one of them, but Q was feeling increasingly disenchanted with the system.  After two days travelling with 007, after all, Q was reluctant to label the man as high-Pass - and just as reluctant to believe himself to be low-Pass.  Everything felt so very broken, and all Q could do about it right now was keep his mouth shut and watch as Moriarty showed off some impressive (but by no means peerless, in Q’s view) computer skills.  

Perhaps this was why Moriarty had fixated on the middle Holmes brother instead of the youngest - their brands of genius were more aligned.

“Alrighty, Siger dear, I’ve almost got this computer patched up - but I have one condition,” Moriarty said, turning to Q with a mischievous smile.

Having expected this, Q kept his face as blank as possible even as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, how 007 tensed up.  “And what is that?” Q resigned himself to asking.

“You release your delightful brother first.”

“Granted,” Q gave in, and noticed how Moriarty’s eyes narrowed slightly at the easy acceptance. Q just sat back on his hands, slouching tiredly.  He hurt everywhere, and it felt like he’d finally been under stress for so long that his ability to register it had broken.  “Draw whatever conclusions you want from that,” Q puffed out a sigh, “I’m just too tired to care.”

“Then you will release me next,” Hannibal’s voice cut in.  Only the sharpness of his eyes gave away his impatience; his tone was still perfectly controlled and cultured, because it would be rude to appear rushed over all of this.  It would also be a sign of weakness to give away how he hungered for freedom.  Instead of saying anything about how much he yearned to get the collar of Eigengrau off his neck, Hannibal pursued a logical train of thought, “Because we both know that the moment you have 007 free, your objectives will be met.  Your brother and your lover both freed.”

It said something about the state of Q’s head that he still managed to blush at that last comment, although he resisted the urge to meet either Moriaty’s eyes (the madman was giggling behind a politely raised hand) or his brother’s (who was probably giving him quite a scandalized look).  He tried to come up with some sort of gracious denial, but all he could think of was how nice it was to share a bed with James in this cold hellhole - 007 was so fucking warm - and in the end he just awkwardly stuttered, “I accept those terms.”  He then wanted the ground to swallow him up, because now it was very much too late to correct anyone, and James was staring at him, too.  Q lifted a hand to push his fingers up under his glasses and rub exhaustedly at his eyes.  “Sherlock, then Hannibal, then James.  I have to reset the key each time in between, remember, so I’d appreciate no one trying to shoot me at the first opportunity,” Q declared as blandly as possible, hiding the fact that he was truly afraid of that possibility.  He held out a hand towards James, snapping his fingers, “007, toss me the key.  And stop holding that gun to Mr. Graham’s head - he’s got enough cranial damage already, and I think Hannibal and I have reached an understanding.”

At that point, both Q and Bond glanced warily at Hannibal, testing to see if that was true.  003’s face had settled into a politely unreadable mask, but he did lower his own gun and nod.  Q didn’t like the icy look to Hannibal’s eyes, but at this point, figured he couldn’t be choosy about his circumstances.  Bond, for his part, made a huff of unhappiness but did as he was told.  Gun at his side like Hannibal’s now was, James tossed the collar-key underhand to Q - although he notably kept his body lined up behind Will Graham’s.  Bond was being both well-behaved and pragmatic; Q could respect that.  

When Q turned back again, Moriarty got out of the chair and gestured Q into it with a sweeping bow.  

“Siger…” Sherlock’s voice came, sounding so annoyingly cautionary and parental that Q sat down with a hard, angry thump.

“Not now, Sherlock.  You just admitted that this is all your fault, so I’m not all that keen on hearing your voice right now.”

Moriarty, of course, chortled with amusement, looking between them like a cat with too many canaries.  “Children, pleeease,” he lamented, and while Sherlock turned to glare at the madman, Q focused on the computer.  Moriarty had indeed gotten it up and running again, so now Q just had to prove that he really was skilled enough to fool the system into thinking that he was M...  It was not an easy task.  While Eigengrau hadn’t gone so far as to implement biometric identification yet, the encryptions were still intense - it wasn’t just a simple password that Mallory entered.  Q would truly have to trick the computer into thinking that he was the head of Eigengrau, at Mallory’s computer, typing this in like it was any other day of the week.  All on a computer that quickly showed itself to be rather glitchy, remnants of Moriarty’s work.  Q made the executive decision not to rub it in Moriarty’s face that he wasn’t really as good with computers as he thought he was, to leave this one such a mess.  Instead, Q did his best to ignore everything around him and just focus on bringing up various programs and recalling strings of code that usually he’d do only on his own computer systems - where he had everything all set up to meet his needs.  

In the background, Moriarty continued to tease Sherlock; Q ignored it.

Hannibal said something to James, edged in ice and anger; Will responded instead of James, his tone full of chastisement; Q ignored that, too.

Only James himself was silent, and Q was grateful for that, because he had the sense that he not only had to get this right - but that he had to do it quickly, because either Moriarty or Hannibal grew impatient and decided to make this whole nightmarish situation even worse.  Unfortunately, despite 007 not saying anything to further antagonize 003, Q could hear an implacable sort of anger in Hannibal’s voice every time he spoke.  No matter how Q tried to tune it out, it made his skin crawl, his hindbrain screaming that he needed to get out of there.  ‘James, using Graham as a hostage might have gotten you in the door without being shot, but I think you might have made an enemy for life the moment you put your gun to his head,’ Q thought to himself with a growing sense of realization and dread.  

“Clock’s ticking, Siger,” Moriarty said unhelpfully, coming to sit on the desk next to the keyboard.  

“Careful, or the next thing I ask for James to toss my way is his gun,” Q growled.  

“Now, that wasn’t very nice!”

Thoroughly sick of Moriarty’s playfulness, Q just snapped back, “I’m not nice.  Now move so I can focus,” and buried himself more deeply in his task.  Shockingly, Moriarty left him alone - although possibly only because Sherlock spoke up to get his attention.  Good, at least Sherlock was being useful, entertaining the madman he’d accidentally befriended to the point of mutual obsession.  

Q wasn’t sure how long he’d been working, but suddenly… it was like all the pieces of code fell into place.  He was almost startled when he found out that he was in, and stared at the keyboard for a moment as if to check that someone else’s hands hadn’t pressed the last few keys.  He felt a rush of queasiness and triumph all at once as soon as he declared, “Got it.  I’m in,” because now things got tricky.  Computers were his area of expertise, but now that he’d conquered the tech, he was going to have to handle people…

“Sherly first,” Moriarty reminded, and now his sing-song had an edge to it.  Clearly he was expecting a double-cross, which Q completely respected.  Q was, after all, planning just that - although he hadn’t quite worked out the specifics yet.  There were too many outliers and dangers in the room, too many unpredictable things still.  

Not responding save a distracted nod, Q plugged the key-collar into the nearest port, and tolerated Moriarty’s hovering as he coded it for Sherlock’s collar.  “All right, nobody shoot anyone,” Q said as calmly as possible, as he stood up slowly with the key.  He turned his focus to Sherlock, who straightened and frowned, reminding Q of a fractious horse, uncertain if it liked what was happening.  Nobody said anything or, indeed, aimed weapons to shoot, so Q waited for Moriarty to give him a patronizing sort of nod and then stepped lively to Sherlock’s side.  Once the key was coded in, it wasn’t really a complicated process, but clearly Moriarty didn’t know that - as he was leaving Q to do the task instead of just taking the programmed piece of metal.  

Standing in front of his brother, Q felt a sense of deja vu as he lifted a hand to steady the collar - just as he’d done for Bond what seemed like aeons ago.  Instead of immediately touching the key to it, however, Q pretended to inspect it a little, stalling to give himself time to think and plan.  “Did you really come in here without a plan?” Q chastised, not bothering to lower his voice because Moriarty would probably just demand that he speak up if he did.

Sherlock, clearly of like mind, immediately glowered and retorted, “Of course I had a plan!”

Q raised an eyebrow.  “ ‘Had’?” he echoed with some derision.

For a moment, Sherlock seemed torn, and it looked like he was going to shout back.  But then, without warning, something in him seemed to… settle.  Sherlock was always such a storm, but in this moment he was the calm in the midst of it.  “I have a plan,” he said softly but surely.  His last words barely moved his lips, but his eyes were utterly sure, “He just needs more time.”

Immediately confused by the ‘he’ in that sentence, because that implied that Sherlock was trusting someone else in this situation, and Sherlock never trusted anybody but himself to get things done correctly, Q frowned.  No one else seemed to have heard that last sentence, though, and Sherlock’s gaze was suddenly calmer than Q could ever remember it being.  ‘You have someone you’re working with?’ Q wanted to ask in shock, but he couldn’t very well do that with so many enemy ears listening.

Instead, Q decided to trust Sherlock - and trust this strange, uniquely worthy person that Sherlock had trusted.  “Fine.  Moriarty is your problem,” he said, once again raising his voice before anyone could get suspicious of the quiet.

Responding in kind, Sherlock looked over Q’s head and drawled grimly, “Oh, he’s been my problem for a while now.”

Predictably, Moriarty found that adorable, and Q could hear his grin without having to turn and see it, “You say the most delightful things.”

Q pressed the key against Sherlock’s collar without further adieu, knowing that he was already pushing his luck with stalling.  He noticed, over Sherlock’s shoulder, that James was watching him keenly, eyes narrowed.  He still had one hand on Graham’s shoulder and clearly half of his focus on Hannibal, but as someone who’d had his collar removed before, 007 had enough sense to know that something was up.  

Obediently, Sherlock’s collar snapped open, and Q caught it in his hands - something so deadly, yet so quiescent now, like the rigored body of a dead snake.  “All right, my brother is free.  Happy?”

“Extremely,” Moriarty said, in a tone that was somewhere between indecent and… hungry.  He was looking at Sherlock with all the avariciousness of a shark.  “But I’m not the only one you have to please,” he shifted gears quickly, flicking an impatient hand towards Hannibal.  “Chop-chop, Siger - you’ve got another client waiting!”

Rolling his eyes, Q stuffed the opened collar through a belt loop and turned back to the computer again.  Now it was time to set up the key to release Hannibal’s collar… which sounded like a very, very bad idea.  As he walked away, however, mind working rapidly to both deduce and manage all of the various dangers in motion, Q barked back in his best Quartermaster voice, “I’m aware.  I’m also aware that you’ve got what you want already - so I hope you won’t mind-”  Q turned back to briefly lock eyes with Sherlock, then to look at 007, who tensed warily.  “007, kindly aim your handgun at Sherlock.  If Moriarty decides to try anything untoward, shoot.  Your job from here on out is to keep Moriarty in line, understood?”

James’ eyes narrowed, and it was clear that he was trying to figure out Q’s game here.  Q wished that he could just scream at him, explain everything, beg him to trust him, but all he could do was meet his eyes levelly and firmly - willing him to understand.  Relief nearly undid Q when Bond, after a potent pause, wordlessly lifted his gun-arm slowly and extended it towards Sherlock.  Sherlock, for his part, looked scandalized, although hopefully his brain would kick in soon and perhaps even figure out what his little brother was doing.  So long as he figured it out before Moriarty did, that was fine by Q.

Moriarty looked… positively enrapt by all of this.  Q briefly wondered if this was a potential strategy: keep doing ridiculous things so that Moriarty was too entertained to want to stop him.  “Really, Siger?  Having your hired gun aim at your very own brother?  How coldhearted of you.”  Then he winked, saying more slyly, “Do you really expect me to believe that you’ll just let dear Sherlock get shot?”

“What do you think?” Q said as coldly as possible, returning to his chair, even though that meant sitting close enough to touch Moriarty - looking up at him, even.  “Aren’t you the one who said that you and I are the same?  Just a pair of viruses in the machine?”  It made him feel sick to remember that, but he pushed onwards, leaning a bit closer so that he could lower his voice into something intimate and threatening, “What do you think my Psychopass really is, Moriarty?  Maybe it’s not higher than yours, but Sybil froze it years ago - probably for a reason.”

Now Moriarty’s eyes were wide but so was his smile, giving him an utterly manic look of delight.  Perhaps Sherlock was still Moriarty’s favourite, but Q was inching back up in the rankings again.  “You’re more interesting than I thought,” he purred, reaching out a hand.  

Q made himself hold still as long fingers danced through his hair, brushing his bangs back from his brow.  He made himself not react even though he wanted to vomit, and then he made himself turn stubbornly back to the computer like none of this had affected him - not ordering James around, not putting his brother in harm’s way, not Moriarty touching him like he knew him.  “I’ve got work to do,” he said flatly, and let his fingers fly once more across the keys.  

~^~

“You’re lucky I don’t dislocate your other arm,” Percival growled, finally dragging his waterlogged, injured Handler into a small outbuilding usually designated for the Eigengrau groundskeeper.  He hadn’t seen any sign of the man, which was for the best - it would have been a pain to kill him while also keeping Merkel under control.  “Bloody hell, how are you still coughing?  You’d think you had the entire ocean in your lungs - get over it!” he snapped in exasperation as he stopped supporting Merkel’s weight and let him fall to the floor.  Despite having two uninjured legs, Merkel still collapsed, hacking weakly.  Okay, maybe he had been half-drown when Percival had gotten him out of the water…

Peering out one of the windows, Percival tried to catch sight of the incoming boats again, but a storm seemed to be picking up - misty rain was getting spat against the windows, fog reaching out across the waters around Eigengrau.  Percival grumbled under his breath before scavenging through the little hut, looking for a first-aid kit, because the gash across his chest was killing him.  Half of his attention remained on Merkel, noting when the young Handler groaned and rolled over into a sitting position.  Percival smirked when he caught sight of baleful eyes finally opening and focusing on him.  

“She’ll be coming for you, you know,” Merkel said, in German - not because he thought Percival couldn’t understand him, but because he knew Percival could, but that he’d be annoyed by it.  Ever since that one mission that had kept Percival in Germany for three goddamned months, he honestly never wanted to hear the language again.  

Finally finding an old first-aid kit, Percival replied without turning, lazy violence in his crisp, English response, “Speak English or I’ll cut your tongue out.”

For a moment, it seemed like Merkel would argue, but he was smart enough to know that his Hound really would.  So when he went on, it was in slightly accented English, although he doggedly did not give up on his threats, “Even if it is just to avenge her Handler, she will come.”  

“Oh, so you were conscious enough for you to remember throwing that little French bitch over the edge?” Percival said lightly, ignoring the rest of the sentence.  He’d also found some warm clothes, which honestly sounded far better than first-aid, because Eigengrau was always so fucking cold and he was sopping wet right now.  

Merkel was visibly shivering, although he seemed determined to hang onto that glare even as water dripped off his bangs.  “You are stupid to take her so lightly.”

“Which ‘her’ are we referring to?” Percival asked, wrestling himself loose of his shirt and flinching almost constantly as the pain it created across his cut chest, “The Hound who is not here, or the Handler who is also not here because she’s dead?”

Percival got his shirt off at long last with a final, awkward tug on the wet fabric, only to lower it and find himself looking at pale, ruthless eyes, cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and a mouth that he’d once made the mistake of thinking he could do things with.  “This one,” Lorraine answered for Merkel, voice like smoke, and Percival noticed the gun in her hand just in time for her to shoot him through the knee.  Percival collapsed with a shriek, immediately trying to scramble and get away.  

Through a fog of blinding pain and the horrifying knowledge that people didn’t really recover from having joints utterly destroyed like that, Percival was dimly aware that Lorraine wasn’t finishing the job.  In fact, he saw her cold eyes slide off him and move immediately to Merkel, who was still huddled silently against the wall.  It was a tiny bit gratifying to notice that the Handler looked arguably as surprised as Percival had been.  

Percival tried to take advantage of Lorraine’s shift in attention to drag himself away, only to bump into something behind him.  He hadn’t thought there was anything at his back, but pain was making every thought grey at the edges - panic making him desperate - he wasn’t sure.  When he twisted around, however, he soon found himself following another set of muddied, wet legs upwards to another familiar face.  “Hello, Percival,” Delphine said, her voice polite but her mud-streaked face set into an incredibly angry glower, “I believe you were saying that I was dead, yes?” and with that she punched him right in the face.  

Before Percival could recover and start trying to talk his way out of this one (or maybe fight, if he could compartmentalize the pain in his shattered knee), he felt a slim cord about his neck.  Lorraine had taught her Handler to be tough and resourceful, so she’d pulled a stray bit of plant-training wire from the groundskeeper’s nearby desk.

~^~

While her lover strangled Percival in the background (Lorraine trusted that Delphine could handle it despite the bruises she’d sustained in the fall off the cliff and the tough climb up afterwards, and figured the girl deserved this kill), Lorraine strode over to Merkel - who was the worse for wear.  His large eyes followed her, one of his arms cradled awkwardly and limply across his middle.  

“Someday will you stop looking at me like my mercy is a shock to you?” she said, but the plea was a gentle one.  Her movements and touch were soft, too, as she squatted down and reached out a hand to his temple - seeking the source of blood she could see seeping past his hairline.  For his part, Merek was potentially in shock, rather than just the usual emotional kind, and stared at her wide-eyed and motionless as she touched him.  

Finally, a hard shiver racked his body, seeming to physically shake him out of at least some of it.  As he drew in a shuddering breath, he flicked his eyes belatedly to the hand against his head and then back to the Hound, saying stiltedly through chattering teeth, “I’ll do my best, but I’d really rather avoid a situation like this instead, if it’s all the same to you.”

Lorraine’s usually cold exterior cracked a bit, mouth quirking upwards in a small smile in response.  Behind her, there was a snarl from Delphine and a bit more flailing and gurgling from Percival.  A mere glance reassured Lorraine that her own Handler was still in control of the situation, leaving Lorraine to deal with this other Handler who had somehow also managed to become her own.  “Dislocated?” she asked, nodding to his shoulder.  She recognized the shape of it (and the way Merkel was favouring it) as not quite right.  

Clearly struggling to function with pain, shock, cold, and a head injury, it took Merkel a beat to process that and then move his head in a jerky nod.  He looked down on his own shoulder in a sort of numb bewilderment (and possibly true numbness, the cold perhaps paying dividends in reducing the pain in his arm) as Lorraine took it in hand.  “Just relax as much as you can,” she said, gripping his left wrist - the injured side - and manoeuvering it up to her right shoulder.  That woke up the pain a bit, and Merkel closed his eyes sharply, pressing his head back against the wall behind him.  He kept his lips tightly pursed but an involuntary noise of agony still slipped out, followed by a rush of breath out of his nose as Lorraine pressed her left hand down upon his left elbow, urging the dislocated limb towards a position that she wanted.  There were quick and dirty ways to get a shoulder back into place, but there were also gentle ones, and as her Handler slowly killed David Percival in the background, Lorraine took the time for the second option.  “I know it’s hard, but I need you to just breathe and relax,” she continued to soothe steadily, her free hand resting to the juncture between Merkel’s injured shoulder and his neck.  He twitched a bit at the first touch - any Handler was imbued with the knowledge of just what a Hound could do, especially close to vulnerable spots like one’s neck - but bit his lip instead of complaining or fighting.  Lorraine watched his expression intently, judging each reaction while also massaging her fingers against the muscles holding Merkel’s damaged arm stiffly in the wrong place.

Had Merkel not been shivering from the cold, near hypothermic with his entire body twitching and clenching frequently, Lorraine would have been able to ease the joint back into place in just a few minutes and with very little effort.  As it was, she picked a moment between shivers when Merkel seemed to accept that he really was all right - that Percival was no threat, that Lorraine was there as a pack-mate instead of a predator, and that death no longer was imminent - and then simultaneously exerted pressure on both his elbow and his torso.  The joint slid back into place with only a brief bit of fuss, and Merkel gasped rather than cried out.  Lorraine let go of him but took just a moment to bask in the rare warmth of knowing that she’d purposefully taken the gentle route instead of the expedient one, because someone she cared about deserved it.  

Behind, there was the thump of a limp, heavy body hitting the floor.  Delphine let out a breath of pent-up anger and released effort.  “Make sure you finish him and that he’s not just faking,” Lorraine reminded her as a mother lion would grunt softly to a yearling cub, encouraging her to make her first few kills clean ones.  Delphine had killed a few times before, but not many, and never had she killed someone quite so deserving - or dangerous - as David Percival.  

“I know, I know,” Delphine muttered, and Lorraine once again allowed a small smile without turning.  She didn’t need to watch to know that Delphine would handle things - or call out if she could not.  

Merkel had opened his eyes and was still watching her.  It seemed that the wonderment at his rescue had not faded yet, and Lorraine decided to be charmed by that instead of offended.  

“Clothes off,” she said next, reaching for the sodden hem of his shirt, “The wetness will only make you colder.  Careful with your arm.  Move it slowly.”  She kept her instructions calm and simple, and didn’t grow impatient when she ended up doing most of the work.  On a good day, Merkel was a very efficient and capable individual, so she considered this a fair trade - usually he was very helpful to Hounds, so today a Hound could be helpful to him. “Stop.  It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said a bit more sternly when she got to his trousers and he started protesting.  He gave in with an embarrassed huff of something in German, something that Lorraine translated instantly and smirked a bit more broadly at that before.  Still, she acquiesced to help him to stand up and lean on the wall before she undid his belt buckle for him and then unceremoniously shimmied his trousers and pants down his lean hips.  Untroubled by the nudity (as mentioned, she’d undressed him down to his skin once before), she urged him to brace his good arm on her shoulder as she helped him get out of his shoes and strip the rest of the way.

By then, Delphine was padding up to them, her footsteps light and familiar in Lorraine’s ears, like falling rain.  “What should we do with the body?” she asked with evident distaste, even as she came up to Lorraine’s side with a blanket.  Merkel mumbled a startled thanks in German as the other Handler started to arrange it around him without hesitation.  Lorraine was guilty of watching the subtle exchange with amusement - it was funny how unruffled and calm Merkel could be when he was dealing with a crisis other than his own, and then how flustered he was by contrast when he became the centre of attention.  His shyness was also endearing.  

Lorraine finally glanced back at the body of David Percival.  He was definitely dead - not only was his face an unhealthy colour from lack of air, eyes open and bloodshot, but the cord Delphine had used to strangle him had nearly sawed through his neck.  There was a significant amount of blood down his front, although a glance at Delphine showed no signs of it.  Smart girl.  “Leave it.  With the storm starting outside, I don’t fancy any of us dragging it out into the elements - both of you are entirely too wet and cold, and while I’m dry, I’d prefer to stay that way.”  She got up, giving an unsteady Merkel the final help he needed to snug the heavy blanket around himself.  Glancing over, she saw Delphine starting towards the groundskeeper’s little fireplace.  The building was small but quite homey.  If one ignored the corpse on the floor.  “I also like having him where I can see him, even if he’s dead.”

“For that, I have no argument,” Delphine agreed wholeheartedly.

For his part, Merkel was still shivering, but bundled up in a blanket he looked a bit more stable.  “You should escape while you can,” he said, speaking very candidly to Lorraine.  She raised one eyebrow at him - at his shaking shoulders, his mussed hair still stained with blood.  “Percival spotted boats coming in.  Even with the storm, there isn’t much time before law enforcement finally gets to Eigengrau.”  His big, clever eyes so sincere, Merkel finished, “Now is your last chance to escape.”

In much the same way that Merkel had been so surprised by her kindness, so did it take Lorraine a moment to process Merkel’s words and realize that he was breaking away from his role as Handler, and trying to help her slip free of Eigengrau’s leash.  She gave him a small smile and reached out for him again, gratified that he didn’t shy away or flinch as she caught a corner of the blanket and used it to begin carefully mopping the worst of the wetness from his hair.  “I think it’s too late for that,” she said, without rancour.  If anything, she said it fondly.  

The idea of staying on as part of Eigengrau had once felt like an inevitability, a shackle not worth gnawing through.  After Delphine, however, it had seemed less of a binding… or, perhaps, a different kind of binding.  Now, with Merkel here, Lorraine found that she couldn’t imagine herself happier away from them.  “Maybe when you and Delphine are a bit more spry, we can revisit this idea,” she said, not quite admitting that she’d only run away if they’d run away with her.  Lorraine had been an island once, needing no one and connected to nothing, but now that she’d tried living with company… going back to her previous state left her feeling surprisingly bereft and empty.

“Got it,” Delphine said with delight, and there was the sound of a fire crackling merrily to life.  She stood in front of it, already turning herself about and drying off.  She hadn’t been dunked into the ocean like Merkel had, thankfully, so her level of wetness was decidedly different.  She also hadn’t been hit over the head, so when she turned her back to the fire and addressed her two companions, it was in a thoughtful tone, “Merkel and I can speak on your behalf - say that you defended us from Agent 012.  It would not free you, but it would ensure your good treatment, yes?”  

“So long as you agree to say that I strangled Percival,” Lorraine bargained.  Delphine glowered at her for a moment, but when Lorraine added, “That would sell the story better,” she relented.  Delphine knew her lover well enough to know that Lorraine didn’t need anyone to fret over her reputation.  

“It will be a bit yet before anyone checks on this hut,” Merkel pressed, still seeming off-balance at the realization that Lorraine wasn’t going to run while she could.  His eyes danced uncertainly between the two of them, although he winced, distracted, as Lorraine’s ministrations grew close to the goose-egg on his head.  When he tried to back away, she caught his blanket in a firm hold, causing him to blink in surprise.  

“Good.  Time enough for you to warm up a bit, and for me to find you some other clothes,” was Delphine’s entire opinion on the matter.  Without waiting for either assent or agreement, the lithesome Handler wandered deeper into the small building - in the hopes that the groundskeeper not only kept some clothes on hand, but was close enough in size to Merkel for some sharing of garments to be feasible.

Clearly dazed in multiple ways, Merkel silently allowed himself to be hauled forward and pushed down onto the couch.  He grimaced and clutched his ribs - bruised but not broken, Lorraine had already assessed.  “Why?” he asked, and nothing more.  

Lorraine eased the blanket away from him.  He grabbed for it at first, but ultimately gave in, pale, damp skin flushing as Lorraine sidled up behind him on the couch until she could pull him back against her.  She’d have stripped down, too - skin-to-skin warmed a body fastest - but they weren’t entirely safe yet, so her instincts screamed against that level of vulnerability at the moment.  Still, she rearranged the blanket over both of them, unholstering her gun so she could set it on a little side-table within easy reach.  She felt as much as heard Merkel draw in an unsteady breath as one of her arms slid around his chest beneath the blankets.  Her warm, dry hand curled over his left shoulder, gently testing to be sure it was still in its socket as it was meant to be.  

“Why do any of us do anything?” she evaded with a shrug, letting her chin settle on his good shoulder.  She was tempted to watch the enchanting play of the fire, but made herself keep checking their surroundings - from the pounding on the window, to Percival’s cooling body, to the glimpses of Delphine moving about in the adjacent room.  Before Merkel could press further, she said, “You probably have a concussion, so if you fall asleep, expect me to wake you up frequently to make sure your brain is still working.”

That got a dry, slightly manic laugh to slide out of Merkel’s mouth.  Lorraine’s other arm had wrapped around his middle, and she felt his body shudder with humour and then another wave of chills.  “Honestly?  I do not know if I will ever sleep again.”

“I think you will,” she soothed, then gave in to the impulse to turn her cheek against his.  It wasn’t a kiss.  Maybe someday soon it would be, if they survived all of this intact.  Still, she loved the little noise it wrung out of Merkel’s throat, as he felt her lips against the edge of his jaw.  “I won’t let anything happen to you if you do.”

Merkel seemed to take that to heart, or perhaps he was finally too wrung out for words - and with heat steadily seeping into his body from all directions, it was probably a losing battle against sleep anyway.  By the time Delphine found him clothes, he was already unconscious, head having lolled back limply against Lorraine’s shoulder.  Delphine smiled knowingly, warm and mischievous all at once, and promptly began wriggling under the blanket, too.  Merkel stirred a little - Lorraine watched him open his eyes and blearily look over at the other Handler snuggling up to him - but then he just sighed and relaxed again.  He’d already ended up cuddling with Delphine once before, and Lorraine knew from experience that Delphine’s stubborn comfort was hard to deny.  

The three of them sat on the little couch, watching the fire, soaking in each other’s warmth and cold and aches and strengths until it was all one thing spread between them.  Lorraine strained for sounds of helicopters incoming, but couldn’t hear anything over the increasing rain.

~^~

Chapter Text

The more Q thought about it, the more he realized that there were only a few ways out of this - ways out that included the good guys living and the bad guys not escaping, at least.  And with ‘good’ and  ‘bad’ being such fluctuating, grey terms, he worried about his ability to make decisions that he could live with later.  If nothing else, he was very certain that Moriarty could not be allowed to escape Eigengrau… and neither could Hannibal Lecter.  And as much as he wanted to survive this experience, he mostly hoped that he could get his brother, James, and Will Graham out of this.  Sherlock was his brother, and Will Graham’s only sin seemed to be an egregious head wound (which likely explained both his random bout of violence and his trust of Hannibal).  

And James…  

Q just couldn’t imagine James being dead.  High-Pass or not, Q didn’t want the man to die.  

Unfortunately, now that James had used Graham as a hostage, it seemed like James’ life was as forfeit as Q’s in the eyes of Hannibal Lecter, so Q was trying to furiously think his way out of this problem even as he slowly hacked his way into the collar-unlocking system all over again.  It seemed easier this time - likely because he’d done it once already, but it also felt as if the system was giving way of its own accord in some moments.  

At least Sherlock was keeping Moriarty busy.  It was already difficult enough for Q to do all of this without the distraction of a madman breathing down his neck, although sometimes it was hard to tell if Sherlock was distracting Moriarty or just riling him up…

“I still can’t fathom your choices in help,” Sherlock said loftily, and Q hoped to god that he wasn’t bold enough to actually look at Hannibal as he said this.  Because he was clearly referring to the man.  

At least Moriarty was thinking along the same lines, and chastised (albeit playfully), “Now, now, Sherlock, don’t be rude.  It’s thanks to Mr. Lecter here that I was able to collect your brother - so clearly he’s a useful being.  More useful than you, who didn’t even manage to find the head of Eigengrau.”  The last dig was said slyly.

Sherlock just scoffed, “As we’re already ascertained, you never cared if I did or not.”

“True, but it still bears pointing out.  So sad.”

“Both of you are going to be sad if you don’t let me work,” Q grumbled.

Speaking up was a mistake, as it put Q in Moriarty’s focus again.  The man sidled over and sat on the desk next to Q’s laptop once more, entirely too close for comfort.  Q felt his shoulders tightening up, and he’d never wished for James’ presence more in his life - at this point, he’d have tolerated the man throwing him over his shoulder like a caveman if it just meant getting out of touching range of Moriarty.  

Perhaps sensing his brother’s mounting anxiety, Sherlock spoke up again, “Actually, I regret my statement.”

Moriarty’s head turned away from Q and back to his more favoured target.  “Oh?” he trilled with clear curiosity, “Which one?”

“About your hired help.” Sherlock’s voice had dropped, going from intuitive and insightful to suddenly self-assured.  He’d stumbled upon something, and was now driven to explain it… for better or for worse.  Mostly worse, by Q’s recollection.  “You do have additional assistance, but it’s more wisely chosen than an Eigengrau Hound.”

Q was close enough that he didn’t have to look over to sense Moriarty stiffen infinitesimally, although the madman leaned forward as if eager rather than cornered.  Sherlock discovering more about him was clearly not viewed as a threat, but rather a sort of gift.  

“While you are quite capable of manipulating those around you, ultimately the physical dangers of Eigengrau would overwhelm someone like you - someone physically smaller and less powerful,” Sherlock began to pick up speed on his findings, likely forgetting that anyone else in the room exists.  Q tried to drown him out and just work, because whatever Sherlock said, it wouldn’t change the fact that Q needed to do this right.  

What came out of Sherlock’s mouth next proved Q wrong, however.

“You have a second compatriot… a hired gun that you knew before Eigengrau.  No, more than that.  A sniper.”

Q resisted the urge to groan and smack his head on the table.  Of course Moriarty had a goddamned sniper - another unforeseen complication.  

Of course Moriarty noticed Q’s almost reaction, and Q immediately felt a hand clap him on the shoulder.  “Does that throw a wrench into your plans, Q dear?  I know that that mind of yours was working furiously - trying to find a way to kill me, no?  Well, too bad.  I’ve got a dozen snipers-!”

“Just one, I’d think,” Sherlock corrected knowingly.

This problem was also basically unreachable to Q, so after freezing for a moment, he realized that there was simply nothing he could do about this, except hope and pray to whatever deities had kept him alive this long.  

“I suppose I just can’t pull one over on you!” Moriarty said in an almost saccharine tone, like they were an old married couple teasing one another instead of enemies who were likely to get one another killed any minute now.  Q’s back was to the room, but he was able to at least glance over at James, who seemed the exact opposite of amused with this new development.  From what Q knew of Hannibal, the man also likely wasn’t thrilled to hear that a sniper had been added to an already chaotic, chancy situation.  “So fine.  Yes, I have one sniper.  But he’s brilliant, Sherlock!  I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

“The only way we’ll meet is through one-way glass in an interrogation room when he’s arrested,” Sherlock said with confident smugness.  Q resisted the urge to groan.  “Or in a morgue.”

“I can’t believe you’d say such a thing!” Moriarty immediately exclaimed in return.  At that point, Q started tuning them out again, honestly sickened by this back and forth play.  It was bad enough that Moriarty was having such a good time, but Q’s own brother was enjoying it as well.  In this moment, Q fully believed that Sherlock was high-Pass to some degree, no matter what the Sybil System had maintained for so long (before this whole fiasco).

Shaking his head to himself at the sheer, horrifying absurdity that his life had become, Q suddenly noticed something that he perhaps would not have if he were not so determined to distract himself from Moriarty and Sherlock.  Yes, the task at hand was already rather distracting, but Q used to have a habit of playing music when he was doing a complex task and the people around him were noisy - granted, he also usually had an internet connection and headphones.  How, it had been reflex to seek out at least one of those things, and he was surprised to see that the computer was not so disconnected from the outside world as it should have been.  He didn’t dare try and send a message to go and get help - Moriarty was still right there, and glancing over frequently with a keen eye - but the important thing wasn’t what Q could do, but more what he’d realized.  

The signal jammer was no longer in effect.  

Suddenly a potential pathway forward cleared in Q’s head.  Grim but determined now, Q finished up his task, swiftly coding in the key for another Hound-collar.  “Done,” Q said, standing abruptly and unplugging the primed key.  The witty banter behind him stopped as all eyes snapped to him, although Moriarty’s face still held a playful, whimsical little smirk.  Q ignored him, turning to face Hannibal instead.  “You’re next then, eh?” he said as firmly as possible, as if he weren’t scared stiff.  

“So it would seem,” Hannibal said cordially.  The only sign that this wasn’t afternoon tea was the slightly lower timbre to his voice - a predator’s low growl beneath the polite and friendly words.  He didn’t reach for his weapon, however. 

Q felt a touch on his shoulder and jumped hard, giving away his high-strung nerves; it was only Moriarty.  The man grinned like a jackal as he purred in a musing tone, “Nervous, Siger?  It wouldn’t be because you’re about to walk right up to the nice high-Pass man you lied to about freeing is it?  Or are you anxious about walking where my sniper could see you?”

“This whole room is practically a shooting gallery,” Q managed to snap back shortly, pulling his shoulder away from the unwanted contact, “Anyone standing is in danger.  Where I walk makes no difference.”  Usually, Q didn’t think of himself as particularly tactically-minded - at least not in the most militant sense - but even he could see why Moriarty had chosen this room now.  If the madman had a sniper hidden somewhere, they could take their pick of just about anyone, anywhere, any time.  

But honestly, when compared to what Q was planning to do, getting killed by a long-range bullet wasn’t honestly that scary.  If anything, a mortified part of Q hoped that he’d get taken out by a bullet, because that at least would take matters out of his hands - no more responsibility for the lives around him, and certainly no opportunity to do commit to the upcoming lunacy he had in mind.  The realization of what he’d have to do also had his guts tying in knots, and Q thought he might be physically sick as he took his first few steps towards Hannibal.  His watch, which he’d almost forgotten existed since Eigengrau had been besieged, suddenly weighed on his arm like an anvil.  

He purposefully didn’t look over at James.  He didn’t think he could; didn’t want the man to see anything in his eyes.  Because he definitely didn’t think that 007 would approve of this plan in the slightest.  

Approaching Hannibal Lecter felt a lot like approaching a hungry lion.  There was no ignoring the danger.  Nonetheless, Q padded forward until he was in the man’s shadow, and as he’d done with Sherlock, he didn’t immediately use the key, although he did keep it tucked against his palm.  It had to physically touch the collar to work, but he kept his fingers in the way.  

Hannibal, knowing significantly more about how the collars and the key worked than Moriarty or Sherlock, noticed.  “So am I to expect that you’ll go through the same slow process that you treated your brother to?” he said pleasantly.  Sherlock had once again engaged Moriarty in conversation, and there was clearly far less worry about Q and Hannibal getting up to something, because Moriarty didn’t seem all that bothered by the hushed tone that Hannibal was using.  For his part, 003 seemed somewhere between amused, curious, and annoyed.  Q could see his tension and anticipation in the way his tensed body shifted subtly back and forth from foot to foot; from working with James, Q had come to realize that high-Pass agents rarely fidgeted.  It took a lot to get any tells like this to show, especially as Hannibal’s face remained an impassive, patient mask.

“Well, it would be awfully suspicious of me not to now, wouldn’t it?” Q murmured back.  

“Or perhaps you could just admit that you lied.”  This time, there was an undercurrent of something darker beneath the pleasantness of Hannibal’s voice.  They weren’t talking about the current situation anymore.

Wincing internally at how quickly and badly things had spiralled between himself and Hannibal, all due to a misunderstanding, Q asked, “Would it make any difference?” and then waited with bated breath for the answer.  Maybe he wouldn’t have to go through with his plan after all.  

But Hannibal’s eyes slide pointedly past Q, to where James still stood with Will as his hostage.  Those same dark eyes slid back to Q, full of all the implacable fury of an avalanche that had started at the top of the mountain - and there was no slowing it now.  It was jarring to see that leashed violence in Hannibal’s eyes but hear his voice be so cool and steady, “No, not really.”

That decided it then.  

Q curled his hand - the one not holding the key - around Hannibal’s collar and yanked suddenly down and to the side, putting his body-weight behind it.  Hannibal wasn’t expecting it, and the surprise showed in his eyes and his sudden and total loss of balance.  At the same time, Q used his own balance to suddenly turn, caught James’ eye in an instant, and shout, “Do your job!”  He threw the key across the room, and barely had time to see a startled 007 sidestep past Will Graham to catch it.  

Hoping that James remembered Q’s earlier comment about ‘Your job from here on out is to keep Moriarty in line, understood?’ Q turned his attention back to his current and potentially last problem: Hannibal Lecter.  He’d managed to send the man stumbling away from his weapon, but Hannibal was already recovering, and Q wouldn’t have the element of surprise again.  James had bellowed Q’s name in the background, but already everything was devolving into pandemonium.  Everyone was shouting, and there was the loud sound of scraping furniture as someone moved behind Q, someone swearing - multiple people swearing.  Moriarty’s sniper was somewhere, too, and Q’s only solace was that said sniper would have an awful lot of targets that he’d have to choose between.  

Q just had one target.  

The problem was that said target had a lot of ways to kill Q, but Q had only one way to kill him: the watch.  The watch that he’d been given the moment he’d arrived at Eigengrau, Tanner explaining that it had the power to kill every collared agent in a three-meter radius.  As Q reached his left hand over towards his right wrist now, though, he grimly reminded himself that James was also within that radius, and the watch’s mechanism wasn’t designed to be picky.  He had to hope that James would get that collar off in the next few seconds, because already Hannibal was regaining his balance and turning on him.  

Q turned to look behind him, to see if James had gotten free yet.  He just caught a glimpse of the man, looking furious but with his hands up around his collar - and was shocked when someone slammed into him from a completely unexpected angle.  The Quartermaster of Eigengrau and the profiler Will Graham slammed to the floor together in a tangle of arms and legs.  Through the sound of his and Will’s harsh exhales on impact, Q could still hear James bark his name at the exact moment that Hannibal hollered Will’s, and it was enough to have him wheezing out a manic laugh at the parallels.  

Before anyone else could do anything, one of the windows shattered under the impact of the sniper’s first bullet.

~^~

Minutes Prior

~^~

“Well, that’s just fucking fantastic.  We turn around and the pilot runs away.”

Whereas Harkness’ voice was rife with sarcastic anger, Jones’ tones were more levelheaded, “Easy, Jack.  Hart will bring him back.”

Harkness scoffed, “Oh, I seriously doubt that.  Have you seen the looks that Hart’s been giving that kid?”

There was a telling silence, followed up simply by a heavy sigh as Jones apparently gave up on arguing that particular point.  “There’s not much we can do about that, though, is there?” Jones tried another angle.  “That doesn’t change what we’re doing here.”

“True,” Harkness had the good grace to admit.  Then he raised his voice and called in the jovial tone that Arthur honestly kind of hated, “You hear that, Thirteen?  You’re still on the clock.  You shoot C or I shoot you.”  Eggsy had at least been considerate enough to leave their one handgun behind when he’d wordlessly and inexplicably bolted, although that didn’t seem to have mollified Harkness much.

“But not before you get eyes on Mallory!” Ianto was quick to emphasize, to which Arthur merely rolled his eyes.  He knew his orders.  Whether he particularly liked them or not was immaterial.  He stayed where he was, crouched behind the low wall and seeing the world through the rifle-scope.  The only person he kept aware of was Eames, and that was just out of habit.  He’d worked with Eames so often before being snatched up by the Sybil System that it was just natural for him to have a constant sense of the man, even before the smooth-tongued forger started talking to Harkness and Ianto as well - likely getting both of them to calm down.  Eames was good at that, at least with anyone who wasn’t Arthur.  Arthur had no idea why anyone found Eames charming or calming.  

Why he’d demanded Eames’ safe treatment in all of this, he’d never know.

Thoughts about Eames’ bafflingly irksome nature was derailed as a glint of something caught Arthur’s trained eye.  Just as Eames was trained to look for the exact pressure of a pen upon a paper, to see the correct curvature of ink that he needed to replicate for a good forgery, so Arthur was always alert to what he was trained in - which, in this case, was sniping.  So when he registered something on the roof of a distant building, he immediately pivoted, the rifle moving with him because the sight could pick up details much farther out than his eyes could.  

Understanding flooded him in seconds as he recognized, on the roof of another building, C’s right-hand man, Moran.  Arthur immediately focused in, glad for the high-powered scope that he’d managed to wheedle out of his Handler for this rifle, seeing in the set of Moran’s body and the focus of his posture that he was about to take a shot.  Arthur aimed and put pressure on his own trigger without hesitation, realizing in a second that he needed to get off the first shot - to shoot Moran’s gun out of his hands before he could shoot, at the very least.

So focused was Arthur on removing dangerous variables that he forgot just how distrustful his current companions were of him: without a sound of warning, Harkness tackled him like a truck.  Arthur managed to squeeze the trigger, but couldn’t tell if his shot went wild as he was dragged down under 001’s angry weight.

“Fuck, Harkness-!” Arthur snarled, immediately fighting back but realizing that he was more outmatched here than he’d been against the pilot, Eggsy.  Even if Arthur weren’t still smarting from that earlier fight, Harkness was easily twice his mass and heavy with muscle.  Already it was a struggle to avoid a chokehold that would incapacitate him in seconds.  “I’m not-!” he tried to get out between desperate twisting.  

He heard Eames shout his name and his familiar boot steps charging closer, only to skid to a halt.  Arthur was too busy to turn and see what was happening, but the next words - said lowly and dangerously, so different from Eames’ more fun and laid-back side - explained a lot: “Jones, don’t make me take that gun away from you.”  Sounded like the gun Eggsy had left behind was already causing issues.  

“I should have known you’d try something,” Harkness snarled close to Arthur’s ear, all resignation and rage.  

Twisting his body to try and make use of his smaller frame rather than strength, Arthur managed to get enough breathing room at least to bark out more than a few words at a time. “You known fuck-all, Harkness!  It’s not like I was trying to shoot your damn boyfriend!” he snarled heatedly, and perhaps it was a low blow, but it got Harkness to rear back a bit, enough for Arthur to finish it, “I was using the scope to see with, and what I saw was another fucking sniper - Moran!”

Even as he said that, there was the distant crack of a rifle being fired - the sound eerie and faded by distance, a sign that Arthur’s shot hadn’t landed true enough to permanently incapacitate Moran’s weapon.  As everyone else startled, however, caught off-guard both by the noise and by Arthur’s declaration, Arthur was running trajectories in his head, and locked his eyes on Eames as sudden cold fear infused him.  “Eames!  Get down!” he roared.

For all that Eames annoyed the ever-loving shit out of Arthur and called him ‘love’ and ‘darling’ far too much, the man obeyed him now without question.  

He wasn’t fast enough.  

There was another echoing crack of rifle-fire as Moran, who’d undoubtedly noticed Arthur’s position just as Arthur had noticed his, got off another shot.  Eames and Ianto both cried out and crumpled to the rooftop, hit by the same shot.  

~^~

It was chaos in the observation room.  The sniper’s first shot seemed to have missed for some reason, although the pursuant shots kept everyone down.  Q, meanwhile, was down for entirely different reasons as he struggled against Will Graham.  Despite Q himself having just realized that the Eigengrau watches had become dangerous again, Graham was holding onto Q’s right wrist with desperate strength, doing everything in his power to keep Q from activating it.  All the while, Q wasn’t sure if he would have activated it if he could - because he didn’t know if James was free yet.  What if Bond was still collared?  What if he’d dropped the key when he’d dove for cover?  What if he had been hit and Q just hadn’t noticed?  What if he hadn’t realized that Q had coded it for his collar all along, from the moment he’d realized that he’d likely have to kill Hannibal Lecter to prevent him from getting freed?  

Meanwhile, Hannibal was very much still alive - and while not free, very dangerous.  The only saving grace was that Q had managed to drag the man far enough away from his weapon that he couldn’t easily get to it without standing up and making himself a target for the sniper.  And when Will Graham managed to roll on top of Q, using his weight to keep Q’s hands at bay when his many injuries made properly subduing the Quartermaster impossible, Graham was also unwittingly protecting a lot of Q from the angry Hound.  If nothing else, Q was fairly certain at this point that Hannibal would do a lot to avoid hurting Graham.  

Q tried to headbutt Graham, aiming for the worst injury; barely twisting his head aside in time to take Q’s forehead to his cheek, Will retaliate by squeezing down on Q’s left wrist, which still bore signs of the burns he’d suffered barely a day ago.  Q cried out.  He heard James call his name.  

Then Hannibal hove into view, just low enough to still be beneath the cover of the windowsill.  Despite being crouched low, he was like a slow titan moving in, and Q gave out an involuntary wordless cry and struggled harder.  He managed to twist out from under Graham, and heard another gunshot - from inside the room - and a voice so angry that it was barely recognizable as Bond’s roaring, “You touch him, Lecter, and I’ll kill you so slowly that you’ll hold up the line in Hell!”

Both Q and Will had bad shoulders from near-misses with bullets, so when Will tried to grapple with him again, it was a clumsy, painful mess for both of them.  Q felt his remaining stitches tear.  He also felt an unexpected tug at his hip, very briefly.  Ultimately Graham was in worse shape, however, because Q managed to kick him off - before he could get scrambled further, however, he felt a bigger hand fist in the back of his pullover and dragged him around on hands and knees as easily as if he were a badly behaved cat.  It was Hannibal, and for a heartbeat, Q’s brain froze up in horror.  

Then he got his feet under him and lurched forward, barreling shoulder-first into Lecter’s stomach instead of resisting.  The impact hurt like hell, Q’s entire body lighting up with agony for a second, but he was pretty sure that he also managed to shove Lecter’s body into shooting range of at least someone.  There was thunder in the air from more shots, and another yell - maybe Lecter got shot.  Maybe he was just angry.  Either way, his grip on Q’s pullover loosened, and Q tried to roll away.  Graham got in the way, but it was possibly because he was going to Lecter’s side - Q, though the haze of pain from his abused, damaged shoulder, still heard Will call the Hound’s name - but just as Q was rolling over to scoot backwards, he suddenly felt something lock down on the back of his neck.  And around it.  

On reflex, Q kicked and backed away, skidding on his arse until he hit a filing cabinet with a metallic slam.  

“Q!”  James’ voice.  “Q!  Are you all right!”  The sound of Moriarty’s wild laugher rang out as a backdrop to the madness, echoing from wherever he’d hidden himself.  There was no sign of Sherlock either.  

As James’ question hung in the air and there as a brief silence where no shots rang out, Q lifted a hand to his neck.  He felt cool metal beneath his fingertips.  A tug proved to him that it was already locked firmly in place.  

“I’ve got Sherlock’s collar on,” Q answered, voice dull with shock, not sure if he raised his voice loud enough for anyone but himself to hear.  

~^~

Harkness got off Arthur damn fast once Ianto went down, although he had the sense to stay low even as he rushed to Jones’ side.  In all fairness, though, Arthur was doing the same thing, only skidding to Eames as if drawn by gravity.  Eames had fallen forward onto Ianto, and now the two men who had previously been trying to wrestle each other into submission now worked together to separate the other two and try to hurriedly assess the damage.  Arthur thought he heard the Welshman’s tones hurriedly saying something like “I’m all right!  I’m all right!  Just a graze.  He fell into me,” but didn’t give a flying fuck, because Eames was not all right, and even if he was annoying as hell, he still mattered to Arthur.  

Exactly why he mattered was something that Arthur hadn’t had time to fully examine yet, and he wouldn’t have time to do that properly if Eames died.  

“Eames!  Eames!” Arthur barked, using a parade-ground voice he hadn’t used since the military.  Also in the military, he’d learned a thing or two about wounds, and was already seeking out the source of the blood and applying pressure.  He cursed Eames, Harkness, the sniper, and himself as frustration overcame him, realizing not only that the wound was pretty bad but that he was by no means a doctor - there was only so much he could do, and if it wasn’t enough-!

“Arthur, love, if looks could kill, I’d be more worried about you than the bullet,” Eames wheezed, and Arthur had to resist a wild urge to slap him for being so blasé about all this.  

He instead merely growled, “This isn’t time to joking, Eames.  You’ve got a bullet-hole in you.”

“Well, that’s not ideal, true,” was Eames’ strained opinion on that.  He gave a little cough, but it seemed to be mostly from pain.  Then his hand lifted, grabbing Arthur’s wrist.  Despite Eames having been recently shot, he was still strong enough to pull Arthur’s hand away from the wound despite the smaller man’s protests.  “Stop fussing,” the forger said.  He replaced Arthur’s hand with his own - he also had military training, and also knew how to apply pressure and slow the blood flow.  “I’m not dying.”  He certainly looked in pain.  Despite that, however, and the fact that he seemed disinclined to get up from where he was collapsed on the roof, Eames’ eyes hardened.  His free hand suddenly shot out and grabbed Arthur’s collar, tugging him in close.  Despite the sudden violence in his eyes, his voice was almost pleasant as he said, “Go shoot that sonofabitch back for me, will you?  I’d do it myself, but you’re the better shot.”

Despite himself, Arthur felt a little smirk trying to escape onto his face.  He didn’t say anything, but Eames nodded as if he had, and the moment the forger let go, Arthur was making a beeline for his discarded rifle.  He still had a job to do - and all the more reason to do it now.  “You took the wrong shot, Moran,” he murmured to himself, glancing back one last time to Eames (Harkness and Jones had scooted closer, and seemed to be tending to him) before aiming over the roof’s ledge again.  

~^~

Perhaps in the quiet of the room, Moriarty had heard Q, because suddenly his laughter doubled in volume and wildness - a hyena’s cackle that was filled with delight.  James actually hollered for him to shut the fuck up and shot somewhere into the west side of the room, but sadly that didn’t really quiet Moriarty down any.  He only finished laughing in his own good time, and only to chortle, “Oh, Q, this is too good!  The irony!”  His voice rose to a shriek at the end that made Q flinch even from across the room.

“Q, are you-” James called out.

He was going to ask if Q was all right.  Q knew he was.  So Q cut him off, hollering in his best ‘I’m still the fucking Quartermaster’ voice, “Do your job, 007!  Did you get your collar off?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t-”

“Good,” Q interrupted him again, even as he turned his head with a sort of inevitability to see Hannibal coming towards him.  Like typing in the correct digits to an ever-shifting password algorithm, Q saw how this had to end.  James couldn’t have many bullets left, and Hannibal seemed to have realized where James was shooting from and how to avoid it; Will Graham was the opposite of helpful, and too injured to stop Hannibal even if he was inclined to do so.  Q had the means to end 003’s threat for good, but only if he…

Q touched the collar around his throat, unremovable without the key and the time to reprogram it yet again.  He ended his previous thought, simply repeating, ‘I have the means to end the threat.  Period.’  

He reached his left hand over towards the watch on his right wrist, serenely meeting Hannibal’s eyes even as the Hound’s gaze went from predatory triumph to alarm.  Q’s whole body hurt and his burnt wrist felt shaky, but even as Hannibal went from staying low and careful to lunging forward desperately, Q was still able to trigger the watch’s mechanism faster than the Hound could reach him to stop him.  

For a split second, Q worried that the aggravated injury to his wrist would make the task difficult; his fingers tingled with the pain.  However, even as the window directly to his left shattered - this one floor-to-ceiling - Q got proof that he did his task correctly: agony raced through him, starting from his neck and radiating outwards like millions of white-hot needles.  He arched, feeling his jaw lock so that he couldn’t even scream.  

Distantly, he was aware of Hannibal convulsing midair.  The man’s momentum was all that carried him forward; he still hit Q, but his body was no longer a finely-controlled weapon.  It was just an ungainly weight that hit Q’s body like one toy tumbling against another, sending them both out through the shattered window.  Graham’s voice was harsh, and Q’s now-stuttering brain distantly registered that the man was still trying to save Hannibal - grabbing onto him, but to no avail.  Hannibal was too heavy, Will too weakened by injury.

The last thing Q felt was cold air.  

The dampness of rain; a storm was coming in.  

There was nothing but the sea beneath them - Will Graham and all of his strange troubles falling with them, screams whipped away by the wind - but the pain ended and Q’s world went black before he could think too hard on that.  

Q didn’t see the blond-haired shape dive out of the window after him, never even hesitating to double-check if it was earth or water at the bottom of the fall.

~^~

Moriarty’s laughter was like a blade being drawn against glass; even the shocked ringing in Sherlock’s ears couldn’t drown out the noise.  “I can’t believe I didn’t see that coming!” Moriarty shrieked as if this were a great play he’d just seen unfolding, the actors on stage exceeding his wildest expectations, “I didn’t think he’d do it - but there he went!  And here I thought you were the suicidal one, Sherlock.”

Feeling numb with shock, Sherlock crawled and then crouched, increasingly uncaring about Moriarty’s sniper as he made his way towards the window where his brother had disappeared out of.  The other men that had likewise gone out the window were immaterial; none of them were his baby brother.  Reaching the edge, Sherlock peered out into space.

Moriarty must have been at an angle to see him as he’d seen everything else, because his sing-song voice floated to him, “ Thinking about joining them, Sherlock?  It’s like Peter Pan said: to die would be an awfully big adventure.”  Suddenly the solemn last few words became a snicker.  “Personally, I think it would be an awfully quick one, though.  Gravity and all that.”

Looking down, Sherlock saw only the waves; no bodies.  Also, not as many rocks as he’d expected.  A glance out towards the horizon showed heavy fog, and rain was already spattering his skin as it was blown in off the water.  His grief and shock settled into something hard and cold, and for no particular reason, he recalled Siger’s last order - for the Hound, James Bond, to do his job.  Sherlock knew what Siger had meant.  Siger had demanded that James deal with Moriarty, clearly not trusting Sherlock to do it, but then Bond had gone and reneged on the order, too.  

Resolve and stubbornness solidifying behind his breast-bone, Sherlock made to back up - to pull himself out of the sniper’s line of sight.  Even as he did so, however, he heard a shot… and tensed for pain that didn’t come.  Bewildered, Sherlock realized that the sound of the shot had come from a different direction than the trajectory implied by the bullets that had whizzed into the room.  That thought occurred to him at the same time as movement caught his eye - another building, in the correct direction, suddenly exhibited what looked like a body falling from the top of it.  The encroaching mist and storm made it hard to tell for sure, but Sherlock’s brain was engaging despite his grief, and he felt a spark of vicious understanding.  

Sherlock turned around, no longer afraid of what would be coming in the window - and no longer interested in fruitlessly seeking answers for what had happened below it.  Grief (or oblivion) could come later, after he’d proven to Q that he could fix the problems that he’d created.  

“I think it’s you who will be testing that theory, Moriarty,” Sherlock said, voice low and sonorous in the room.  Damp air whipped against his back, tousling his hair as he peered about the room.  He knew where all the weapons were; knew that if Moriarty wanted one, he’d have to move out of hiding and into Sherlock’s range of sight.  Q had said that Moriarty had a knife.  “So how do you see this playing out, Moriarty?  Because I’m not diving headfirst out that window,” Sherlock proclaimed, then added with more metal in his tone, “And I’m also not letting you leave this room a free man.”

“You keep making such threats, Sherlock,” Moriarty replied, exasperated.  Sherlock started tracking his voice despite the sounds of the waves and wind behind him; the consulting criminal was moving, but trying to be quiet about it.  “You’d think that we were enemies.”

“Aren’t we?” Sherlock drawled back.

The response was a put-upon gasp, “How can you say that!  After all the fun we had together!”  Moriarty’s voice was nearer now.  Sherlock stayed where he was, knowing that there was a dearth of things to hide behind in his immediate vicinity and it was a big room.  If Moriarty wanted to get within striking distance, he’d have to step into the open; if he wanted to throw his knife without objects in his line of sight, he’d also have to stand up.  With the emptiness of the window at his back, Sherlock had his suspicions about what Moriarty would do, however.

No, not suspicions.  

He knew.  

This time, he had Moriarty all figured out.

“That goes both ways,” Sherlock said, tone uncaring. He heard the questioning noise Moriarty made in return.  “You didn’t really want me to jump out the window, did you?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock - did I?  I’m a very terrible man, after all, who enjoys doing a lot of very terrible things,” was the teasing reply, closer still.  Sherlock didn’t turn his head, already mapping out the paths to his position.  

“Terrible yes, but you did a lot to get me here,” Sherlock pointed out.  “I don’t think that you’d go to all of that trouble just to lose me so quickly.”

Even as Sherlock said this, Moriarty stepped into view, straightening.  He had his knife in hand, but as Sherlock already knew, the shorter man didn’t throw it; too impersonal for the kind of relationship that they had.  “You must think yourself quite a prize, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty said, but there was something manic in his eyes - something hungry.  Something covetous that Sherlock had recognized earlier.  He’d felt the echo of that feeling at first, upon realizing that he was in the presence of a man who might be his equal.  

“I’m the only fun you’ve had your whole life,” Sherlock deduced in a tone that was almost sad, “I bet no one else even feels real to you.”

“A few others have,” Moran said, and Sherlock noticed his eyes flick out the window.  ‘The sniper,’ he realized, and also deduced that Moriarty hadn’t been able to see his sniper’s demize.  That also meant that the sniper had orders not to shoot Sherlock, since Moriarty didn’t seem surprised by Sherlock standing in the open, untroubled by bullets.  Moran was giving himself away in more ways than he knew.  In fact, in that moment, the consulting criminal took a few steps closer, admitting with feigned nonchalance, “But you might have a point.  The vast majority of humanity is just soooooo boring.”

Sherlock nodded; he understood.  He also feared that one of the few people he’d found in this world worth his time was dead, as John’s part of this plan remained unfulfilled.  “We’re at something of an impasse then, because my statement still stands.  I’m not going to let you continue to terrorize anyone.  Likewise, I’m not leaving with you.”  He gave his head a solemn shake.  Without looking behind him, he also gave away another tidbit of information that his ears had gleaned, “I can also hear helicopters in the distance.  It’s faint, over the ambient noise, but since it appears that your signal jammer is no longer in use, that means your game is at an end.  There’s no escape for you.”

He watched as Moriarty’s eyes went dark and a bit madder than before; he saw his stance shift, ever so slightly, his grip on his knife, too.  The intimate way to kill a person with a knife was to do it up-close, face to face.  

More intimate was what Q and Hannibal had done, falling to the earth together in a tangle.  

Sherlock wasn’t surprised when Moriarty suddenly took another, more purposeful step forward, hissing like the biblical snake from Eden, “Oh, I think there’s at least one way that you’re leaving with me, Sherlock - the ultimate escape, you might call it.  Because the Sybil System had decreed that I cannot be caught, so I do not intend to.”

And with that, he braced his feet to lunge.  Sherlock, in turn, prepared for the impact as Moriarty - not to be outdone by Siger Q. Holmes - sent them both tumbling out the window.  The odds of survival were slim, and honestly, Sherlock planned to do his damnedest to make sure they were zero, because he could see now that the malignant cancer that was Moriarty couldn’t be allowed to continue.  

Just as Sherlock accepted his fate and Moriarty moved forward - there was one more shot.  One more broken window, this time from a completely new direction.  Moriarty’s eyes widened in shock even as his head jerked to the side, and instead of bulldozing into Sherlock, he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.  Sherlock just stared stupidly, for a long moment ridiculously frustrated by the fact that he was not dying a martyr’s death but instead just staring at a dead body.  The realization that he was alive - and that that was a good thing - finally sank in, and then Sherlock was rushing to the most recent broken window.  Heedless of the glass, he leaned out it, squinting past the increasing sheets of mist.  

There.  Just where he’d said he’d be.  John was leaning against the windowsill, somewhat sheltered by the window he’d propped open.  He looked like hell even from the distance, but when he saw Sherlock staring at him, Watson raised one hand in a thumbs-up before sagging more heavily against the sill.  Sherlock wasn’t sure now whether to laugh or to cry. 

Chapter Text

Arthur returned to Eames’ side. The man was sitting up against the half-wall now, with Harkness and Jones not far away.  Arthur ignored the latter two, instead crouching next to Eames and saying bluntly, “Got him.”

He was rewarded by a smile that warmed him more than he wanted to admit.  “Knew you would, Arthur.  You’re a stubborn bastard on a good day - and worse when you’re upset about something.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Oh?  You’re so upset that your obsessive-compulsive arse didn’t even break down that rifle and check it after shooting,” Eames accused, even as the mist began to get heavier.  Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Ianto Jones snuggle into Harkness as if the latter were not a dangerous Hound.  He had the sudden urge to curl up the same way with Eames, telling himself that it was because he should keep the man warm, in case he was in shock.  Still speaking with levity, Eames finished, “You just came straight to me.”

“That’s not proof that I’m upset.”

Eames’ smile grew lopsided.  “Maybe it’s proof that you don’t detest me as much as you say you do,” he teased.  

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Arthur straightened up enough to look over Eames’ head - out onto the waters surrounding Eigengrau.  He saw what he expected.  “I suppose it doesn’t fucking matter anyway, since it looks like the cavalry is finally returning,” he said, settling down to sit by Eames’ side - his uninjured side, although he stubbornly kept a millimetre of space between them.  “So okay, fine.  I wanted to check that you hadn’t died while I was getting shit done.  That’s how much I don’t detest you.”

Eames’ laughter was a lovely, rough, rolling sort of thing, and Arthur felt a curious sense of relief instead of annoyance when the man moved to sling an arm over Arthur’s shoulders.  His other arm was roughly bandaged.  “You say the sweetest things, darling.”  When Arthur merely grunted, feeling his face heat when no particular retort came easily to his tongue, Eames curled his arm in.  It brought Arthur closer, but also allowed him to thumb at the Eigengrau collar that was affixed to Arthur’s neck.  That made Arthur hiss and stiffen, like he was having a wound touched, but Eames’ words next to his ear were low and soothing, “Maybe I’ll get one of these, too.  I’m clearly not going anywhere, and if the only good thing I get out of this whole mess is to be stuck with you, then I can’t call that a bad thing.  It’ll be like old times.”

Arthur twisted his head to look at Eames in bewilderment, wondering if he’d lost his mind.  But Eames was already facing him, a smile on his face, and it was clear that he didn’t mind the idea of being collared - if it meant being collared with Arthur.  

“Who knows?” Eames went on, skin damp with mist and their faces so close that Arthur found himself mesmerized by a droplet condensing enough to trickle slowly down Eames’ oft-broken nose.  “Maybe I’ll get to hear you say even more sweet things if we’re both stuck here together.”

Belatedly trying to remind himself that Eames was annoying, Arthur frowned, but couldn’t lean away with the arm looped behind his neck.  A big, warm, muscular arm that was the most familiar thing he’d felt since the Sybil System had caught him.  “Don’t count on it,” he nonetheless growled, putting up a good front, “You don’t even know if they’ll keep you here, or just put you in jail like a normal criminal.”

“Oh, I’m sure I could sweet- talk my way into it,” Eames persisted.  “You may have as much charm as a grumpy hornet, but I’m actually rather good at getting on people’s good sides.”

“Except mine.”

“Obviously except yours,” Eames agreed without missing a beat, but then leaned forward and pressed their mouths together.  Arthur met the kiss without hesitancy or violence, because somehow it felt like this kiss had been a long time in the making.  

They broke apart fairly quickly when Harkness called out, “Get a room!”  While Arthur came back to himself with anger and embarrassment - unsure who to direct it at, because he was too bruised to take on Harkness and punching Eames felt wrong because he’d been shot - Ianto Jones smacked Harkness hard in the back of the head and told him to behave.  The man did quite the opposite, grinning like a wolf and planting a wet kiss on Ianto instead.  Nothing made sense and everything was awful and wonderful all at once, as the two pairs sat on the roof and waited to see what the next couple of hours would bring, with the outside world returning to Eigengrau.

~^~

The crackling fire had finally warmed everyone up, and if anyone was bothered by the ambience of a dead body in the room, they were too asleep to make note of it.  Only Lorraine was still awake, playing the sentinel watching over her little pack.  Merkel had finally stopped shivering.  Being sandwiched between two much-warmer, drier women had helped with that, and Lorraine found herself smiling fondly as she turned her head down to look at him.  She admired his competency, but looking at his face lax with sleep, hair in tousled disarray atop his head, she thought she could grow rather fond of him in other ways as well.  His weight against her was comfortable; different from Delphine’s curves when they lay curled together, but no less pleasant.  Lorraine carded her fingers back through Merkel’s hair, drawing it back from his forehead like he liked it.  Then she stretched out her arm to Delphine, who was asleep with her chin hooked over Merkel’s shoulder, blankets enwrapping both of them.  Delphine smiled and leaned to the touch, perhaps not quite asleep, or sleeping shallowly.  Smart girl.  Lorraine would train Merkel to sleep lightly, too, but not now.  He could sleep deeply now.

Looking out the window, Lorraine was the only one awake enough to see shapes emerging from behind ever-increasing sheets of rain: boats.  She thought she heard a helicopter, too, but wasn’t sure over the sounds of the wind and the sea.  

‘Who would want to fly in weather like this?’ she had to wonder.  Ultimately, that was none of her business, so she settled in to wait and see how long it would be before the authorities found them here, in the little groundskeeper’s hut, shattering this small bubble of peace that had been crafted.  Lorraine would weather it.  She had been an island long enough to know how to weather anything.  Now, with company, though, she felt both more fragile and more sure of herself.  ‘We’ll make it,’ she thought stoically, even as she stroked Delphine’s hair and leaned down to press her mouth to Merkel’s hair in a close-mouthed kiss.

~^~

“You still in pain?” Trevelyan asked, from where he sat on the floor.  They were still technically in the morgue, but thanks to 006’s lock picking skills, they were now in the ME’s office.

Mallory was in the ME’s chair, leaning back in it with his eyes closed - something he’d never thought he’d do with a Hound in the room.  “Not since you found those painkillers in the desk drawer,” he said, feeling quite chipper about the whole situation.  Also a side-effect of the painkillers, he was pretty sure.  

Alec started chuckling, then stopped suddenly and turned his head.  It took Mallory a moment to gather his faculties and realize that Trevelyan had heard something.  It sounded like a lot of yelling and heavy booted footsteps, still distant but loud enough to reach them even down here.  “Just when I thought that the ruckus had died down,” Mallory sighed, troubled despite the general euphoria of the drugs.  

“I think this is something different,” Trevelyan said.  Instead of his usual boisterous tone, he sounded cautious now, and pushed himself to his feet.  His hand found Mallory’s shoulder, pressing lightly.  “Stay here.  I’m going to see if I can hear more from the morgue.”

Briefly, Mallary considered arguing that he was not an invalid to be stashed away somewhere, but then realized that that was the painkillers talking - he still had a bum leg and likely a bruised kidney, even if he couldn’t feel them right now.  So he merely tried not to drift too badly as he watched Trevelyan pad silently out of the room, finally admitting to himself that the agent had a rather nice arse.

While Mallory was trying to figure out whether or not the ‘rather nice arse’ thought could also be blamed solely on the drugs, Alec returned, brows a bit beetled but expression otherwise difficult to read.  “That’s not the same sort of pandemonium that we’ve been hearing up until now - I can say that at least,” he said as he came around to sit at the desk.  Notably, he kept himself facing the door, despite having locked it again.  

Mollory tried to remember what it was like to be the head of Eigengrau, professional and in charge, and at least managed to find his businesslike voice enough to reply, “A full report, 006, if you please.”

The way Alec’s mouth quirked up at one side indicated that he found this sudden return to protocol amusing.  But he also relaxed a bit, shrugging and saying bluntly, “I think that reinforcements might be here.  I can’t tell what everyone is saying, but some of the yelling is loud enough and distinct enough that it reminds me of military forces.  I can hear people shouting ‘stand down’ from the morgue doorway.  

Frowning, Mallory suddenly leaned forward and started fishing through the desk drawers again.  

“What are you doing?” Alec wanted to know.

“I was sure I saw… aha!”  Mallory ended the sentence in perhaps a more triumphant way than he would have if not heavily medicated.  He held up a small, old, mobile phone.  “I thought I saw this here, but it didn’t matter until now because that damn bastard C was jamming all the signals.  But if reinforcements are here-”

“Then maybe the circumstances have changed,” Trevelyan finished the sentence, nodding.  

With the agent sitting and watching, Mallory opened up the phone - which was, thankfully, not locked.  The ME was an old man who avoided tech when possible and who also, if Mallory recollected correctly, didn’t always have a spectacular memory for things unrelated to dead bodies, so it wasn’t surprising that he’d foregone a password.  The moment he got to the home screen, Alec leaned over, so that both of them simultaneously saw the weak but active phone signal in the upper right corner.  

“I think I’m perhaps a bit too stoned to be properly impressed by this,” Mallory said, staring at the phone, “I’m also trying to process what this means, and it’s maddeningly difficult.”

“Painkillers like that will do that to you,” Alec said, his voice just the faintest bit breathless; his expression also showed surprise and maybe elation.  “Looks like this siege might be at an end.”

“Indeed,” Mallory nodded.  That seemed to sum things up.  He lifted his free hand to drag over his face, muttering, “I should probably call someone, but I’m not sure I trust my mouth to say the right things.”

Trevelyan snorted.  “To be fair, I’m sure anyone who knows what you’ve been through will understand.”

“True.”  Mallory started casting back in his memories to at least see whose numbers he had memorized, or if he should just call basic emergency numbers - which seemed a bit silly if the military was already storming Eigengrau.  Suddenly he realized something else, and lowered the phone to look up at Alec instead.  Still leaned over him a bit from looking at the phone, Alec raised an eyebrow in question at the new scrutiny but otherwise didn’t move away.  “What are you going to do?” Mallory asked.

“Well, I’m a bit worried about being found with you, seeing as this group sounds like a ‘shoot first, ask questions later’ sort of lot,” Alec said.  While his voice was mild and careless, he lifted a hand to rub at his neck as he talked - and the collar adorning it.

Mallory may have been well-drugged, but he made the connection pretty clearly.  “You’re worried that they’ll use the collar to kill you.”

To this credit, Alec didn’t shy away from the fact, and in fact shrugged.  “Pretty much.  If the mobile works, it stands to reason that they’d have the whole signal-jammer turned off - meaning these collars work again.”  Cocking his head and listening again to the increasing noise, he added with a sigh, “It also sounds like it’s a bit late to leave your presence.  So this should be fun.”

Now seemed the time for thinking, so Mallory worked harder than before to push back the haze, closing his eyes tightly for a moment and rubbing one hand at the bridge of his nose.  “I would defend you.  You know that, right?” he emphasized, “I’m only alive because of you, and I won’t see those good deeds be punished.”

“While I appreciated the sentiment-”  And it really seemed like he did; Trevelyan’s smile was soft and real, crows'-feet showing around his eyes.  “-I don’t think you’re fit to defend anything right now.  The moment they see this collar on me, they won’t be listening to you - they’ll be listening to their survival instincts.”

Another thought clicked slowly into place in Mallory’s head.  He tried again, looking up at the Hound sitting so near him - who had started out as such an untrustable, dangerous entity but had since become quite the opposite, “The collars can incapacitate as well as kill.”

In a tone that said perhaps he was humouring him, Alec said, “I’m well aware.”

Not bothered by the slightly patronizing tone, Mallory merely clarified his point, his voice going soft as he trod this uncertain ground, “I could use my watch to incapacitate you before anyone arrives-”  Alec’s eyebrows shot up and his eyes snapped to Mallory’s left wrist, as if he’d forgotten that the man had one until now.  “You won’t be a threat for them to shoot at, and I’ll make sure you wake up later.”

Looking between the watch and Mallory’s eyes, Alec said with all the wariness of a dog who had been kicked before; still a loyal dog, but one who couldn’t forget pain.  “You could do that without asking, you know.”

“I know,” Mallory nodded, but still made no move towards the watch’s mechanism.  “But I lived this long because I trusted your judgment, your decisions, so it seems only fair to let you make this decision as well.”  He paused, but didn’t look down as he admitted sincerely, “I’m sorry that you will likely not be making many decisions after this.”

It was Alec who looked away, pulling on a smirk as if to hide some other emotion as he regarded the locked door in front of him - a thin barrier that would be broken down soon as military forces scoured the building.  “I suppose I can live with that.  It’ll just be like going back to normal for me, really.”  Suddenly he glanced back, out of the corner of one eye, smile cheeky, “And I’ll always have the memory of the head of Eigengrau without his trousers.”

Mallory found himself giggling, the medication making the humour hard to control once it started.  He managed to stop, punctuating the end of the episode with a mostly firm, “You’re as maddeningly unprofessional as always.”

“Someone’s gotta be,” Alec said blithely, then slid off the desk.  He walked around behind it, then lowered himself to sit on the floor - an inconspicuous spot that wouldn’t be noticed immediately when people came in.  He looked at Mallory frankly, although there was just the barest edge of nervousness to his tone even as he pulled up the old nickname he’d started using when he’d first rescued Mallory, “All right, King, you ready to do this?”

“Unless you think you can perfectly play possum even when they start prodding at you with guns,” Mallory replied, only half-joking.  Alec needed to be a complete and utter non-threat, especially when everyone realized that he was in the room with the valuable head of Eigengrau.  There was a crash as people started breaking through the barricade at the door to the morgue.  Mallory definitely recognized non-Eigengrau voices now - but allies instead of C and his cronies now.  They were shouting things like putting guns down and having your hands up, as well as some military names that Mallory recognized.  The ‘good guys’ had truly arrived, and as much as he wanted to be relieved, he couldn’t.  Because Alec Trevelyan, despite all the good that he’d done, was still labelled as one of the ‘bad buys’ and now the tables were turning on him yet again.  Ah, how the wheel of Fate turned…  Mallory turned back to meet Alec’s eyes, saying, “Thank you, Alec.”

“Great, now I really feel like I’m going to die,” Alec quipped, ducking his head and rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.  But he was smiling.  “Just hit that button, will you?  I know that this hurts like a bitch even though I’ll survive it, and I’d rather none of those prats out there hear me scream.”

“I thought you were the strong and silent type.”

“I was reliably informed that I was about as noisy as a foghorn on a busy night,” Alec instantly recalled the conversation, and their eyes met for another smile.  A lot more was said within the brief silence that followed.  

“I’ll see you when you wake up,” Mallory promised, then activated the watch’s non-lethal capabilities.  

Alec immediately bared his teeth and jerked, crying out sharply and grabbing uselessly and involuntarily for his neck - where the pain was radiating outwards like millions of white-hot needles.  He thrashed only briefly before passing out, muscles relaxing until he was just a quiet heap on the floor.  

Not long after, and the door was being busted down; Mallory with his bad leg was sitting with hands raised and a grim look on his face.  The expression was because the memory of Alec’s pain was still fresh in his mind’s-eye, but apparently helped the reinforcements recognize him more quickly as the man in charge of Eigengrau.

~^~

“John!”  Sherlock was technically a high-Pass individual on Eigengrau’s records, but since he didn’t have a collar and his older brother Mycroft was running this show, he’d managed to make it to Watson’s location without being gunned down or otherwise detained.  Now he shot past the various personnel in the room without heeding a single one of them, and likewise didn’t seem to think twice before wrapping his gangly frame around his Handler.

“Ouch!  Sherlock!  Mind the ribs - and the shoulder!” John protested, but nonetheless hugged back with his good arm.  The nurse who’d been taking a look at his knee had to shuffle back, looking to her comrades for guidance in how to handle this but getting nothing but shrugs.  From where he sat on the edge of a table, John just closed his eyes, a small smile showing past the pain on his face.  

“I thought you were dead!” Sherlock said accusingly, still hugging another human being in a fashion very atypical of him.  None of his family was in the room to comment, though, so it was an event that would go undocumented.  Except by John.  

The nurse did speak up then, regaining herself enough to say firmly, “He nearly was, and might still head that way if you don't let me see to me.  He’s lost a lot of blood!”

Sherlock immediately pulled back, alarm all over his face.  Belatedly, he really looked at John, noting all of the harm that had befallen him.  “What happened?”  Before his voice had been accusing, but now it was dark and threatening, like he was preparing to seek vengeance in a very high-Pass way upon whoever or whatever had done this.  

Thankfully, John knew Sherlock well enough to see trouble coming, and decided not to feed into it.  “I ran into a bit of trouble on my way here.”  He winced as the nurse went back to work checking him over - thankfully, they’d already bandaged him up most of the way and stopped the bleeding.  “Sorry about missing my entrance,” he said, making a face to show that he really was sorry despite the joke to the words.

With benevolence usually unknown to him, Sherlock responded smoothly, “The show went on without you.”  He didn’t say anything more, however.  In fact, his eyes grew distant and his face more haggard.  

Pushing through the haze of discomfort that he was in from being cut and shot so recently, John looked over Sherlock’s features knowingly.  “But it really didn’t, did it?” he guessed in a soft voice.

No one else in the room knew what they were talking about, but John’s face paled as Sherlock closed his head, lowered his head, and didn’t answer.  But he sat down beside John nonetheless, perhaps seeking his comfort and understanding more than he blamed him for how the situation in the observation tower.

~^~

The weather around Eigengrau was never good, but quite a storm had rolled in today as if in response to all of the pandemonium - making it hard for Mycroft to send in absolutely everything to go and rescue his two idiot brothers from the dangers he’d found them to be in.  Boats were having no trouble, at least, so he could feel like he was a good brother.  

There was one helicopter, however, that was braving the weather.  It was out ahead of the boats, the first craft to fly around the island in three days by dint of the fact that it took off from Eigengrau - with one Hound, in fact, escaping upon it.  

“Isn’t there some sort of way to fly over this?” Harry asked, in the copilot seat and feeling increasingly airsick as he grabbed the nearest handholds with a white-knuckled grip.

Eggsy was far less troubled, and in fact flashed a grin without looking away from the rain-spattered world before them, “Why?  Is the big, bad Agent a bit queasy in the air?”

“If you insist on joking about this, Eggsy, I might have to insist on vomiting.”  When Eggsy’s response was to laugh, Harry didn’t chastise him - the boy had only started to smile as of five minutes ago, when Harry had confirmed that his phone calls had paid off.  It seemed like he still had some connections in the outside world, and folks who owed him favours, because Eggsy’s mother and sister were now in safer hands.  Confused and a bit flustered but unharmed.  

Eggsy’s stepfather they hadn’t managed to locate, but instead of being broken up about that, Eggsy had responded with, “I don’t give a flying shit what happens to that fucker.  He’s half the reason I got dragged into this in the first place.”  It seemed that dear ole stepdad Dean had perhaps been flapping his jaws about Eggsy’ piloting skills, making him famous to all the wrong people.  The more Harry learned about Dean, and all the hardship he’d put upon Eggsy, the more Harry wanted to bury him in a very deep hole.  After delimbing him first.  

“What’s that?” Eggsy’s sudden question, coming sharply through the headphones, pulled Harry from both his airsickness and his thoughts.  Eggsy was looking downwards, at the choppy waves.  They were circling around Eigengrau ever since they’d gotten word that ships were incoming - courtesy of one of Harry’s contacts as well.  The more circuitous route was longer and required that they hug the shower a bit dangerously, but it reduced the risk of them being detained or even gunned down as they made their escape.  The Eigengrau collars could only be activated within a certain radius, and Harry hoped to be far out of reach before anyone could question where he was - preferably with Eggsy Unwin for company.  

When Eggsy lowered the chopper, Harry’s stomach just about upended itself, but then he was able to see it, too: two figures in the water.  

“I’m going down to get them,” Eggsy decided staunchly, already working the controls, “Get ready to fish them out.  I think there’s gear for that, or at least a rope or something we can toss down.”

“Eggsy, you can’t even tell who they are,” Harry protested.  

Eggsy was adamant, however, even as he handled a gust thrown up off the surface of the water.  “I’m not just going to let two people drown, especially when they might just be bystanders in this whole shitshow.”  Seemingly unconcerned by the dangerous manoeuvres he was doing, Eggsy glanced over long enough to deadpan, “Plus, I figured that a high-Pass agent like yourself could handle two waterlogged rats, even if they do turn out to be a bit mean.”

“They might be high-Pass waterlogged rats, you know,” Harry grumbled.  Even as he said this, however, he started unbuckling himself and prepared to move into the body of the helicopter.  It was designed to carry quite a few people - previously intended to carry C and his followers when they escaped - and Harry already knew how the door mechanism worked.  “Thank god,” he muttered to himself when he noticed a winching system.  It had been a long couple of days, and if he was going to invite potentially deadly individuals on board, he at least didn’t want to get into a fight while also being exhausted from manually hauling them up.  

“If they’re bad news, just kick them back into the water!” Eggsy called out, with a playful grin on his face that Harry just couldn’t be mad at.  He gave Eggsy a dismissive wave and a grumpy frown to hide that he’d probably do anything for him at this point.

Harry was pretty damn cranky when he had to open up the side door and was immediately hit by sea-spray and cold, wet winds.  He’d managed to stay dry until now, but clearly this was not going to be a clean or comfortable escape.  Down below, their soon-to-be-new-passengers had to be aware of the helicopter hovering over them, but the whipping winds forced Harry to squint, and he still couldn’t tell who the two were - although now it looked like only one of them was swimming.  “Tie him on!  Then grab on yourself!” Harry yelled, throwing over a contraption that seemed to combine a flotation device and a harness - honestly, Harry had no idea.  He also wasn’t sure if he’d even gendered the person right, or if either of the individuals in the water could hear him.  Still, soon the more conscious of the two managed to fight the increasingly choppy sea and get a hand on the flotation device, managing to do so without losing the other person he was dragging along with him.  How they’d managed to stay afloat and also avoid being dashed against the rocky shore just a few big waves away, Harry had no idea.  

“Ready?” Harry shouted to Eggsy.  Away from the headsets, he didn’t know if the pilot would hear, but he saw a thumbs-up.  “Well now, time to see if shit is about to hit the fan,” Harry then said just to himself, and after once again trying and failing to see past all the water whipped up by the sea and the helicopter-blades, he started up the winching system.  To Eggsy’s credit as a pilot, the helicopter barely bobbled at the added weight.  

Focusing on not falling out himself, Hart could do nothing but wait until he saw a dark-haired head rise up within reach.  It was a struggle, but with the help of the motor steadily pulling the line upwards, he managed to manhandle a limp, male body up into the belly of the chopper without incident, although he was now thoroughly wet and panting.  The bullet-graze on his calf burned.  None of that mattered, however, as he untangled the person and the rope and rolled him over to better assess the situation - and found him staring down at the Quartermaster of Eigengrau.  He was very pale and sans glasses, 

Stunned speechless, Harry was just kneeling in place with his mouth open when the second figure came into view, foregoing the slow but steady rise of the winch in favour of just dragging himself the rest of the way into the helicopter.  Dripping wet and breathing far more heavily than Harry after his exertions, the newcomer was still unquestionably James Bond.  

Before Harry could decide what to do about this - of all the various Hounds they could have pulled out of the water, 007 wasn’t necessarily the worst one to deal with, although in combination with the Quartermaster, Harry was pretty flabbergasted - James lurched the rest of the way onto the helicopter and veritably flew to Q’s side.  What followed was hectic and wild, although it didn’t contain the violence that Harry had been braced for.  “Come on, Q, you bastard!” James snarled as he hurriedly got Q unhooked from the last of the ties that had lifted him, “You can’t die on me.”  

The Quartermaster was indeed very still, and Harry lurched into action, helping however he could.  He had to move aside as James almost immediately started doing chest compressions, looking as panicked as Harry had ever seen him.  Closing the helicopter door and giving Eggsy a wave that hopefully translated to ‘I have no idea what’s going on but it’s not enough to keep us from leaving, now go’ before returning to Bond and Q.  The former had leaned down to puff a few breaths into Q’s mouth.  “What happened?” Harry demanded, shouting over the noise of the helicopter all around them.  

“Collar,” James snapped shortly, and for a split-second Harry was bewildered, before he followed James’ steely eyes down to the Quartermaster… and the very familiar Eigengrau-issue collar around his neck.  While Harry found himself open-mouthed and staring for the second time in as many minutes, James bit out some more information, sentences short as he kept his focus on chest compressions, “Don’t know if it was set to kill or incapacitate, and now he’s too cold and waterlogged to tell.”  The frustration and fury in his voice was like a physical thing in the room, burning and utterly implacable.  

James leaned down to breathe into Q’s mouth one more time before Harry could formulate any of the million questions now flying around in his head.  This time, when 007 pulled back, Q’s body convulsed weakly, and then he was suddenly coughing.  James immediately turned the smaller man on his side, the roar of the helicopter hiding any noise of relief he might have made.  Harry just stared as the Quartermaster of MI6, apparently not dead, curled around Bond’s knees and expelled seawater from his lungs.  Perhaps the more shocking thing, though, was how 007 curled down over him, as protective as the shadow of a mountain, one arm around Q’s shoulders and fisted in the soggy material of his pullover and his other hand buried in Q’s hair, keeping him close.  When Bond bent his head down to Q’s, Harry got another shock, however, seeing that 007’s neck was bare of a collar.  

This was all too much.  And getting answers in the belly of a noisy helicopter was far from ideal.  “Try to strap yourselves in!  We’ve got a bumpy flight ahead of us!” he decided to shout instead, and he didn’t know if either of the rescued individuals even heard him - Q seemed to be just focusing on remembering how to breathe, and James didn’t move from his posture curled down over him.  Harry stayed in the back with them long enough to find some blankets stashed beneath the seats, leaving them near the two.  He expected James to at least react to his approach, as high-Pass agents were always defensive, especially in a high-stress situation, but Bond didn’t so much as lift his head.  Harry couldn’t clearly see his face at this angle, but thought he saw his mouth moving, as if murmuring things to the Quartermaster now shivering near him.  

Trusting that Bond would eventually notice the blankets and know what to do with them, Harry got up (weathering a bout of turbulence as gracefully as possible) and returned to the cockpit.  Eggsy, who hadn’t had a clear view of much going on, immediately cast him a questioning look.  Harry waited until he’d gotten the headset back on, but even when he had a way to communicate more easily… all he could say at first was, “I’m not sure what just happened.”  They had a collared Quartermaster and an uncollared Hound in the back of their helicopter, and the only thing that Harry understood with certainty was that James would be no threat - because all of his energy, focus, and strength was focused on Q right now.  The rest of the world didn’t factor in.

Chapter Text

The reclaiming of Eigengrau was a slow thing in many ways.  While C himself was dead, as well as many of his cronies, it still took a lot to sort out who was who - and who was truly dangerous, and who merely wore a collar that said they were.  

“Our agents are not to blame for this,” Mallory staunchly maintained, even as he was prepped to travel and get more extensive medical attention on the mainland.  He was surprised to find some allies in this: H from Q-branch, who had also apparently had the help of a Hound in keeping him safe, as well as the person apparently pulling the strings for this whole operation, one Mycroft Holmes.  The fact that he was related to one of Eigengrau’s Hounds perhaps factored into the latter’s opinion, although others were coming out of the woodwork, speaking up about how the high-Pass agents of Eigengrau had been defenders rather than predators.  Sherlock’s Handler John and 005’s Handler Roxy - even Handlers Delphine and Merkel spoke up in defence of Eigengrau’s most dangerous residents.  It was perhaps thanks to all of this that Hounds like Trevelyan and Reese and Broughton were all treated respectfully, even as they were carefully locked up again while the rest of Eigengrau was carefully put back to rights.  

There were casualties, of course, and grey areas.  Many were dead, from Hounds to Handlers, and it got difficult to sort out the bodies even after the power was brought back online.  It was a race to see who was dead, injured, lost in the maze of Eigengrau, or just generally missing.  Severely impeding anyone’s ability to find all of the Hounds was the fact that the computers were still largely out of commission, and while all high-Pass Agents had Smartblood in them, the person who knew about said Smartblood, the Quartermaster, was assumed dead.  

Agent 001 was found, at least, and also proclaimed a hero rather than a threat, having protected M’s secretary, Ianto Jones - but it came to light that 013 had sided with Moriarty for a time, and the fourth man found with them, known only as Eames, seemed to have actually helped forge some of the documents.  Back on British soil, Neal Caffrey reluctantly confirmed this, while also serving as a reminder that Moriarty was a manipulator - not everyone who helped him had done so by choice.  In the end, 013’s role in removing Moriarty’s right-hand-man helped balance out the scales, and Eames seemed almost happy to be taken into custody (and for medical attention).  

At a certain point, most everyone just stopped being surprised.  Stopped being surprised at: the mysterious Mycroft Holmes pulling strings to get Sherlock shipped off alongside his Handler to the mainland for medical attention, despite Sherlock having no injuries and no collar to keep him contained; two Hounds, 016 and 018, huddled together with bodies strewn around them - Moriarty’s men mostly, it turns out, who had tried to finish off the heavily injured 018 only to find out that 016 wasn’t having any of that; despite having his throat partly slashed and a broken leg, 016 was also still alive enough to be shipped out, another surprise in and of itself.

Perhaps the biggest surprise to anyone who knew anything, though, was how quiet Sherlock Holmes was.  He didn’t say anything but a few soft murmurs - always in response to something Watson had said - the whole journey by ship back to the mainland.  His eyes were dark and seemed to be looking somewhere else all the time.

And when Sherlock and his older brother Mycroft finally met up at the hospital, and one more softly murmured sentence was said, Mycroft’s expression became the same.  

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” John said one last time, and the consulting detective merely shook his head.  He didn't leave, though, instead sitting down at the bedside again (John was on IV fluids and was told to stay in bed and off his leg until further notice) and laying his head down next to John’s hip in exhaustion.  After a moment of hesitation and looking to Mycroft for support or advice in how to handle this (no help was forthcoming; Mycroft was staring off at nothing, in shock at the news of Q’s death), John reached out and curled his hand over Sherlock’s nape, squeezing reassuringly.  The pressure unlocked something, it seemed, and Sherlock’s body jerked as a sob escaped him.  The adrenaline and need to survive was finally wearing off.  

~^~

Q was dreaming.  Or else he was dead.  This reminded him a lot of that segment in the Harry Potter movies where Harry was in between life and death and talking to Dumbledore at a train station, because everything was white, indistinct, and made sense only in ways that probably wouldn’t when… if… he woke up.

He was sitting next to a woman that his brain told him was Vesper, even though he couldn’t remember if he’d even seen a picture of her outside of the image painted by James’ words.  

“You’re angry with me,” she said.  

“Of course I am,” he snapped back.  He wondered if he could hit her if they were both already in the Hereafter.  Would it make any difference?  

Her smile was more gentle than he’d expect, although with a bit of a sadly amused edge to it.  “I suppose you have a right to be mad.  I haven’t had a chance to explain myself, and you haven’t had time until now to figure it all out yourself.”

Q frowned and then blinked and suddenly he was looking at Severine, the Handler that Silva had killed so early on in the siege of Eigengrau.  The smile was the same - gentle, amused, sad - but Q found himself choking on his tongue a bit, and couldn’t be mad at her.  

“Learning who to trust, and how much, is one of the hardest lessons,” she sighed, looking away, presenting him with a pensive profile.  “And when it goes wrong, and you trust the wrong people, it’s very hard to fix.”  One darkly-outlined eye turned to look at him.  “Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I…”  Q wasn’t sure now what they were talking about.  

Severine looked back at him, only this time it wasn’t Severine - it was Moriarty’s mischievous countenance looking back at him, speaking in a patronizing sing-song, “Oh Siger, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

With a yelp of shock, Q flailed away from Moriarty and ended up falling on his arse on the ground.  When he looked up, Moriarty was gone - but when he looked up further, his brother Sherlock was standing behind his head, looking down at him with an unimpressed face.  Without further ado, Sherlock’s low voice said in a disgruntled fashion, “I will admit, all evidence points towards me obsessing over some rather unsavoury characters.  But in my defence, I would like to add that I made some very good alliances, too - and I used them to fix up this situation rather well, I think.”

Q was distracted from the monologue by a question that swelled painfully in his chest, so that he felt near tears as he asked, “Sherlock.  If I’m talking to you…?  The others are dead.  Does this mean you’re-?”

Sherlock’s face softened, an atypical thing for his face to do, but Q had seen it a few times.  Then his older brother said gently, “Siger, you’re just dreaming.  So you’re really only talking to-”  Between one word and the next, Q was staring up at himself as if into a mirror, “-Yourself.”

Thoroughly jarred now, and feeling as if his thoughts - or maybe the dream - were starting to fray around the edges, Q nonetheless got his tongue to move and ask, “Then, what am I… talking to myself about?”  It seemed a logical question.  

Q watched himself roll his eyes at him.  “You’ve been wondering for a while now how the Sybil System could let all of this happen,” he nonetheless heard himself admit, although then he was frowned at, followed by a sighed, “But maybe your head is still a bit too rattled to put all the pieces together.  I’m sure you’ll figure it out when you wake up.  If you remember.”

Q opened his mouth to respond but, as was the way with dreams, no sound came out.  And when he swiped upwards to try and grab at this figment of himself above him, the dream became a watercolour and then faded away entirely into an oily sort of darkness.

Blinking his eyes, Q found himself staring upwards at what he assumed was a ceiling - although everything was fuzzy as he muzzily turned his head, feeling blankets and a mattress and seeing vague outlines of things and colour.  “Where’re my glassez?” he forced out the sentence past a tongue that was sticking to the roof of his mouth.  He felt like he’d licked a toad.  

Across the room there was sudden movement; a shape that Q’s eyes hadn’t been able to define before because of how still it was suddenly resolved itself into something human, even as it moved swiftly towards him.  Q tried to be alarmed by this, he really did, but everything seemed to be so heavy and slow.  Therefore, before any sort of panic could properly bubble up from the tar pit that had become his mind, he recognized James’ voice to go with the rapidly approaching shape of him, “Fuck.  Q, you’re awake?”

Honestly, Q wasn’t entirely sure that he qualified as ‘awake.’  Blinking was helping some of the fuzziness of his vision, however (as much as it could without the aid of corrective lenses), and he was pretty sure he was in a sunlit room on a bed right now.  “I was talking to the Sybil System,” was still the next sentence that fell out of his mouth, however, so maybe he wasn’t entirely sensible yet, “I think.”

James paused, justifiably unnerved by that inexplicable segue, but almost immediately continued on his way to the side of Q’s bed.  Perhaps being an agent in Eigengrau (or just around Q for a prolonged period of time) had raised his tolerance for weirdness.  “What are you talking about, Q?” he asked in mild exasperation.

Scrunching up his nose in a frown, Q admitted, “I’m… I’m not actually sure.”  Bits of his dream were still floating around inside of his head, some of them still tangled up in that weird dream-logic that only made sense until the clear light of day set in.  He could remember most of the details, though, and suddenly remembered-!  “Sherlock!”  He tried to sit up, clearly remembering the faces of the dead saying such strange things to him.  “Is Sherlock okay?  I need to know!”

“Stop before you pull out your stitches,” James grunted, finally approaching the last bit of distance so that he could sit on the bed and catch hold of Q’s forearms, stopping the swiftly rising tide of struggles.  Q realized belatedly that there was white, clean bandaging around both of his wrists and around his shoulder and torso, too.  Torn between demanding answers to his questions and looking down at himself - realizing that he definitely had no shirt on, and maybe he had pants - Q just opened and closed his mouth around little wordless noises for a moment.  Finally he pursed his lips together and whined out of his nose, looking to James for answers.

The Hound was close enough for Q to see him clearly now even without glasses, and he looked tired and ruffled and also incredibly relieved when Q met his pale blue eyes.  “Your brother is all right, Q.  And so are you, dreaming aside.  You were making noises in your sleep, but you’re awake now,” James said, very quietly.  

The news about Sherlock was enough to make Q sag with relief.  Instead of falling back against the bed, though, he followed the instinctual urge to twist to the side, burying his face in James’ shoulder.  He felt the man startle, but then also sensed James lean in close in return.  There was a hot exhale of breath against his hair.  One of James’ hands transferred from Q’s forearm to his shoulder - near his first major injury sustained in the siege, but 007’s touch was very careful.  Q made a little noise as he felt the heat of the man’s palm sink into the bare skin of his shoulder.  “Why in god’s name did you do that?” James hissed against his hair.  His grip tightened, but only to pull Q closer.  

“Hannibal was going to kill you - for threatening Graham,” Q tried to explain, still working with limited brainpower.  “He was never going to stop.”

James’ response was to growl at him.  Honest-to-god growl.  The noise was buried in Q’s hair, though, muffling its impact somewhat.  No amount of growling removed the fact that James was holding Q like he wasn’t about to let go.  

“Sorry,” Q finally murmured.  

“Don’t you ever do that again.”

“I think you took my watch away so I can’t,” Q managed to glance down at his wrist and respond with some humour.  

“Only because we still can’t get the damned collar off,” James scoffed back.  His own humour had a grumpy edge to it, though, and Q could very well imagine the man’s frustration.  James belatedly sat back, easing Q down to the pillows again.  He only retreated far enough to retrieve Q’s spectacles, though, allowing Q to finally see his surroundings in detail.  

“Where are we?” he asked, realizing that he recognized none of this.  Not even the trees beyond the window looked familiar.  He continued to blink around him like a dazed bird while James helped him sit up and wedged some pillows in behind him - of which there were quite a few.  The whole room had a cosy feel.  The walls looked like exposed logs.  

“One of Hart’s - Agent 005’s - old boltholes,” James supplied, sitting next to Q again and also taking in the room like he hadn’t had time to before.  And maybe he hadn’t; the man looked exhausted.  “It’s an old cabin in the woods.”

“005?”

James nodded, looking over with a significant look as he added, “He fished us out of the water after you took a dive out of a window and forced me to jump after your dramatic arse.”

“You weren’t supposed to follow after me,” Q chastised tartly.  

The tone didn’t affect James in the slightest, who shrugged and leaned back against the headboard to Q’s right.  “Good thing I’m famously incapable of following orders.”

“But Moriarty-!”  Now that it seemed like not everyone from Q’s dream was among the dead, that raised other concerns.  James’ job had been to stay behind and ensure that Moriarty didn’t escape to plot another fiasco like this all over again!

“In the morgue,” James at least had the good grace to reassure him.  While Q deflated, James looked over at him and explained frankly, “From what Hart’s sources have gathered, there was one more sniper in the equation - an ally of your brother’s. He was late to the show, but finished Moriarty off while I went after you.”  James’ eyes were so clear and sincere that they hurt to look at, like the sun through the thinnest sheet of ice.  “Don’t you ever order me to stay put when you face death ever again,” he said in a deceptively quiet but utterly iron voice.  Q’s eyes widened, feeling as if something in James’ eyes was holding him still, a fervent heat that was too intense to look away from.  Suddenly James sat back again, however, returning to a more aloof facade as he added, “Especially when you and I still have a conversation to finish.”

All of this information so soon after waking up (hell, so soon after thinking that he was dead) was making Q’s head spin.  “Wait… what conversation?”

In profile, Q saw one blue eye slide over to him.  Clearly still mad, James otherwise didn’t turn to him, and in fact folded his arms over his chest.  For the first time, Q realized that the man was dressed down more than he’d ever seen him: jogging trousers and a V-necked Henley that showed off his newly collar-less throat.  Q fought the urge to reach up and touch the collar that was now around his own neck, knowing that it would swiftly ruin what was already something of a tetchy mood.  “You have an eidetic memory, you little shit, don’t tell me you forgot,” James snarked back, but he was watching too carefully for it to be an entirely moody response.

The words instantly triggered a memory in Q’s head.  “I said that my feelings for you hadn’t changed after learning about you and Vesper,” Q said back in his [indeed eidetic] memory.  “Hannibal drugged me before I could explain.”

“And we haven’t exactly had a calm moment since then,” James finished.  He went ahead and swung his legs up onto the bed, stretching out and getting a bit more comfortable. The fact that the Hound was barefoot told Q that they were currently about as safe as they could get - if they were under any sort of threat, James would be more ready to run.  He looked over at Q again, saying with a sort of prickly tone that Q was beginning to identify as uneasy and defensive, “If you’d have died without us finishing that talk, I’d have had to bother you in hell.”

“And you called me a dramatic arse,” Q huffed, but also felt something warming behind his breastbone.  While very few of his memories in Eigengrau could be categorized as good, that little moment James was referring to - when Q had not only realized all that James had gone through, but also what it meant for the agent to be sharing that with him - was a good memory.  In fact, if Q hadn’t been drugged… and if they hadn’t been in the middle of a life-or-death situation… Q wasn’t sure where that conversation would have gone.  

Suddenly a few more fuzzy memories filtered into Q’s head… being wet and cold, a constant whup-whup-whup sort of roaring filling his ears, coughing so hard that it was like he’d never stopped… and the only warm thing being familiar hands on him.  The rest of the memory was foggy and lacked context, but Q remembered James’ voice in his ear, close enough to be heard above the noise, “Fuck, Q, don’t do that again.  You can’t make me care about you and then go and leave like that.”  There had been more words, but Q was pretty sure he’d passed out in the midst of them, but not before he’d heard the agony and honest terror in the high-Pass agent’s voice.  

Struggling with how to respond to all of this, and to handle what he’d remember, Q just stared at James until his stomach rumbled.  “I think I need food before I can have a decent conversation,” Q admitted wincingly.

Bond snorted.  A rueful smile stretched one side of his mouth, but he broke eye contact and looked away as he said, “If you want to avoid talking about it, Q, that’s fine by me.”  

It did not sound fine, although Q sensed that anyone who hadn’t been basically attached to James like Velcro for days wouldn’t notice the vulnerability beneath the sarcastic tone.  Q noticed, though, and realized that he messed up - so when James swung his legs off the bed and made to get up, Q reached out with as much speed as his recently-nearly-dead body could manage, grabbing a fistful of James’ sleeve.  The agent clearly wasn’t expecting it.  Likewise, he was clearly not expecting Q to tug him back closer, because he grunted in surprise and ended up having to brace a hand on the bed.  

“I said I was hungry, not that I didn’t want to talk,” Q told him firmly, then sucked in a breath and tried to find some last dregs of the courage that had kept him alive in Eigengrau for as long as it had.  He leaned forward and found James’ mouth with his, pressing a firm but swift kiss before pulling away again and saying a bit more breathily than before, “And my feelings still haven’t changed.”  Feeling like he was about to catch fire from his own blushing, Q let go of James’ shirt and sank back into the pillows as deeply as possible, demanding, “Now find me something to eat before I do something else without thinking.  I feel like I haven’t eaten in days.”

“You haven’t.”  James’ first words felt like reflex, born of shock.  But then the shock apparently wore off, because the agent gave his head a little shake and suddenly a roguish grin started to spread almost demonically across his face.   Good gods, Q was going to regret this, wasn’t he?  “And for the record, I think I kind of like when you do things without thinking.”

Q could do nothing but push his face into his hands and groaned, “Ohhhh, go away, you cad.  I’m nowhere near recovered enough to deal with you.”

James’ laughter was a lovely, gravel-edged, happy-sounding thing.  “You started it,” he reminded, but then exited the room to presumably do what he was told.  

~^~

Apparently James and Q weren’t alone in the safehouse.  James explained a bit more while Q veritably inhaled a bowl full of chicken noodle soup, talking about how Agent 005 had apparently befriended (possibly more than befriended, if James’ subtle innuendos were to be believed) the very pilot that Moriarty had smuggled into Eigengrau for his grand plan.  Said pilot had only worked for Moriarty because of threats to his family, and now part of that family was also in hiding, in this roomy, two-story cabin in the woods.

“If you hear a child, it’s the pilot’s baby stepsister,” James explained, “The only good part of his family, from what Hart and I have gathered.  The mother was too chancy to bring with us, and she seemed pretty elated when she realized she could pawn off her daughter on her son.”  Q had winced at that, but James had shrugged philosophically and said that it was for the best.  Eggsy was apparently wonderful with her, and the mother had set off so many red flags that James and Hart would never have slept a wink with her around - and potentially letting slip secrets about this cabin and who was in it.  

Because Hart and Bond were definitely wanted criminals.  Again.  Neither seemed troubled by that, and James actually spoke about it with a certain level of excitement, like a dog seeing a porcupine for the first time in three years since the last time it had gotten quilled.  Q, feeling more himself now with food in him, made a mental note to keep him out of too much trouble.  Hopefully this Eggsy character (with the burden of a toddler to take care of) would do the same for Hart, who did seem to care very much for Eggsy (and his baby sister).  

Q slouched against the pillows, stomach contentedly full and eyes closed, when James paused their conversation and got up to remove Q’s bowl and utensils.  When the agent came back, he sat on the bed again, near enough that the bed dipped and tilted Q subtly towards him.  “Q?” James asked, voice suddenly very soft, like the padding footsteps of a wary cat on a cold night.  “Back at the observation tower… did you plan to kill yourself with Hannibal?”

Stricken and heartsore by the tone of James’ voice, so carefully modulated to reveal nothing but so obviously full of pain, Q twisted to look at the man.  James kept looking forward.  Instead of categorically denying the words, Q decided then to give them the thought that they deserved… and give James the truth that he deserved.  Sighing, Q took the risk and leaned the rest of the way to the right, until his shoulder was flush with James’.  “Ending up wearing Sherlock’s collar wasn’t part of the plan.  I was going to just wait until you got your collar off, then…”  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.  “Then kill Hannibal.  He’s just too dangerous.  And he hates you too much.”  

“Who’d have thought that Hannibal the Cannibal would get attached to a bookish, dark-haired, oddity like that?” James said.  There was just the faintest bit of a smirk on his face.  

It was enough for Q to grin back, retorting, “Oh yes, because you Hounds never do that.”  Glad that they were back in the realm of teasing, Q took another little risk again, this time turning his head to just press his lips against James’ shoulder shyly.  It wasn’t quite a kiss, but it was something.  He hoped that it would soften his next words, spoken down against the soft fabric of Jame’ sleeve: “Once I realized that I wouldn’t be able to get the collar off, but that you had yours off, I did reach for the kill-switch.”  Saying it out loud made it suddenly so real, and horror flooded Q as it hadn’t before, too much adrenaline shielded him.  Eyes closing, he pressed his forehead now to James’ collarbone, starting to feel himself shake.  “I must have missed, because Graham had grabbed my wrist just before - the one with the burns.”  Bandaged now.  “I couldn’t honestly feel the tips of my fingers through the pain, so I didn’t know if I’d hit the correct buttons or not until I woke up here.”  

Q didn’t realize that his voice had grown wet and ragged, frightened tears slipping past his eyelashes, until James was moving and gathering him into a hug.  Much like that day when James had told Q about Vesper - and Q had told James about how Moriarty had labelled him a monster just like him - Q ended up crying into Bond’s neck.  This time there was relief mixed up in it, too, though, as he dealt with the fact that he’d been prepared to kill himself , but fate had intervened and now he was still alive to enjoy the world.  To talk to James again and be held by him.  To hold onto him desperately and apologize again and again for not giving him any choice in this plan, until James just started hushing him.  Apparently the agent wasn’t as angry as he’d appeared when Q had first woken - or perhaps, like Q, he was just dealing with a lot of emotions right now, but the most important one was relief that it had all turned out okay.  “It’s all right, Q, it’s all right,” James murmured into his ear, one hand carding fingers through Q’s hair and the other rubbing up and down his bare back.  It had turned out that Q did have trousers on.  That final thought just about made the crying turn to manic giggles, everything was just so raw.  

To think that he’d gone from daring to kiss James on the mouth to crying all over him in the space of an hour…

Half on top of James and honestly not all that inclined to get up, Q finally grumbled something in a voice that wasn’t strangled around a sob, “Why is crying so exhausting?  You told me that I’ve been unconscious for over a day, but I already feel like I could sleep again for a week.”

James’ laughter vibrated through Q’s chest.  “You did get incapacitated by a collar meant to take down someone as big and implacable as Hannibal Lecter, and then fell an unsafe distance into a stormy ocean right after,” he reminded, and it said something about the progress they were making that he was able to speak with a bit of levity.  “You might want to stay awake a bit longer, though.”

Q lifted his head now, eyes moving from James’ playful blue gaze to the man’s not-quite-smiling mouth as he said, “Oh?”

Another burst of laughter; the smile became fully-fledged.  “That wasn’t actually an innuendo, but now I’m starting to wish it had been.  I was actually talking about this-”  While Q blushed at how transparent his look had been, James moved his hand and brushed a fingertip down the side of Q’s neck - catching on the collar.  Q had momentarily forgotten it.  “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up so that we could get it off you.”

“These things are supremely well-made, James,” Q reminded, shaking his head, “Without the collar-key-”

Like a magician revealing a trick, James lifted his other hand, a very familiar, flash-drive-shaped object revealed between his fingers.  Q’s eyes widened as he recognized the key.  James looked very proud of himself as he replied, “Stuffed it in my pocket when I went after you.  You’re not the only one who can make quick decisions on the fly, Q, and I figured we might need it. So, you want to go downstairs and see if you can get this thing to work, even without access to Eigengrau?”

Q was sure that he could, but instead of jumping up and racing off to try, he instead stretched out over James a bit more.  The man was warm, solid, and reassuringly alive beneath him.  “Do you think Agent 005 will mind waiting until morning?” he asked, a bit unsure.

James’ eyebrows had crept towards his hairline when Q had lounged on top of him, but 007 answered without missing a beat nonetheless, “Do you mind waiting until morning?  We Hounds are rather used to having a demi-permanent lethal necklace, but you’ve just been bitten by yours for the first time.”  

The memory made Q wince, but he found that focusing on James did a lot to distract him from the collar.  “Honestly, right now I just want to not move for a bit.”

“You were unconscious for over a day already.”

“ James ,” Q finally whined at him, exasperated, “How clearly do I have to spell it out for you that I just want to cuddle here with you?  And be fucking warm for a bit, without constant danger breathing down our necks?”  

By the time Q finished speaking, James had a bit stupid grin on his face.  “Did you seriously say ‘cuddle,’ Quartermaster?” was what he chose to take out of Q’s speech.

Q gave his face a shove to one side, calling him a bastard, but when James turned his face back forward again, it was to lean up and fight Q’s mouth for another kiss.  This one was deeper and longer, feeling as if it were a long time coming somehow.  Q didn’t even twitch in surprise as capable, scarred hands came up to cradle his face, just opened his mouth and let James in like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.  

When James rolled them over it was gently, and it allowed them to get under the blankets.  Once covered him, Q sighed in deep contentment.  “Warm enough?” James asked.  Perhaps he’d meant to be teasing, but his voice had come out kind and thoughtful instead.  

Q just reached up and pulled the man down on top of him, wriggling to make room for his injuries amidst the - yes - cuddling.  “Not yet,” Q told him.  It wasn’t until James was wrapped around him entirely (like their first night together in the hospital bed but with none of the fear that Q had felt then) that Q slurred sleepily, “Much better.”

He felt James lean up enough to brush lips over Q’s temple.  “Much,” he agreed in a low, sated sort of rumble. 

Chapter Text

In the morning they’d talk about repercussions; about how James and Harry were wanted men, and both dangerously high-Pass; they’d talk about Q’s role in this, about how he’d taken James’ collar off - and would take Harry’s collar off.  Q wouldn’t argue about 005’s right to be freed.  He’d had a good impression of him in Eigengrau, and after seeing three minutes of the man walking around the house with baby Daisy, he’d decide to trust James’ judgment that Harry was one of the good Hounds.  By James’ own definition, the man was dangerous, but not deadly.  Unlike Hannibal, he wouldn’t wreak havoc on any world he existed in.  

“What happened to Hannibal?” Q would ask.

Everyone at the table (except Daisy) would exchange looks of unease.  It would be James who would finally look to Q and say candidly, “If your collar didn’t kill you, then it didn’t kill him.  But there’s still the ocean to consider.”  James shook his head gravely.  “Will Graham wasn’t in the same shape to help him as I was to help you.”  

“Still, it’s a risk, innit?” Eggsy asked.  He’d be holding Daisy, but it would be one of Harry’s ties that she’d been determinedly chewing on (with no effort made by Harry to rescue said tie).  “Harry?”

The other Hound - who, along with Q, would be sans collar by noon, thanks to Q’s computer skills and the key that James had taken with him - would shake his head, nothing good to offer.  “I don’t have eyes and ears everywhere, of course, but to my knowledge, a body hasn’t been found yet - for 003 or for Mr. Graham.”

“Not surprising, given the storm.  The waters were pretty wild, and could easily drag a few bodies where they wouldn’t be found,” James would add.  His time in the Navy would be showing.  His increased comfort with Q would also be showing, as he’d stretch a leg out beneath the table without thinking, just to read his foot against Q’s shin.  Even though his life no longer depended on Bond’s nearness, Q would relax instinctively at the reminder of 007’s presence.  

The two Hounds would quibble a bit more about the chances of survival, and the inability to easily track a Hound by their collar if they got too far away from a Handler or from Eigengrau.  “At least you didn’t remove his collar before the fall,” Harry would point out.

It would be meant as an off-hand comment, a mild way to close the conversation that was going nowhere.  But Q, face calm and sure, would reply, “It wouldn’t matter if he did.”  Then Q would get up without a word and retrieve Harry’s laptop, which he’d used to recently to do things that he shouldn’t have been able to do outside of Eigengrau, and without M.  He’d hack his way into a different program now, pulling up more files that he shouldn’t have been able to reach - files that even Eigengrau wouldn’t know how to handle, not without Q.  “He has Smartblood in him.  That means I can find him.  It just might take me a while.”

~^~

About an hour later, Sherlock’s phone would buzz.  He’d be in the process of trying to convince John to stay in the hospital a bit longer, with John proving a poor patient despite being a doctor, and arguing.  The only reason Sherlock would even notice the text would be because John was looking for any excuse to distract Sherlock.  When he convinced the consulting detective to stop mother-henning him and check his damn phone, John would try and sneak out past him - a task made difficult by the fact he was on crutches, and really didn’t want to leave Sherlock too far behind.  The middle Holmes boy was still struggling with the loss of his brother, and John felt not only guilt over his part in that (the fact that he wasn’t able to drag himself to the window fast enough, to end Moriarty soon enough) but overall compassion for this prickly, strange genius he’d come to know so well.

Sherlock would freeze solid at whatever he saw on the screen, his silence and stillness so total and sudden and John would stop trying to evade medical attention and turn back to him.  “Sherlock?”

A noise would start bubbling out of Sherlock that would seem at first like a sob, then maybe like a laugh, then some rare mix of the two - elation and tears all in one.  Trying to smother the sound ineffectually with a hand near his mouth, Sherlock would turn, tears in his eyes but mouth stretched in a wild grin.  “I knew it!” he’d declare, but with such a wet sound to his voice that perhaps he had not, “I knew it!”

~ Not dead ~ the text would read, followed by: ~ Tell Mycroft that I’ll disown him as a brother if he tries to sell all my things.  Got loose ends to tie up, so don’t expect me home until Christmas at Mother and Father’s ~

John would have to sit down so abruptly that he’d nearly tip over on his crutches, and Sherlock would be madly giggling in relief so hard that he almost wouldn’t be able to catch him.  Somehow the two of them would end up sitting on the edge of the hospital bed together, trying to come to grips with the fact that this tale had not ended so darkly after all.  

There was, of course, the question of just what ‘loose ends’ Siger Q. Holmes was referring to.  Sherlock would immediately begin texting back, and instead of dissuading the behaviour (Sherlock really couldn’t afford to get into trouble - which this most certainly was - with his removal from Eigengrau so tentative right now), just told Sherlock to send an apology from him.  “Tell your brother I’m sorry I didn’t shoot Moriarty sooner.”

“Stop apologizing, John,” Sherlock would merely huff at him, bumping their shoulders together in a fashion that said there was officially nothing to forgive.

~^~

The two agents just stood and stared at Q in front of the computer.  Embarrassingly enough, in the general chaos of the past week, they’d forgotten about the Smartblood that had been injected into their systems.  Not turning around to look at them, Q said calmly, “I’ve made sure that I still had control over the program, so Eigrangrau won’t be able to track either of you.  But now’s the time to say something if you don’t like how much power that gives me.”

James and Harry exchanged looks.  Eggsy (who was mostly just confused by all this) rocked and hushed Daisy as she sensed the tension in the room and started fussing.  It was Harry who finally cleared his throat, saying as diplomatically as possible, “I believe that might depend on what you plan to do with that particular advantage you have.”

“Q isn’t going to-!” James bristled immediately, but Q turned around in his chair, stopping 007 with a touch to his wrist.

“It’s a fair question,” Q said with a deferential nod to Harry, which Hart returned.  Eggsy turned around with Daisy over his shoulder now, bouncing her lightly to settle her, and it seemed like a reflex for Harry to reach out a hand.  It seemed like he was just putting his hand on Eggsy’s shoulder in a companionable gesture, but 005 also didn’t seem surprised when Daisy grabbed at the nearest finger and tried to drool on it.  This did, perhaps coincidentally, quiet her upset little noises, so Q continued, “You have my word, Agent-  Mr. Hart, that I have no intention on utilizing the Smartblood to oversee your life in any way, unless I begin to hear word that someone eerily matching your description is killing innocent people.”

That got Hart to relax visibly, but Eggsy twisted just enough to look at Q thoughtfully without dislodging Daisy from grappling with Hart’s finger.  “I notice that you specified ‘innocent’ there.  Or am I reading too much into things?”  He glanced between the others, aware that there was still a lot of Eigengrau business that he wasn’t privy to.  

Q’s mouth quirked up at one side, just barely, a Mona Lisa smile.  “It was intentional,” he admitted.  Immediately he had the attention of both Hounds.  “As mentioned, we still do not have a clear consensus on what happened to Agent 003, and while my program might ultimately lead us to a corpse rather than a living body, the inverse is also possible.  Hannibal Lecter might be alive, and my Smartblood is still largely untested.”

“What are you saying, Q?” James prompted.  His blue eyes were wary and curious, but the fingers he touched to Q’s shoulder were light and familiar.  Q resisted the urge to lean into them only because they were with company, and because right now he felt more like the Quartermaster rather than plain old Q.

“I’m saying-”  Q glanced between Hart and Bond, but then also included Eggsy with one eyebrow raised in question, subtly inviting him into this plan, “-That I will need assistance if I am to ensure that the threat of Agent 003 is truly eliminated, and I no longer trust Eigengrau’s methods.  There is also every possibility that more of Moriarty’s network has yet to be unravelled.”  At that moment, his phone buzzed a few times - texts appearing.  Q’s tiny smile stretched a bit wider as he leaned over to get the gist of the messages from his brother.  “I do have a bit of additional help on that latter front, but I have a feeling that men of your particular calibre will be necessary.  How would you like to work for me, at least for a time?”  Q lifted his hand to his neck, which was bare now, but still felt the echo of the band of metal that had nearly killed him.  “I have some sympathy for how your previous incarceration went, and can assure you that I want a far more fair partnership - one that you can leave at any time.  I understand if you simply want to return to a normal life.”

James and Harry exchanged looks again, silently conversing as only Hounds could, their impulses naturally aligned.  It was James who shrugged and replied first, however, his light touch to Q’s shoulder became the whole of his palm curving over it and squeezing.  “I wouldn’t know ‘normal’ if it bit me in the arse,” he declared in a devil-may-care tone, “Although it does sound terribly boring.  What else do I have to do to keep me entertained?”

“This new freedom is a rather daunting thing,” Harry agreed, playing along with a musing tone, “Maybe it’s best for us to ease into it?  It’ll be like a phased retirement from doing Hound work.”

“I’m in, too,” Eggsy surprised everyone by saying.  He turned his body fully to face them again, Daisy contented on his shoulder even as Harry’s face grew more concerned.  “I’ve obviously got some other concerns that come first,” the pilot said firmly, tipping his head towards the child on his arms, “But I’ve got a few skills, and if it helps take apart everything that that mad bastard made, then I’d like to say I had a part in that.  Make up for when I was with him, you know?”

“Eggsy, you bear no blame for that,” Harry said in a soft voice that Q and James pretended not to hear, as it clearly wasn’t for them.  Neither was the tender look in the man’s eyes as he turned to the younger man.  

Eggsy’s reply was likewise soft and personal, a heartfelt murmur, “Yeah, but it feels like I do.  And I want to help you, Harry.  Like you helped me.”

“Think about it a while,” Q spoke up, not wanting to push anything on these men who had been pushed around enough in their lives.  “I still haven’t located Hannibal’s signal - dead or alive - so we can’t act yet anyway.  I think I’m not quite fully recovered from my little brush with death, either, so I’m perhaps going to have a little lie-down.”  He stood up, picking up his phone but leaving the Smarblood program running.  “If I wake up and some of you are mysteriously gone, there will be no hard feelings,” he said with an encouraging smile before walking towards the stairs.  

He fought a warm, giddy feeling inside of him when he immediately heard James peel away from the other two and follow after him like a dependable shadow.

~^~

Q was standing in the en suite bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror when James chose to catch up with him.  The man had given Q a bit of space - enough for Q to strip off his shirt stiffly and gingerly, leaving him standing naked from the waist up except for his glasses and bandages.  The bruises looked worse than they were, and a good shower earlier had done him wonders overall.  He unwrapped his right wrist, which had been rubbed raw fighting the zip ties binding him as Moriarty’s captive.  Now the skin was already well on its way to mended - the least of Q’s injuries.  He still regarded his bare wrist for a moment, recalling the dangerous watch that had encircled it for a time, too.  James had since told him where he’d stashed the device, but Q shuddered at the thought of touching it again.  If they found Hannibal alive, then Q would probably have to use it, but not until then.

“What are you thinking about?” James asked, leaning against the doorframe.  His eyes moved up and down Q’s body, but the implied heat in them was mild - a banked fire.  

Instead of talking about the watch, Q replied, “I was thinking about how I was so afraid of you in that moment, when you got these zip ties off me.  Moriarty had just convinced me that he and I were the same - viruses in the Sybil System - and I didn’t think you’d want to help me anymore.”  Q’s brain caught up to the present suddenly, and he dropped his arms and turned to James wide-eyed.  “It was foolish of me to think that of you,” he clarified quickly, “Even then, you’d given me no reason to distrust you like that.”

Thankfully, James didn’t look upset, and in fact shrugged and dipped his head in an accepting manner.  “You were pretty handshy at that moment, and it was well-earned, considering the overall circumstances.”

Watching James standing there, all muscle and easy grace, and thinking about how happy he’d been when the man had followed him up the stairs and into his room, Q wet his lips and carefully found the words he wanted to reply, “I’m not handshy now.”

Something quickened in James’ eyes.  His body became subtly more alert, even if he didn’t move for a heartbeat or two.  “You weren’t too handshy earlier either,” he gave a careful response even as he took measured but smooth steps forward - a cat testing its weight upon a branch.  Q held his breath and just stood there until they were in each other’s spaces, both of them pondering the kisses shared just an evening before.  Now was the time to figure out - or decide - if that close encounter had been a fluke, or the start of a pattern.  

Q moved first; he lifted his left hand, the one that had never held anything threatening strapped around it, and tested out his freedom to touch but splaying his fingers and then flattening his palm across the right side of Bond’s chest.  James breathed a bit more deeply, but otherwise didn’t react, allowing the touch.  Curious now, Q stroked his hand upwards, moving from cloth to warm skin and feeling the hollow spot between two strong collarbones with his thumb.  Only when Q’s fingertips brushed James’ newly-bare neck was the moment broken, James flinching back sharply.  “Oh!  I’m so sorry!” Q immediately gasped, withdrawing his hand.  

“No.  No, it’s fine.”  James’ voice sounded a bit perturbed, but it seemed, perhaps, mostly self-directed.  He caught both of Q’s hands in his, drawing them close again even as he explained, “I’m still getting used to the collar being gone is all.”

Q hummed and nodded his understanding, circling his fingers to grip James’ hands back in return.  This time it was he who stood still as James reached out and touched, withdrawing one hand from Q’s to brush the backs of his knuckles against Q’s neck in turn.  “I’m also still trying to forget what you looked like wearing on,” he said in a slightly more ragged voice than before.

“It’s definitely an experience that I have no intentions of repeating,” Q assured.  

“You were talking about the Sybil System,” James purposefully changed the topic, even as he lit his hands drift to less emotionally charged (but no less sexually charged) places.  They found Q’s hips, pulling him in closer before sliding around the small of Q’s back in a loosely entrapping embrace.  “Now and when you first woke up - then it was something about talking to Sybil.  I think you were still pretty dazed and just babbling.”

“No, I remember that, actually.”  And it had been on his mind when James had come into the bathroom, too.  Q’s eidetic memory didn’t always apply very well to the realm of the sleeping subconscious, but he remembered the dream now.  “I’d been dreaming, but I think it was my mind working through things.”  He let his own hands rest on either of Bond’s pectorals, getting comfortable with this new closeness.  He’d felt James’ body against his many times and in many ways in the past few days, but this was different in incalculable ways - good ways, he believed.  

“So what was your mind mulling over?”

Q was reminded that high-Pass agents like Bond were very preceptive; he’d read something in Q’s tone and expression, it seemed, that let him know that Q needed to say this more than James, perhaps, needed to map out more of the inside of Q’s mouth.  The boffin was grateful.  “You know how strange it was, how frustrating, to know that the Sybil System had messed up so badly?  Letting so many high-Pass individuals run free - but then suddenly betraying Sherlock and letting his real Psychopass number get out?”  When James cocked his head and frowned but also nodded, Q drummed the fingers of one hand absently.  He looked back to the mirror, remembering his own face looking down at him.  ‘ You’re been wondering for a while now how the Sybil System could let all of this happen. ’  

Possible answers began to reveal themselves, like fish glimmering into view as they nibbled at the surface of a lake.  “What if the Sybil System just let in a few people on purpose - but then it got out of control?” he said as if still in a dream.

“What?”

“When I first hacked into her systems, I realized that I only got in because she let me,” Q admitted something that he’d kept very hidden for a very long time.  He felt James stiffen in surprise.  “And when I was hacking Eigengrau’s systems to get the collar-key to work, it felt like someone was helping me.  I always presumed that she let Sherlock in, too, freezing his Psychopass because he was doing good things - in a slightly socially unacceptable way, true, but he was still hunting down criminals.”

“You’re talking about this Sybil System like a person, Q.  You realize that, right?”

Despite the faintly scoffing tone to James’ voice, Q just shrugged.  He knew that it wasn’t always logical to anthropomorphize technology, but for all that he considered himself a logical being, he did it all the time.  “Moriarty is - was - a lot like Sherlock.  Both of them are disastrously brilliant, and it seems that Moriarty has a charming side, too, getting so many people to follow him.”  ‘ And getting my brother to borderline lust over him ,’ he added less charitably, quickly pushing that thought down where he wouldn’t have to look at it again.  “Moriarty also hinted that he hacked the Sybil System, which is surprising, since he’s not as good as me.  Unless…”

He waited until James sighed and finished the sentence a bit reluctantly, showing that he was following, “Unless the Sybil System let him.  If Sybil was sentient enough to let him do that, then it’s a pretty stupid system.”

“Or just one that makes mistakes, like all systems.”  Q was remembering Severine’s face now in his dream, pensive and sad.  “Even a system like Sybil - or the American’s Machine - doesn’t always understand people perfectly, and some monsters are more obvious than others.”

James made a grumbling noise in his throat, shifting his weight (the rocking moved Q, too), clearly unwilling to accept this excuse.  Still, he didn’t argue, which gave Q the impetus he needed to follow his ponderings further: “Maybe letting Moriarty in was stupid, yes.  But once someone gets into your computer, they’re hard to get out.  So what if…?”  Q chewed his lip, looking down for a moment at his hands on James’ shirt.  James was good enough to stand still and say nothing, letting Q’s mind turn a few more times - only speaking when it resolved itself into the same conclusion each time.  “The timing of Sherlock being revealed as high-Pass makes no sense unless the Sybil System did it on purpose.”

“Why should she do that?”  Q noticed that James was slipping into the more human pronouns instead of ‘it’ now.  

Looking up into questioning blue eyes, Q pointed out, “Because what better bait to lure in Moriarty?  And what more controlled environment than Eigrengrau?”

Those blue eyes narrowed sharply, and Q could feel James’ increased focus like the honed tip of a knife.  

Not looking away, Q laid out as if it were all simple now, “And what better bait for me, too?  Getting Sherlock dragged off to Eigengrau assured three things: that Moriarty would come out of the shadows, and that I’d be there by Sherlock’s side when he came.”

“You said three things.”

Q nodded and closed his eyes, then finished without opening them, “It also assured that Moriarty wouldn’t leave, because Sybil might have made a mistake with him, but not with me.” He opened his eyes and said fiercely, “I’m not a virus.  I may not be the best person out there, and I might not even be low-Pass, but if the Sybil System is going to let me in, then I’m going to do something fucking good with that.  Somehow.”  Q had worked himself up a bit over the course of those sentences, but deflated at the end, realizing that he hadn’t really thought on the details much.  He felt his cheeks heat as he also realized how sanctimonious he had probably just sounded.  Therefore he was surprised when James’ hands lifted to cup his jaw on either side and pulled him in for a sudden, deep kiss.  “What was that for?” Q breathed out as they parted.

“I swear, every little thing that you do just reminds me that I made the right decision to throw in my lot with you,” James said even as he pulled Q in close until their foreheads could rest against each other’s.  Q could still see the man’s smile and feel how he shook his head, talking as if marvelling at some facet of Q.  “I said it before, and I’ll say it again, Q: based on everything I’ve seen you do, you’re now high-Pass.  You’re good, Q.”  Bond shifted, and Q leaned into it instinctively as the ex-agent brushed his nose against Q’s like a cat nuzzling someone trusted.  “And if the Sybil System realized that, well, then I suppose she’s not entirely stupid.  And she and I certainly agree that you’re a trustworthy person.”

Q didn’t know what to say, and thankfully that seemed to be all right with James.  They just stood like they were for an intangible stretch of time, breath mingling and bodies close.  Eventually James said, a low rumble against Q’s temple as he pulled Q in closer, “I’m with you.  Regardless of what Hart and the pilot decide, you’ve got me.  Any hunting that you need.”  

This time it was Q who nodded and angled forward to initiate the kiss, feeling a kick of adrenaline behind his breastbone when he realized that Eigengrau had lost a collared Hound - but Q had gained a loyal wolf.  And maybe a small pack.  

~^~

Harry was standing in Eggsy’s room, which also happened to be Daisy’s room - Harry had managed to acquire a crib for her before she’d arrived, something that had nearly brought Eggsy to tears of gratitude.  Now Eggsy was still holding and rocking her, despite the fact that the little girl was fast asleep.  

“You can put her down, you know,” Harry supplied gently in a whisper, “She’ll sleep just fine, and then you’ll be able to get some rest, too.”

Eggsy still had a lot of healing scrapes and bruises from his tangle with Arthur, but had already shown that he would happily forgo any comforts if it meant Daisy was happy.  If Harry’s opinion of Eggsy hadn’t already been incredibly positive, this dedication would have only improved it.  Even now, it made Harry’s heart swell in his chest to watch the two of them - these two individuals who had been dealt such a bad hand in this world, but who were working it out together as best they could.  Together.  

Clearly regretfully, Eggsy whispered, “Yeah, yeah, I know,” and carefully lowered Daisy down.  She didn’t even stir.  She’d been a very loud, upset child when Harry had first met her, but he suspected that it was because she’d been with her mother.  Since then, in Eggsy’s care, she’d become almost a different child, fussing very rarely for her age.  Eggsy remained at the side of the crib after tucking her in, and when Harry prompted him with his name once more, Eggsy’s shoulders tightened as did his grip on the crib’s frame.  “I know,” he repeated, sounding as tired as he deserved to be, after what he’d endured - and after not sleeping much in the days since, always looking to Daisy’s needs first. “I just… first her stepdad abandoned her, then Mum abandoned her…” Eggsy went on, ducking his head and finishing in a torn voice, “I just don’t want her to think that I’m abandoning her, too, you know?  What if she wakes up and I’m not right here?”

Harry felt his entire heart split in half, and it was all he could do to keep his steps measured and his voice not too loud as he walked up to Eggsy, put a hand on his back, and said firmly, “Then you will be with her in mere minutes.”  Eggsy huffed a sigh and hung his head more, clearly not persuaded, so Harry slid his hand up Eggsy’s back to give his nape a squeeze, ordering, “Eggsy, look at me.”  Grudgingly, the younger man raised his head.  Harry found himself looking into the eyes of someone who had been just as betrayed as Daisy, but who was old enough to understand all of it - to feel all of it.  And Eggsy hadn’t had an Eggsy to hold him and rock him until he knew it was okay.  Harry put a hand on either of Eggsy’ shoulders and said with all of the sincerity he could muster, “She will never think you have abandoned her, because you won’t.   Every time she sees you, you will prove that you are there.  If she ever wakes up without you, she’ll know that that is only temporary - because you will prove that over and over until it’s not a question she has anymore.”

The room was lit only by a lamp across that room, but it was enough to see Eggsy’s eyes welling up.  He was searching Harry’s face almost desperately, and he even said, in a rough sort of voice, “Are you lying to me, Harry Hart?”

“Never,” the older man replied, and pulled Eggsy into a swift, tight hug.  Eggsy let out a hiccuping noise that was definitely cousin to a sob, and buried his face between Harry’s neck and shoulder to smother it so Daisy wouldn’t hear.  Harry was shaken to his core by how fiercely Eggsy gripped him back - the hold of someone who had had people slip away before.  In that moment, Harry decided that he would never be the person to end a hug first with Eggsy Unwin.  

“Okay,” Eggsy said, voice thick and only a bit clearer as he took a deep breath and repeated more surely, “Okay, I’ve got to walk out of here before I start crying like a baby and wake the actual baby.”

Harry laughed silently deep in his chest and gave Eggsy’s back a reassuring stroke.  He admitted to himself that he liked the feeling of Eggsy’s hands clenched so stubbornly on the back of his shirt.  “Very noble of you,” he said with humour, but made sure to add, in case egos were bruised, “I’m sure it’ll be a very manly cry.”

“Oh, it definitely won’t be.”  Even as he said this, Eggsy wheezed out a giggle, and that did make Daisy whine in her sleep.  Eggsy let go and pulled away then, but after one more check to be sure that Daisy was still asleep, Eggsy led the way out of his/her room with Harry in tow.  

Despite his protests, Eggsy’s emotions seemed to have stabilized by the time they left the room - leaving the door cracked so any sounds inside would be heard.  The pilot did wipe his eyes against his forearm, however, and Harry did not comment on how Eggsy’s face and eyes were a bit damp and red.  Stuffing his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight awkwardly as they stood in the hallway, Eggsy changed the subject, “So - you going to work with Eigengrau’s Quartermaster now?”

“I’m seriously considering it,” Harry admitted, “Bond is clearly going to, and for all of his reputation for sleeping around without compunction, he’s a good judge of people.”  And, Harry suspected, liable to sleep around a lot less now that he had Q.  The way they acted around each other had not been subtle.  “And if Q goes back on his word, then it’ll be for the best if I’m around to deal with that eventuality anyway.”

“Ever a practical fellow,” Eggsy observed with a smirk.  

Harry decided to take it as a compliment instead of sarcasm. “Indeed.  ‘Friends close and enemies closer’ and all that.  With any luck, the Quartermaster will continue to be a friend.  It’s good to be friends with someone who can clearly hack into Eigengrau’s systems.”

“I heard he can hack the Sybil System,” Eggsy admitted, to which Harry stilled with shock.  Eggsy just shrugged.  “Something I overheard C say.  Not sure how much stock to put in it, since he was clearly mad as a sack of wet cats, though.”

This was a bit too much information to easily handle in one night, so Harry merely hummed and filed this potentially dangerous (or potentially helpful) tidbit away for later.  A valuable ally indeed…  “What about you?” Harry asked back.  “You have your little sister to consider, but you still spoke up.”

“Yeah, that might have been a bit ambitious of me.”  Eggsy ran a hand back through his hair, looking at the mostly closed door as if to peer through it.  “I want to help,” he emphasized, then sighed and just looked tired and frazzled again, “But now I’ve got another mouth to feed, so I’ll have to think about work, and childcare, and - fuck! - school soon, yeah?  I don’t want her growing up stupid as shit like me.”

“You’re not stupid,” Harry chastised.  It made him happy to see Eggsy look at him almost hopefully when he said that, as if he was simply unused to people saying that.  Softening his voice, Harry went on, “And your dedication to her is commendable.  I’ve seen many decent parents who are still not half as devoted as you - you need to know that, Eggsy.”

“Yeah, well…”  Eggsy ducked his head, hands deep in his pockets again and apparently at a loss for more words.  

Harry filled the silence: “You should also know that I have no intention of kicking you out to find work.”  When Eggsy’s head shot up, brows beetling, Harry awkwardly tried to clarify, “You can if you want, of course.  What I mean to say is…  I had rather a lot of money when Eigangrau snatched me up, money that they never did find, and it’s just been sitting and growing all this time, and I still have very little use for it.  And this cabin isn’t the only property that I own.  At least one should be suitably closer to what you want for Daisy-”

“Harry, are you offering to make a kept man out of me?” Eggsy asked, a sneaky little smile starting to break across his face.

Harry suddenly hated that the light in the hallway was brighter than in the bedroom; he could feel his cheeks heating up, and like Eggsy was seeing him entirely too clearly.  “Nothing so crass,” he protested, but Eggsy just grinned wider.  

“I wouldn’t mind, you know,” Eggsy startled him by saying.  His voice was offhand, but when he rocked back and forth on his heels, he also looked at Harry from under his eyelashes.  “Being kept.”  When Harry just kept staring at him dumbfounded, Eggsy seemed to lose his nerve.  Now he looked down at his socked feet and hunched his shoulders, looking nervous as he mumbled, “Shit.  Forget I said anything.”

“Eggsy-” Harry grabbed Eggsy’s wrist as the young man turned to escape back into his bedroom.  When he turned around, ears red and expression painfully ashamed, Harry ducked to catch his eyes and finished as firmly as possible, “Just because not enough people have kept you before doesn’t mean you’re not worth keeping.”

“Tell that to my mum,” Eggsy said sourly.

Harry narrowly resisted the urge to say something very rude about Eggsy’s mother.  He still had to take in a breath and let it out through his nose before he could continue calmly, “We’re not talking about your mother.  We’re talking about me.”  Now he could tell that he had Eggsy’s attention again; instead of trying to pull away, Eggsy stopped and glanced up at him carefully - an oft-kicked dog watching to see if this bone he was being offered was truly a gift or just a lure.  Harry never wanted to see that look on his face again.  “I think you’re more worthy of keeping than anyone I’ve met in a long time.”

Eggsy’s posture had been straightening as Harry said that last sentence, and now there was tentative hope all over his face.  

And of course in that moment Daisy woke up with a little cry in the bedroom.  Eggsy visibly jumped and turned, then looked back to Harry with an apologetic expression.  Harry merely smiled at him, then pushed the door open himself, gesturing Eggsy through first.  “Maybe all three of us can talk about this,” he offered fondly, “At least until she falls asleep again.”  Eggsy’s face split into a smile of relief as he nodded and went in to see to his baby sister.

In the end, Eggsy and Daisy both ended up falling asleep, but only after some decisions had been reached that had Harry feeling more contented than he had in a long time.  Sitting against the headboard still with Eggsy and Daisy dozing next to him (Eggsy on his side, one arm curled under his head and the other over Daisy, who was asleep in the space between Eggsy’s body and Harry’s outstretched legs), Harry pondered a future in which he had more company than expected.  “Merlin’s going to laugh his head off when he hears about all of this,” Harry murmured to himself, even as he dared to stretch out one hand, stroking the backs of his fingers over Eggsy’s cheek and smiling helplessly when Eggsy turned towards the touch even in sleep.

Chapter Text

Still standing in the bathroom, panting a bit after the last kiss had stolen all their air, James’ mouth curved up in a mischievous smile and he said, “Here’s another test for that eidetic memory of yours, Q: remember when I said I liked the look of my jacket on you - but that I liked it better off you?”  His voice dropped to a huskier register as he finished, “That I’d like a lot of things better off you?”  

Q revelled for a moment in the feeling of one of James’ calloused hands moving to cup the back of his head, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp.  The man’s other hand had migrated to the small of his back, drawing them closer together at the waist.  “You said that was a conversation for another day,” he recollected with a smile, eyes drifting closed.

James leaned in to catch Q’s lower lip in more of a nip than a kiss, and suddenly the nearness of their bodies felt a lot more intimate.  “I think that today qualifies.  Don’t you?”

“I don’t even have a jacket on,” Q demurred.  It felt so insane and strange to play around, when their lives had been so focused on survival before; it was intoxicating.  

“Or a shirt,” James went along with Q’s teasing unhesitantly, “So I think we’re already ahead of where we were last time.”  Considering the next kiss that quickly escalated to include tongue, they were definitely ahead of last time.  

Pushing into the kiss so that he was chasing Bond’s tongue back into the blond-haired man’s mouth, Q only pulled away to say wryly, “There’s also the fact that someone definitely redressed me at some point.  These are definitely not the clothes I went into the water with.”

James’ smile was unrepentant as he carded his fingers thoughtfully through the hair at Q’s nape.  “Touché.  I’m more than happy to even the playing field, though, if you think that gave me an unfair advantage.”

“Going to throw yourself off a tower and into the ocean for me?”  It felt freeing to be able to joke about that, at least in oblique ways.  

“No, but you can definitely undress me.  I’ll even help you out a bit - for the right incentive.”  One blue eye flashed in a wink.  

Q started giggling and soon was saying, “You’re shameless,” even as he leaned forward for another kiss and let James walk them out of the loo and back into the bedroom.  As they moved, however, Q took James up on his offer, daring to find the hem of James’ henley and sneak his fingertips beneath it.  The noise of approval James made into his mouth was enough encouragement for Q to go further, his hands soon plastered against Bond’s sides, rucking up the shirt higher and higher.  

Eventually James did have to help, but he seemed more than okay with letting go of Q to instead pull his shirt the rest of the way off - and as soon as 007 had tossed the shirt across the room carelessly, his hands returned to Q’s upper arms, spinning the boffin around and pushing him down onto the bed.  Q landed with a grunt, to which James - playfulness toned down - said with apology and concern, “Sorry.  How are the ribs?”

“Still bruised,” Q admitted with regret, but after a moment to grimace, he wriggled further up onto the bed.  He reached out to James with an inviting wiggle of his fingers, reassuring, “But not too bad.  Come on.  You’ve been teasing me practically since we met, and now you’re going to pay for it.”

“Oh, I’m going to pay for it?” James chuckled, mock impressed with eyebrows raised.  At the same time he moved forward, swiftly crawling up over Q’s body.  “Such threats.”  Supporting his weight on his hands still (showing that he was keeping Q’s ribs in mind), James leaned down for a kiss.  He started on Q’s mouth, then deviated to press kisses to the corner of Q’s mouth, to his cheek, to his jaw, and finally back to Q’s ear to rasp in it huskily, “Who’s to say you haven’t been driving me crazy right back?”

Q smiled shyly and shuddered at the praise, glad to hear his interests reciprocated.  True, Hounds dealt more truthfully in actions than in words, and James’ actions so far certainly supported the fact that he was interested in Q - but it was still nice to hear it spoken aloud, words making it more real.  Q slid his feet up higher on the bed, nerve-endings buzzing as he slid his legs up until they were bracketing James’ hips.  “Well, if either of us is going to repay the other, I think we’ll need fewer clothes,” Q remarked.  He was aiming for a lofty tone, but it came out breathy instead, body arching a little as James bit lightly at his earlobe.

“Don’t rush me,” James said with a little growl, the threat in his voice mixed liberally with amusement and heat even as he settled his weight more firmly on one forearm by Q’s shoulder.  The man’s other hand found Q’s right wrist, sliding it up the sheets to pin it level with Q’s head.  “I’m not done exploring yet.  Just because I’ve seen you naked doesn’t mean I had a chance to appreciate it.”  And with that he ducked his head, dodging Q’s seeking mouth to just kiss his chin at first - then to move on down his neck, laving his tongue over Q’s Adam’s apple.  While the boffin tipped his head back with a groan, James worked his way lower, lapping into the hollow of Q’s throat before moving almost reverently down the centerline of his chest.  Q’s body heaved a little when James sealed his mouth around a nipple, sucking only for a moment before the wet sensation became a drag of teeth.  

“I love the noises that you make,” James admitted, barely lifting his head.  His breath ghosted over the spit-dampened skin, making Q’s breath shudder even before the Hound turned his head to rub a stubbled chin over the nub, too.  Q did indeed make another involuntary noise at the heightened sensation. He almost didn’t hear what James said next, spoken more quietly, down against the skin of Q’s side, “I love even more that you let me wring them out of you.”

Trust, Q recalled, as a rare commodity for Hounds.  His heart softened even as he felt the increasing need to remove his pants.  “I’ll make even more noises for you,” he panted, letting his free hand travel up to James’ face, coaxing it to lift and then exploring the sharp planes of cheekbone, nose, and jaw, “if you can find some lube.”  

The pads of Q’s fingers were drifting over James’ mouth when the Hound’s face split into a delightedly surprised grin.  “And here I thought you were just a coy little boffin,” he retorted, but sounded pleased and impressed even as he sat up - presumably, hopefully, to find something by way of lubricant.  Because now that the danger was passed, Q wanted to create some better memories with this man. 

“I’m not just any boffin,” Q pulled himself together enough to look down his nose at James.  When his right wrist was released, he tucked it behind his head.  “I’m the Quartermaster.  I’m in charge of an entire branch.”

“Ah, but you’re not in charge of me,” James intoned back, again with that perfect mixture of promise and threat - heat and challenge.  With that tone alone, James was able to do just as much damage walking away as he’d done when kissing all over Q and teasing his nipple.  Q decided then and there that if James didn’t come back with lube, he was going to throw a very unprofessional tantrum.  James had indeed been flirting with and teasing Q for quite some time, but now was the first time that either of them were in the correct mental and physical space to act on it.  

Q focused on stripping the rest of the way, and was so focused on that task (made a bit more difficult than usual because of his various healing injuries) that he didn’t realize that James had found what he was looking for in the bathroom already and was just leaning on the open doorway.  “By all means, continue,” James said with an appreciative sweep of his eyes, a Cheshire smile already comfortable upon his face.  “I’m just enjoying the show.”

“I’m flailing around like a cat trying to escape the cone of shame.  I’d hardly call this a show,” Q griped, embarrassed because he hadn’t known that there was a reason to put any finesse into this.

Thankfully, James took pity on him, pushing away from the doorframe to approach the bed again with a gentle chuckle.  “I like you best when you’re yourself, Q,” he reassured, putting the bottle that he’d found (not quite lube, by the looks of it, but a decent substitute) down on the bedside table and crawling up onto the bed.  He kissed the inside of the one knee that Q had free from his trousers (the other leg was still tangled up in clothing).  “Always have.”

The tenderness of the statement had Q looking away, but James could be a persistent bastard when he wanted to be, and he leaned forward over Q, angling in for a kiss.  There was silence for a moment as James backed up his words with the tacit appreciation of his mouth; eventually Q’s embarrassment became interest again, then became hunger.  When Q was actively leaning upwards to greedily match the intensity of James’ kisses, the ex-agent of Eigengrau put his hands to work easing Q’s clothing the rest of the way off his body.  Q distractedly helped, but when he realized that James was pretty good at this (the upside of a partner with a disturbing amount of practice), he let his hands scramble their way up to James’ waistband instead.  The jogging trousers didn’t hide all that much, and both men gasped as Q (ostensibly by accident, but probably a bit on purpose), ended up palming James’ cock through the material. 

“Still don’t want me to rush you?” Q panted as James rocked against his hand.  Blue eyes that had slid closed snapped open, dazed for a moment before they became wryly amused.  

“Just for that, I’m going to take this so slow that you beg,” James threatened, then gave Q one quick peck on the nose (an honestly startling counterpoint of cuteness to his sexually-charged words) before sitting up and kneeling back enough to shed the rest of his clothing.  Both of them equally naked now, they regarded each other in the light filtering through the closed blinds.  James was almost intimidatingly handsome, and his scrutiny was intense enough that Q squirmed a bit.  “Please don’t just stare,” Q said, aware that he was only making himself more vulnerable by explaining but making the words come quietly out into the open anyway, “I never know what you’re thinking when you do that.”

James immediately bent forward again, and Q breathed an almost audible sigh of relief as the stillness and tension became nearness and movement and warmth again.  He leaned up into James’ kiss gladly.  “I’m just remembering,” James elaborated on those thoughts Q had not been able to say, “back before all this started-”  Another kiss, close-lipped and sweet and brief.  “-How I offered to be dangerous for you.”  Another kiss, but this one suddenly switching gears - nothing light about it, all teeth and tongue and gasped breaths.  When they pulled apart, Q felt lightheaded, and he just blinked and stared up at James as the man finished his thought, “It seems you finally took me up on my offer.”  He stretched out a bit, letting his lower body settle down between Q’s legs, the new sensations making Q squirm in a different way now.  Voice a bit strained but still a lot more suave than it had any right to be, Bond said in a faux-musing tone, “You know, I think being dangerous for you is going to be a lot more rewarding than it was to be dangerous for Eigengrau and Mallory.”

“You’re just saying that because Mallory wouldn’t let you fuck him,” Q huffed in exasperation - because now James was just pinning him down but not moving.

Unruffled, James said, “True.”  Then he looked at Q entirely too intently, grinding his hips down even as he asked, “Does that mean you will?”

God, but the friction was lovely.  It was a bit too dry and not the right angle, but right now Q was wound up enough that he wasn’t all that picky - and the look in James’ eyes was a turn-on all of its own.  James always had a bit of a predator in him, either because he was high-Pass or just because of who he was in general, and now he was looking at Q like he wanted nothing more than to chase him down - hunt him until his wolf’s paws bled.  It was intoxicating to be at the centre of that kind of interest, that animal need.  

And then for that hungry light to go soft, and for James to catch his mouth in a slow, patient kiss that reminded Q that being devoured could be a wonderful thing.  

“Yes,” Q found himself panting, “Yes.  Yes.”

James groaned against Q’s mouth and lifted his body just enough to reach for the bottle he’d pilfered from the bathroom.  While James busied himself with the bottle, Q let his hands wander, finally really touching this man that he’d been in such close quarters with over the past… fuck, had it only been a few days?  It said something about how distracting the whole concept was (and how distracting the feeling of Bond’s skin was, muscles playing beneath hot skin) that it was James who had to caution, “Watch your bad shoulder, Q.”  Q grimaced at the reminder of his injuries, but even as he braced himself for the discomfort of getting fucked with damaged ribs (something he’d never experienced before, but logically sounded fairly unpleasant), James looked back at him and seemed to read his mind: “Don’t worry, Q, I can think of half a dozen ways to have fun with you that won’t involve hurting you worse.”  He ducked down for another kiss before Q could ask about those half dozen ways.  “Just trust me.”

Q trusted James in a surprising number of ways despite the man being high-Pass and self-admittedly amoral, but this turn of conversation made him frown up at the man.  “You’re not going to fuck me, are you?”

James chuckled, and Q was close enough to feel the vibration of it down his torso.  “Don’t pout at me like that.”  When Q continued to do just that, James leaned down for another kiss, which Q denied by pursing his lips together - although it got hard to keep up the chilly front when he could feel James grinning against his mouth.  “I promise that what I do you’ll like just as much,” he soothed.  Before Q could come up with a response, James got a hand in between their bodies, and Q gasped and arched at a slick hand closing around his cock, pumping from root to tip twice before James gathered up his own cock as well.  Both of their members pressed together now, lubricated and slick, James stroked them slow and just tight enough to have Q’s mouth opening in a wordless, thoughtless noise.  

James caught Q’s lower lip briefly between his teeth before breathing raggedly but triumphantly against his cheek, “Still grumpy with me, Quartermaster?”

“If you stop,” Q gritted out, arching his head back against the blankets as he dealt with the new waves of sensation, “I might be.”

“If I stop, it’ll only be to try something better,” James promised, and leaned his head down to worry one of Q’s nipples between his teeth again as if for emphasis.  Q gripped James’ shoulders hard and bowed his back upwards, pressing his chest harder against the man’s teasing mouth.  

It seemed that James had plans - always a scary thing when dealing with an agent - because he then started working his way down Q’s chest, sitting up a bit so that he didn’t have to use his free hand to support himself.  Q flung his good arm back above his head, already breathing fast and starting to float on that heady sensation of endorphins building up.  James was awfully good with his hands.  The hand not pumping their cocks was currently stroking down Q’s flank in a reverent way, matching the heated look in James’ eyes - the blue in them darkened by enough lust that Q felt his breath catch in his throat whenever the man looked up from pressing kisses down Q’s torso.  When the man paused in jacking them both, simply holding both of their cocks so that he could suck the tip of Q’s into his mouth, the Quartermaster let out a keening noise and nearly came right there.  

James switched up his grip, releasing his own cock and squeezing down on the base of Q’s, stifling the rising tide of sensations. “Not yet, Q,” he said in a low, rough voice that reminded Q of a lion’s hard-edged purr.  “I said I’d make you beg, didn’t I?”  And with that he reached for the bottle again, this time dripping it so that it ran down Q’s balls and ticklishly down the seam of Q’s arsecrack. 

They were going to absolutely ruin these sheets, and Q couldn’t even bring himself to ponder whether or not Harry Hart was the one in charge of laundry in this safehouse.  

Shuffling back a bit more now to kneel between Q’s legs, James drew his hand down Q’s cock in a languorous stroke, the lubrication slicking his hand and spreading across Q’s balls and he fondled them, too.  Q didn’t know what to do with his hands, fisting them in the sheets at first, then grasping James’ left wrist when the man’s less occupied hand stroked up his side.  At the same time, James’ other hand reached Q’s hole, which already felt slick and wet whenever Q moved his legs.  It was positively lewd, but Q found himself panting out, “Yes.  Yes, please,” in a hushed, breathless litany even before James eased a fingertip into him.  

Q had had sex with men often enough to know that there was often a bit of a burn at this point, especially as he hadn’t had sex in quite some time - but James clearly had some practice with men as well, because for all that he was a voracious sort of personality, he was careful now.  He was also distracting as all fucking hell.  Just as Q closed his eyes, biting his lip and focusing on relaxing, James’ wrist swivelled in his grip - then caught Q’s hand in return, guiding it to Q’s own cock.  “Help me out with this?” the man asked, as innocently as a saint, and when Q just stared in dazed bewilderment, James wrapped both of their hands around the best of Q’s cock - and then swallowed down the tip until Q could feel the man’s lips against the edge of his hand.  

Fuck, Q was going to lose his entire mind.  All he could do was lift his free hand to his mouth to try and stifle the next noise he made, because while this house was big and well insulated, it wasn’t soundproof.  

And James seemed determined to make Q not only beg, but beg loudly .  

That one finger was moving in and out of Q’s arse now, the stretch almost impossible to focus on when Q’s cock was a veritable neon light of sensation.  James had clearly sucked cock before, and Q was beginning to realize why the man had such a reputation in bed.  Something about their joined hands around the rest of Q’s cock only made it more intense as James’ tongue worked at Q’s slit.  Q had been deep-throated before, but this… he potentially liked this better.

When James eased another finger into Q while simultaneously twisting both of their hands on Q’s cock, Q definitely liked it better.  His shoulder blades and head pushed down hard into the comforter as his back and hips tried to lift off the bed, only kept down because Bond’s left arm (the one flexing steadily as it gave such good attention to Q’s cock) was looped over Q’s leg and hips.  When Q bucked particularly hard, James pulled off, and Q gasped out little broken apologies - but James didn’t seem mad.  All he did was take a break from Q’s cockhead to kiss and nip his way up Q’s taut stomach.  Q couldn’t look away from the shine of precum all over the man’s shameless mouth.  

“Happy so far, Q?” the man had the nerve to ask, even as Q lifted his free hand (his most injured arm) to drag shaky fingertips across Bond’s lips.  The man’s mouth was all sin.  If this was part of what made James high-Pass, then Q had lost all capacity to judge him for it.  

Just as Q was going to try and cobble together a response, James’ fingers in his arse found that little bundle of nerves that made fucking so worthwhile, and Q ended up making a wordless gasping noise instead.  His fingers were sucked briefly into Bond’s mouth, getting a bit of the same treatment that Q’s cock had - a clever tongue laving across sensitive skin.  James let them go only so he could say, “I thought as much,” in the smuggest voice imaginable.  

Q would have gotten mad at him for that, but seeing as his mind was currently being blown, it was a bit hard to go after the man before being insufferable.  Besides, seeing as James had effectively been an enslaved mercenary until just a couple of days ago, he’d earned the right to flex his ego a bit.  

Meanwhile, Q got to watch James’ muscles literally flex beneath tanned, naked skin, as James kept jacking Q’s cock with their joined hands, bending to kiss a bruise of Q’s ribs.  Watching that sight, Q felt the sensations cresting again - but even as his head fell back and he felt the muscles lower in his belly tightening up, James broke the rhythm of his fingers in Q’s arse and squeezed hard enough around Q’s cock that the orgasm was derailed again.  This time Q barely managed to stifle the noise he made, because it was such a sound of frustration.  

“I’m waiting for the begging, remember?” James’ insufferable voice teased.

Body shuddering and the muscles of his thighs twisting, Q snarled back, “You’re a monster.”

“But you knew that already,” was the dark, warm reply, followed by a third finger stretching the rim of Q’s arse - this time Q really felt the stretch, and let out an involuntary wheeze as his body and mind tried to come to terms with the feeling.  James took Q’s hand away from his cock, again surprising Q by switching tones to something considerate and sensible, “Can you lift your other arm above your head without hurting anything?”

Brain barely functional, Q just blinked at him for a moment, brows drawn together.  Then he tested out his range of motion.  He found that he could indeed lift his arm if he did it slowly and didn’t extend it up too far.  “Like this?” he asked, bemused.

James drew Q’s other hand upwards, and soon had one cum-and-lube-smeared fist wrapped around both of Q’s wrists right above the boffin’s head.  “Perfect,” the blue-eyed man declared, leaning down to catch a kiss as well.  Q took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he felt James supporting his weight on the hand capturing Q’s wrists, the rest of the man like a storm over him.  “You okay like this?” James asked while their faces were still close.  

“I gave up control to you once and didn’t regret it,” Q said as steadily as he could in the current situation.  He watched as recognition and surprise lit James’ eyes, recalling the situation back in the locker room - when James had been hungry for control and Q had been at the end of his rope.  Q purposefully let his arms go slack, then the rest of his body, even if he was helpless to stop the clenching of his arse when the slight movement set his nerves alight.  “I don’t expect I’ll regret it now,” he finished, watching the blue eyes above him.

For a moment, James just seemed stunned.  Then something in him rebooted, and he was surging down for a kiss so intense that it pushed Q’s head back into the blankets.  “You have my word on it,” James swore as fervently as a fire latching onto dry wood.  He briefly pressed his cheek against Q’s, then kissed, feather-light, next to the stitches between Q’s neck and left shoulder as if it were a holy mark.  “And for you, I’ll keep my word.”

This from an inveterate liar had Q’s heart clenching, and he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face as he said simply, “I know.”  Then his mouth was devoured in another deep kiss and the momentary pause came to an end - and James went back to fulfilling his promise.

With his hands pinned above his head, Q was helpless, but his only regret was that he now had no means to touch his straining, overeager cock.  It was leaking precum steadily now, and the only friction it got was when James leaned close enough that it brushed against him.  Soon, that alone was enough to make Q sob, as James’ three - soon four - fingers worked him open.  The sensation of being filled and being open, squelching and wet from the liberal amounts of lubrication that James paused to add to periodically, added to the vulnerability of having his arms restrained.  Q felt like he was stretched between two points, James’ left hand a tight manacle around Q’s wrists and his right one moving mercilessly in and out of Q’s body.  James had also found what angles brushed against Q’s prostate, and soon was stroking it more and more frequently.  

Then almost constantly.  By the time it became clear that James’ goal was to milk Q’s prostate until he lost his entire mind, Q was already gasping out soft pleading words and shuddering between James’ hands.  

Every time Q’s arse clenched down and found that it couldn’t, it just ratcheted up the blissful madness, and the only reason that no one was pounding on their door yet and telling them to tone it down was that James kept kissing Q like he was an elixir to every ill.  Q was the one swiftly going mad, but it was James who seemed hungry for it.  Q felt like he hovered on the edge of a climax for ages - until he was thoughtlessly gasping, “Please!  Please,” until his whole body was taut as a bowstring, until he was struggling against James’ hand on his wrist and getting gloriously nowhere against the man’s strength, until James’ fingers were just rubbing at the bundle of nerves inside of him.  Previously, Q wouldn’t have been sure if he could come untouched like that, but now it was his only option, so he begged louder.  He needed it.  Needed to be touched!  James just swallowed his cries like he’d swallowed the others, a god taking its due, their kisses growing sloppy and wet as Q panted.  When his climax came it was as much a bolt shock as a surge of euphoria, and Q actually fell silent as he gasped and then his whole body locked up in pleasure and surprise.  James just kept stroking him through it, too, so it felt like the rush just kept gaining momentum instead of slowing.  Q had never been so gloriously oversensitized, and if he made a noise then, he was unaware of it.  

After what could have been a second or an eternity, Q felt his body coming down from the mountainous high it had just endured.  James was still over him, but no longer in him or holding him down - in fact, he was cleaning up with one of their shirts.  Probably Q’s; the man was a menace like that.  Q couldn’t imagine being mad at him now, though, as his body quivered with aftershocks and hummed with the memory of pleasure.  

His hands and Q’s stomach cleaned off, James braced a hand on either side of Q’s head and smiled down at him. “Good?”

Q felt limp all over and had absolutely no desire to move, but nonetheless lifted his head enough to brush his nose against James’.  “Marvelous,” he sighed.  

“Better than getting fucked?” James pushed his luck, smile growing more insufferable.

“Don’ know,” Q said with something less than his usual enunciation, everything feeling relaxed and slow, like his bones had become liquified.  Or molasses.  “Haven’t tried it with you yet to compare.”

James’ eyes lit up like a fox finding the henhouse door open.  The broadness of his smile would have been supremely worrisome if Q had had enough active brain cells to be worried with.

He did have enough brain cells to be aware of something else, however: James hadn’t come yet.  “I want to help you with that,” he said, still without much eloquence, but the hand he reached in the general direction of James’ stiff cock probably got the point across.  

James chuckled, and said, not unkindly, “Q, I’m not sure you’ve got the coordination for that right now.  You look like a ragdoll kitten after too much catnip.”

Making the executive decision not to respond to that descriptor (he had limited brainpower for the moment, and had to use it wisely), Q let his arm flop back to the bed but came to another conclusion.  “So use my mouth.”

The teasing smile on James’ face froze and his eyebrows twitched upwards, proof that even a sex-addled boffin could catch him by surprise every now and then.  “Come again?”

Q snickered and giggled as he saw the possible innuendo there, but figured that his credibility would be blown if he said it out loud; he already felt drunk, so it was a bit difficult to stay sensible and focused.  “I’ve had my throat fucked before, James, so I know that it won’t take much effort on my part,” he said.  “Just watch my glasses.”

James was looking at Q as if he were some grand discovering that James had never imagined he’d find.  “All right,” he said, the brief answer a true sign that he was caught off-guard - again.  Two points for the sex-drunk boffin.  James began to move forward, his erection standing up even stiffer now that this possibility was there.  Q just lay where he was, feeling relaxed and strangely at peace as the Hound moved up his body.  He handed James his glasses and didn’t feel the usual flare of nerves when they were put on the bedside table, leaving him rather blind without them.  The only other movement that Q made was to curl his arms around James’ thighs, marvelling at the strength and power in them.  

“You sure you’re okay with this?  I’ll be careful,” James said.

“James, there’s more caution in your voice now than any time you’ve faced down a gun,” Q told him blankly, stroking one hand up James’ thigh to his flank, spreading his fingers to trace one of the veins in the hollow of Bond’s hipbone.  “I trust you to be exactly as careful as you need to be,” he said, and then simply slackened his jaw, opening up his mouth and letting his eyes fall half-closed.  

Hovering over Q, James was close enough that it was possible to see how his whole body gave a restless flex.  James murmured, “One of these days I’ll learn my lesson and stop underestimating you” in a fondly exasperated tone, and then he reached down to grip his own cock to guide it.  Q opened his mouth a little wider as the tip nudged his lips, and soon the whole girth of it was being fed into his mouth.  

Q took in a steadying breath, immediately going to a headspace that said, ‘ Oh.  I always forget.  This is what it’s like ,’ even as a new sort of thrill filled his body.  It wasn’t like the euphoria of having his prostate milked, or like kissing, or like having his arse filled and stretched, but it was akin to all of them as his mind and body dealt with the reality of having another part of him filled up in a way it wasn’t used to.  He took in a deep breath through his nose as other instincts took over, as his mind said, ‘ Here we go, ’ preparing for the breathlessness.  At the same time, the lassitude of having just come made it easier to relax, and while James eased his way in, he almost didn’t need to - Q’s throat had done this before, and his whole body was still floating.  Q closed his eyes as he heard James’ shuddering breath, his quiet curse as Q took him all the way in without a struggle.  Q liked the feeling of James’ thighs quivering beneath his palms, and he dug his fingernails in just to feel those muscles bunch - hear James swear again in a different register.

Q’s brain was admittedly a bit checked out, but he had it in him to swallow, an action that was rewarded by an altogether louder sound out of James.  Q would have smiled if his mouth weren’t so full.  

James started fucking down into him then, and Q hung on for the ride, James’ thighs and hips becoming handholds.  James had impressed Q with what he could do with his mouth, but now it seemed like Q was doing the same in return - and without even really trying - as James started up a litany of panted sounds and bitten off, almost reverent curses.  Then the praises came, filling Q’s head even as his throat and mouth were filled by the member pumping steadily in and out.  James favoured deep, steady strokes, which Q was fine with.  And as promised - and expected - James didn’t lose his head so much that he forgot that Q was more than a fucktoy.  James pulled out twice, letting Q gasp for breath while he stroked his head and face, saying over and over again what a marvel Q was, and how lucky James was to have crossed paths with a person like him.  

James didn’t pull out again, because when Q felt him coming, he gripped him hard around the waist and held him close, fingernails scratching at the agent’s arse and lower back as Q swallowed it all down.

When James rolled off him completely this time, they were both gasping.  

Instead of lying limp and enjoying the afterglow as Q had, James immediately rolled back.  He was on Q’s least injured side, and pulled Q in close, so that they were sharing air as they panted.  “My mouth is gross-” Q started to protest, voice raspy from his throat being fucked but his mind remembering that not everyone liked cum- and cock-flavored kisses.

Apparently, James didn’t give a fuck.  He kissed Q soundly before he could finish the sentence, then just lay there on his side, one arm still hooked around Q’s neck to keep him close.  From his time with James and from all the records he’d read about 007, Q knew that the man had quite a silver tongue and could be as eloquent as a lyrebird if he wanted to.  Now, though, he said nothing at all.  Instead, he just tugged the nearest edge of blanket until it flopped over them both, and pulled Q in close.  It was like their first night together in the hospital bed, only neither of them needed another body to stay warm, they weren’t afraid of their survival tomorrow, and Q wasn’t afraid.  

“If Sybil wants you back, she’s going to have to go through me first,” Q murmured fiercely - but sleepily - into James’ chest.  

“I believe you, Q,” James said without even a hint of a chuckle.  He nuzzled briefly against Q’s temple and then settled down, tangling himself in Q even further before they both drifted off to sleep.

 ~^~

Bits and pieces.  They flew past like the world through a train’s windows, or clouds past a plummeting hawk.  

A deer, bounding from place to place, stopping only to drink.  Its coat was an abyssal black, like forgotten memory.  

A shrike.  He was a shrike, flying from bush to bush, picking up his own pieces, each left skewered on a thorn.

Will Graham woke up with a small gasp, to find himself staring at a ceiling he didn’t recognize.  For a moment he thought he was still the shrike, rocking on the wind, but then he realized that he could hear waves… and felt vaguely seasick.  Attempting to get up quickly proved to be a mistake, albeit one he could muddle his way through.  Everything hurt, didn’t work, or seemed a daunting combination of both.  Considering how his last sense of self included a concussion and a bullet to his shoulder amongst other ills, he shouldn’t have been surprised.  When he managed to struggle his way out from under a blanket and sit up, however, he sat at least that his bandages were fresh and clean - his right arm once more bound close to his body with practised skill and clean white gauze.  He braced bare feet against a floor that rocked and moved, and stared a moment at the knees of grey sweatpants that he did not own.  

When he looked up, he felt no surprise to see Hannibal Lecter looking at him from the open cabin door.  He had a bit more stubble than when Will had last seen him, and he looked like any regular fisherman with his thick canvas trousers and heavy boots, a waterproof jacket to ward off rain and a thick sweater that covered up all of his neck.  You’d never have known that he was a Hound, unless you dared pry away his clothing to hunt for a collar - or if you were Will, and dared look at his dark, intelligent eyes, and pry away the facades to hunt for a killer.  

“It’s good to see you again, Will,” Hannibal intoned, voice low and pleasant, a counterpoint to the waves - waves that sounded different against the boat than they’d sounded against the island of Eigengrau.  “I did not know for sure that you would ever see anybody again.  It was touch and go with you, for a time.”  

“Where are we, Hannibal?” Will asked in a fatalistic tone.  Not because he knew the answer, but because he already knew that the answer didn’t matter - because they certainly were not in Eigengrau, the only place that had ever contained Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal’s eyes were bright and his smile cheery.  He came the rest of the way into the room and closed the door, and Will’s body tensed.  Hannibal noticed, the smile fading a bit as the man chided, “Come now, Will, we should be over that already.”  Too-knowing eyes watched Will’s face as the killer strode nearer, “Hasn’t your mind realized that you are not the prey here?”

“The mind and body speak different languages,” Will replied even as he tried to get his body under control - to at least tell it that fight or flight wouldn’t matter here.  He was in no condition to struggle or to run.  Truly, sitting up and keeping his balance was a challenge already.  “My mind knows,” he said calmly, even though his hands curled into ready fists as Lecter sat down beside him, “but my body reacts to older triggers.”

“Hm.  The mind knows, but the body reacts.  A very keen phrase,” Hannibal applauded solemnly.  He reached out and slowly took Will’s free hand, watching Will’s fight to unclench it, to show it relaxed and unafraid.  Hannibal turned Will’s hand over between his, seeming to ponder the wounded knuckles that were still raw-looking as they healed, but no longer bandaged.  “And what was it that your body knew, that caused your body to react as it did in the tower?” he asked, looking up from beneath thoughtfully quirked brows.  

Will looked at those eyes and felt a flash of vertigo, of detachment; for a moment, he was in Hannibal’s skin, looking at himself.  Then he was looking at the tar-covered stag from his dreams - older dreams, when it had stood up and two legs, taken Will’s chin in hand, and wiped tar away from his mouth so that he could breathe .   

“Because there was something wrong in that place,” Will found himself saying, then shaking his head and adding, “But that wrong was not you.”

Hannibal’s smile widened and grew warmer, as if Will’s answer had been the right one.  “I fear that much of what was wrong in Eigrangrau is wrong elsewhere, too,” he nonetheless cautioned.  

Will was feeling tired.  Nearly dying would do that to a body, he supposed.  He had flashes of hitting the water like a brick - of choking - of waves - of Hannibal saying his name like an ill omen.  “Is that your way of saying that I didn’t really free you from anything?” Will said with a humourless little chuckle.  

“That is my way of saying that freedom is a tricky thing,” Hannibal replied in a mollifying tone.  He let go of Will’s hand, but pushed him gently back down onto the little ship’s bed even as he stood.  Will was too exhausted to fight, his little moment of wakefulness already draining the meagre strength he’d regained.  “I will have to decide what to do with it,” was the last thing he thought he heard Hannibal say, finishing up his thought.  A soft kiss was pressed to his brow like a god bestowing a blessing, and then Will was left to his darkness and his dreaming again.

~^~