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Bond met Q first. The genuine Q, the man who ran Q-branch, who wore knitted cardigans and drank tea and overworked himself. He was an exemplary hacker, and a superb head of MI6.
He met Adam shortly afterwards, without knowing it; an injury on a mission, and the frantic tone of voice in his ear was familiar, and yet not so. The actual timbre was the same, but the intonation – and even the accent, to a degree – was different. A teenage boy had gone to university, but not to study computer science – no, the real Q was dormant in those years. The boy had gone to study medicine, and he had done well.
That man surfaced under pressure, when somebody was hurt. A personality who had grown in tandem with Q himself, growing at the same rate, the pair of them parallel people with different lives, and experiences, and the simple sadness of sharing a body.
Bond didn’t realise that, at the time. After all, the last he would have suspected is that the almost-familiar voice was another personality. He merely assumed that Q knew more than Bond had given him credit for when it came to medical matters.
“Dissociative identity disorder,” Q told him, when it became evident that they both wanted some form of relationship beyond professional. Bond nodded, and pretended he understood what that actually met in practise.
Bond had kissed him, and in doing so, had met Xavier.
Xavier was random, and frantic, and desperate, and lethal. He broke things, had impeccable aim, barely spoke, was a munitions expert when he was lucid enough. Bond wouldn’t find that out till later. He found out about Xavier when he was punched in the jaw.
Q could switch in a heartbeat. Usually he was able to control it, at least to a degree, but from time to time, they slipped out, unbidden. “You punched me,” Bond noted stupidly; that was almost a first.
“My loyalty is with Q. He freaked, I punched you. Don’t take it personally, I have no issues with somebody with your face kissing me,” Q snorted at him.
“Q?” Bond asked, confused, a hand against his jaw.
“No. Xavier,” the man who was quite definitely not Q responded. This man was casual and strung, the flippancy of somebody who was living a façade. He glared lividly, eyes dark, fist still clenched as though preparing for another punch.
“And Q is…?”
“Busy,” Xavier snapped back. “You shouldn’t have kissed him.”
“Why?” Bond asked, now reaching the point of being seriously unnerved.
“Do you know anything?! Jesus, he freaks at sexual contact. It’s why I punched you. Idiot,” the man grouched. Bond couldn’t believe the difference in his voice; it was so much lower than usual, the intonation wrong, the accent casual, far from the clipped consonants Bond was accustomed to.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Xavier shrugged, heading to the cupboards, pulling out chocolate biscuits. Q hated chocolate. Bond was finding it difficult to make sense of anything. “Q thinks we have dissociative identity disorder.”
“Which means?”
“Use Google,” Xavier said contemptuously. “It’s not mine to explain anyway, he wants you around. Look, I’ve got a life. I’m trying to get some blueprints for weapons together.”
“You’re not Q, though.”
“Yes,” Xavier replied, as though Bond was very slow-witted. “I know. But MI6 employed me too, under Q’s name, yeah, it’s easier than explaining. I’m not supposed to be around for a few more hours, but since you decided to change things…”
“But you are Q,” Bond said with a frantic gesticulation, at the boy he knew so well. “This is bullshit”.
Xavier rolled his eyes. “I repeat. Google,” he muttered, and sloped out of the door.
---
Bond used Google.
Oh god, Q.
---
Bond was waiting for him when Q got in. “Hi,” he said instantly. “Alright, so I think I owe you an explanation…”
“MI6 know?” Bond asked quickly. Q stopped mid-sentence, nodded, looking a little uncomfortable.
“Yes. I told them from the outset. I’m a hacker, I’m a good hacker. Xavier is technically also employed by MI6, under my name though. As long as he’s in MI6 HQ, he lets himself be called Q. He hates it, though. He’s very much adamant that he has his own identity.”
“You talk about him like he’s a separate person,” Bond asked edgily. Q’s brow contracted slightly.
“Yes,” Q replied simply. “The argument may stand that he’s a mental projection, but we’re in no way near integrating. It works as it is. My mind separated into different people. Some are full identities, with their own lives… some are just shadows, really… you’ll meet the kids at some stage…”
“The kids?!” Bond asked, with tangible alarm. Q smiled oddly.
“Yes. Claudie is about five, we think, and A is about nine. He thought it was cool that I only had an initial for a name, so he called himself A. Xavier and I are both twenty-six, Adam’s nearer thirty-five but he’s not sure,” Q explained, shrugging slightly. “I understand if it’s too much,” he murmured, very quietly.
“What happened to you?” Bond asked, his mind flicking through possibilities, through internet sites where victims spoke of trauma, abuse, hurt.
Q’s light smile fell away entirely. “I don’t know,” he said, quite honestly. “Xavier knows, I think, but he won’t tell. There are some people in here,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards his head, “who know. I’m the central personality, the ‘original’, if you will. I don’t know how everybody knows that, but they do, so I don’t have the option of going. I can’t know. Whatever it was broke me into pieces. I can’t afford to know. Also, I’d appreciate you not telling anybody about this.”
“Ok,” Bond managed. He couldn’t pretend this made much sense. Q was not merely Q, but a collection of different people. Q himself looked intensely nervous. Clearly, he didn’t expect Bond to stay; he barely expected Bond to keep this secret, the best-kept secret Bond had come across in a while. “Can I meet them?”
Q’s expression was priceless. “Erm… well, yes. Yes, I should think so. I just… this isn’t an exact science, you know.”
“I know,” Bond admitted. “I’ve been reading up on it, while you were gone. Just… tell me. If I’m about to accidently make you switch…”
“You’re up to date on the terminology already, excellent,” Q smirked.
“So how many do you have in there?” Bond asked, taking another sip from the glass of whiskey he’d poured about the time he’d read the statistics on how many DID sufferers had experienced severe sexual abuse.
“There’s me, Xavier, Adam – who you’ve technically met, by the way – Claudie, A, Liz, the Protector…”
“What?”
“Doesn’t have a name, he’s just called the Protector,” Q said, still watching Bond’s expression carefully. “There are a couple of other shadows, too. We call them shadows, anyway. And yes, Liz and Claudie are girls.”
“Your alternate personalities are…”
“Female, yes,” Q agreed. “They don’t come out often, the kids only come out when it’s a very safe situation, and Liz hates coming out, and… Look, I’m sorry if this is too much, I do understand if…”
“It’s ok,” Bond said quickly, placing a hand on Q’s. Q’s breath snatched slightly. “Q, I like you. I don’t know how this will work…”
“You want to try and make it work?” Q asked, looking incredibly sceptical. Bond blinked, and nodded, expression screaming why not?
Q wanted to try and explain all of the reasons why. To tell Bond that he had never had a real relationship. That Xavier was hypersexual, and he himself had never been properly kissed. That he didn’t know how to relate to anybody properly any more. That he only had his work left to keep him tethered, and had long since given up the idea of being with somebody.
At the same time, he really liked Bond. He really liked Bond. He was steady, careful. He was physically attractive. He was kind, he was intelligent. He gave the impression of being completely dependable, and that was what Q craved more than anything.
So he nodded, despite himself. “I don’t want you to stay out of pity,” Q said carefully, looking carefully at the floor. “If this gets out of hand, and it could do, just leave. Please. Promise me that.”
Bond reached out to him, a hand under his chin, lifting his head. “Q, I’m not promising to leave. And I don’t pity you. Not in the slightest.”
“Keep it that way,” Q said carefully. “So. What now?”
“Dinner?” Bond suggested. Q smiled shyly, and nodded.
---
Bond had sex with Xavier that night. He had dinner with Q, and at some stage in the cab drive on the way back, he lost Q in favour of Xavier. Xavier threw himself at Bond in the car, kissing him with a ferocious passion that Bond knew wasn’t Q’s.
“Hold on. Does this count as cheating?” Bond asked, when they broke away for a frantic moment. Xavier threw back his head, laughing raucously, too-loudly. So unlike Q.
“You’re fucking gorgeous, and I want you. Talk to Q in the morning,” Xavier suggested, breathing hotly into Bond’s ear, biting his earlobe. “We’ve never had this situation before.”
Bond tried to push him away, was met with Xavier giving a low whine. “Q…”
“I’m not Q,” Xavier told him sharply, looking into his eyes with an incredible expression. Bond’s breath caught for a moment. Looking at him, it was obvious – it was not Q. From the way he acted to the way he held himself, it was not Q, his Quartermaster. Yet it was, and he was so very beautiful, and irresistible, and grinding against him with need that was utterly palpable.
“Ok,” Bond replied. “Am I cheating on Q?”
“You tell me,” Xavier growled, and squeezed the raging erection Bond had been trying to deny. Events rapidly unfolded from there, culminating in the pair of them on Q’s sofa, on his bed, undoing one another.
At three in the morning, drowsy and sated, Bond met Adam.
Adam was in dressing gown, tidying the kitchen in obsessive, neat rows. Bond tapped on the door, startling him, nearly causing him to drop the glass he was holding. “Hello,” Bond said with a slow smile.
“James,” the man replied, and Bond realised it was neither Q nor Xavier he was speaking to. “Yes, I… sorry, about this. I’m Adam. I’m, erm, another… another personality, Q explained this better, I…”
“Yes,” Bond managed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, as Adam replaced the glasses in frighteningly neat rows. “It’s… nice to meet you, I think.”
“Sorry, I’m not usually out,” Adam said, his entire posture very twitchy. “It’s just… we woke up, and there’s not usually somebody around, in bed I mean, so… Xavier was busy, and Q, and I… well, yes.”
“Its fine,” Bond tried again, trying to slot the pieces back together. “Are you alright? It’s early.”
“Yes, I, erm, I have problems with mess,” he said, gesturing shakily at the glasses. “I just needed to do something, and my head was all over the place, so I just… I mean, I don’t like medication, I know Q and Xavier think we need it, but…”
“Really, it’s ok,” Bond said, smiling. This version of Q, this… this young man, standing in Q’s kitchen, seemed friendly, and nervous, and shy. “I can leave you alone, if you want?”
“I… you can stay, if you’d like. I could do some tea, or coffee, or…”
“Coffee would be perfect,” Bond said smoothly, leaning against the cabinets, letting the man wearing Q’s body make it. Adam smiled at him uncertainly, confidence growing as Bond continued to grin, chatting to him about nothing in particular. They continued until Adam started to yawn; Bond led him into the bedroom, tucked him into bed, and left to sleep on the sofa.
---
“You are aware of his condition?” M asked sharply. Bond leaned against the desk, expression cold and unforgiving.
“He told me what he wants to tell me. This isn’t anything to do with you.”
“Q can only be employed as long as he remains stable,” M sighed, not appreciative of Bond’s histrionics. “For the last few years, however he did it, he’s kept himself mentally stable. Look, I’ll send you through the records. We have a lot to lose, with a man like him in MI6.”
“Explain,” Bond said curtly.
“His personalities are erratic. He has been suicidal in the past, unable to control his switches, et cetera,” M explained, voice flat, stabbing daggers. “He is also very intelligent. If he has a breakdown, he has access to MI6 servers and facilities – that could cause a lot of damage.”
“And you think my involvement could cause damage?” Bond asked rhetorically.
M didn’t smile. “I think anything that disrupts the way he is used to could cause damage. Be careful, Bond. He is too valuable. I will be very irritated if you lose us an excellent Quartermaster. I’ll send you through his records. You should know what you’re dealing with.”
---
Bond debated whether he should read them. He should really give Q the chance to tell him himself. But if Q didn’t know, then he was relying on Xavier or somebody else, and Xavier was somewhat unlikely to tell him.
He read a story of a boy, and couldn’t blame him for letting his mind tear apart as it had. An adolescent, a teenager, an adult. He wondered how Q was even still alive. He wondered at what stage Q had finally escaped into himself, run away from a world of unbelievable pain, and splintered into various parts.
He read of the young man who went to medical school, managed two years, was sectioned, tried to die. He read medical reports that spoke of the emergence of a personality who had stayed hidden for years, and was now trying to take back his own body, was failing, was trying, was fighting.
He read of the same young man taking control over his own mind and body. The ‘central’ personality taking charge, a master hacker, who sought and found a job in MI6, proved he was stable. The reports claiming he was too valuable to discard, and merely needed monitoring.
So they did; Q could only go to certain locations, always under surveillance. If Xavier was out of control, he was confined to the his flat. If another unauthorised personality took over, he was again confined. He was under weekly monitoring from a specialist, who advised on whether or not Q was alright to continue working. Everybody in power at MI6 understood the parameters.
Bond’s heart stopped slightly at the sight of a report from his M. She had written a report, stating that Q was intelligent and responsible enough to remain employed. That he was erratic, and may not always be controllable, but worth keeping hold of.
It was strongly reminiscent of a report she had written for Bond himself, a lifetime ago.
Bond shut the file, breathed deeply. This was far out of his sphere. Q held the perfect veneer of normality over a past, and present, that was a very long way from normal.
He thought of Q, and the pieces of Q he’d met. The decision was easy. He was already in love with Q, with Adam, with Xavier. In different ways, certainly, but he did love them. Q was everything; he was the bright intelligence, and humour, and commentaries. Adam was shy, and gentle, and loving. Xavier was passion, and fire, and destruction, and sexuality.
“Q?” he said softly. “Yes, it’s me. Drinks?”
---
The kids were lovely. A was a bit petulant, but Claudie was a lovely little girl. A surreal thought, given that Claudie lived in the body of a twenty-six year old man.
Claudie appeared after several weeks of them dating. Q and Bond had reached the stage of curling together with Bond on the sofa while watching TV, trusting him enough to stay close, and know that Bond would not hurt him.
Q had been very quiet, and then, abruptly started fidgeting. Bond had laughed a little, before realising that Q was no longer Q. “Who’re you?” asked a light voice. Somebody who wasn’t Q looked up at him, through wide eyes, biting his lip in a way that was not sexual but purely childish, and Bond understood.
“I’m James,” Bond said, with as genuine a smile as he could manage under the circumstances. “I’m guessing you’re… Claudie?”
The child looking back at him grinned happily, and then giggled, nodding. “M’bored,” Claudie told him, biting her nails.
Bond had literally no idea what to do. Claudie took the choice out of his hands; she poked him, and giggled. Bond poked back. Claudie exploded with laughter, and poked back. Bond poked. She poked. Bond ended up tickling her until she shrieked with laughter.
“Stop, stop,” she yelped at him, batting him off playfully. “Stop stop stop,” he continued, and Bond somehow missed the new inflexion, and how her body language had changed. “Please, stop.”
Bond backed off faster than he had imagined he could move, leaving somebody who wasn’t Claudie, and wasn’t Q, curled in the middle of the living room, sobbing. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
The boy curled further into himself, and continued to cry, curled in a painfully tight foetal position. “It’s alright,” Bond said carefully, trying to move a little closer. The boy didn’t speak. When Bond gently placed a hand on his shoulder, he gave a sudden, shrieking wail. Bond hushed him. “It’s alright, really, I’m not going to hurt you.”
The kid hiccupped tears. Bond’s heart was breaking; it was Q, it was his Q, dark hair curling about his face and long limbs tucked into themselves, crying his heart out via somebody who wasn’t even him.
After a lifetime of coaxing, the boy twisted into him, held onto Bond, and let Bond curl arms around him. The thing that was almost Q cried forever, sobbing himself to sleep without a word, curled against Bond’s chest.
---
“I’m sorry,” Q said eventually. Bond found him at his laptop, tapping in the middle of the night, the screens bright and reflecting in his glasses. “I don’t think it was a proper personality, a shadow, I think.”
“It’s fine. Claudie’s a lovely kid,” Bond said simply, and drank his coffee. Q’s typing stopped, for a fractional second, before continuing.
Q couldn’t quite believe it. Bond didn’t mind.
---
“007, your mark is to your left,” Q told him, tongue trapped between teeth, typing frenetically. “Extraction team should be ready within fifteen minutes, get the information, and we can take over.”
“Received,” Bond replied, resisting the urge to reach for his gun. One of Xavier’s specialities; built from scratch, almost no recoil, decent number of rounds, genetically moulded to him. Able to cause maximum damage with minimal effort.
Q had defied expectations. M had hauled Bond into his office; according to the psychiatric reports, Q’s switches were less predictable, and the emergence of ‘shadows’, as Q had named them, had not been seen in years.
“Has it affected his work?”
“No.”
“Then I really fail to see the problem,” Bond had told him curtly, and had left.
Bond had fallen in love with Q. The more time he spent with him, the more he was absolutely certain that he was completely and entirely in love with Q.
He cared for Adam as one might do a close friend; he was anxious and clever, and very shy. They went out for drinks once in a while, they talked about various things, they were good friends. They didn’t talk much about anything upsetting, as it was an almost certain way to trigger a switch.
He and Xavier had a purely physical relationship; he was almost impossible to conduct conversations with, as he tended to be more concerned with work or sex or alcohol or anything else than with actual conversation. He was literally condensed energy.
He cared for the kids, on the rare occasions when they appeared, and dealt with shadows who wept or shouted or were completely catatonic, on one terrifying occasion. He began to learn how Q’s singular mind worked, and adapted with it.
It was worlds away from easy.
“Bond, concentrate. Your age is showing through,” Q told him, voice laden with sarcasm. “We don’t have time for you to get distracted.”
By that point, everything was far too late. Everything degenerated into random gunslinging – as per usual – and Q wearily talked Bond through getting out of the danger zone, until the extraction team reached him.
“You’re useless, Bond,” Q told him frankly. “Honestly, a child could make less of a mess.”
“You’d know,” Bond retorted, with a smirk. Q had a moment of deciding whether to laugh, or get angry at the reference; Bond shouldn’t really reference ‘the kids’ at work, but then, Q shouldn’t really be criticising Bond so outrageously.
“Touché,” he said instead, and smiled. “Can you manage getting to my flat without breaking things?”
“I will if you will,” Bond replied instantly. Q laughed, and agreed.
One day, Q would work on integrating. On taking the fragments of himself, bundling them together, shifting them into one, complete, person. For now, it was enough that he was alive and well. He was working, safe, with somebody who didn’t understand, but at least tried to.
When Bond arrived home - and when exactly had Q’s flat become home? - Q was waiting for him, tapping on his laptop, smiling from the corner of his mouth. “Hello,” he said lightly, and pressed a few keys with a touch of triumph.
“How’re you doing?” Bond asked. Q closed a few windows, shutting lines of code out of Bond’s reach, out of anybody’s reach. He stood, walking to Bond, grasping his hand. He took a light breath, and pressed a kiss to Bond’s lips.
Bond just stood, stunned. Q squeezed his hand, eyes glinting.
“I love you,” Bond said in a strange rush. “All of you. But you, Q. I mean…”
Q raised a mocking eyebrow. “I understand,” he said, his smile contorted, eyes darkening very slightly. He breathed out, looking briefly to the floor, before returning to look into Bond’s safe, blue eyes. Stability, safety. Bond was everything, to every different person Q was.
And to Q, just Q himself, he was James Bond. His James Bond. “I love you too,” he said haltingly.
James smiled, and locked him into a hug. Q breathed out with relief, with happiness, with disbelief. He had never expected this. He had never thought he would be loved like this.
He knotted fingers through James Bond, anchoring himself, and prayed they would never have to let go.