Chapter 3: Q

In which nobody thinks to ask the most important question: Who started it?

Or the one where Q becomes Q in a round-about way, love stories have no room in the world of shadows and lies, Alec and James acquire a guardian angel, and a circle never ends.

As the youngest of four children, Quin has always held a special place in the heart of his siblings. Despite what most assume, this is not solely due to his age. Quin is different, even among the four of them. And Aaron, who always, always watches out for Owen, is the first one to notice.

"He's a sociopath," he murmurs into the soft skin of Owen's neck late into the night. "Or a psychopath. I'm not sure."

He could be a risk to you, he doesn't say.

"He's our brother," is Owen's response. Sure and confident, like the final line of an argument they haven't started yet.

Aaron tightens his grip, curls closer around a body so familiar it might as well be his own, and doesn't say anything at all. Owen, he knows, will never understand the way Aaron does. Because Aaron, like Quin, does not form connections to other people, does not feel love, affection and empathy. Aaron doesn't care about his family, his siblings, beyond the most shallow of relationships.

He cares about Owen, who is his and is him in equal measures, though. And because Owen isn't like him — close enough to understand, but far enough away not to agree — Aaron has gotten used to watching out for his brother and sister. Has gotten used to hugging his mother and joking with his father. Has gotten used to looking out for the people Owen smiles at, if only so he will see that smile again.

So Aaron lets the matter drop. He doesn't trust Quin, and he doesn't love him, but Owen does. As always, that is more than enough. And for many years, the uneasy balance they strike that night holds true.

Then Vesper dies.

Aaron doesn't know what he will do in a world without Owen. He doesn't allow himself to think about it. The mere idea has his grip tightening on Owen's wrist until his fingers dig into the pale flesh deep enough to leave bruises. And Aaron hates hurting his twin. He hates even more that Owen lets him.

But when Vesper dies, Aaron gets his first taste of what that grief will feel like. Because Quin may not care for anyone else, but he loves Vesper. And when she drowns, he drowns with her.

"He killed her!" Quin screams, the rage twisting his handsome features into a horrifying mask of hatred the likes of which Aaron has never seen before. Not this deeply, and certainly not directed at them.

"She killed herself!" Owen yells back, his eyelashes wet with the tears neither Aaron nor Quin will shed for her.

Aaron's hand tightens around Owen's arm — he hasn't let go of him once, since the news have reached them — and he has to consciously suppress the urge to pull his twin behind him. To shield him from the ugly fury Quin is directing at them. The moment is scarily reminiscent of a day many years ago that Aaron has carefully put behind them, but never allowed himself to forget.

Brothers or not, he will not allow Quin to hurt Owen again.

"If it was Aaron, you'd be the first to pull the trigger," Quin sneers. "You'd burn down the world for him. But I suppose Vesper and I just don't deserve that kind of devotion, do we?"

Owen flinches back at the spiteful words as though hit, and the only thing that keeps Aaron from attacking Quin is the fading awareness that he would have to let go of Owen to accomplish that. It's a thin restraint though, one that's already fraying at the ends.

"She died for us!" Owen chokes out after a long moment of unforgiving silence. Aaron can feel the fine tremors those words evoke, running through his twin's body. "To protect us! And you would rather have her sacrifice be in vain, to hunt down a man you only hate because she loved him! Because she chose him instead of you!"

Aaron is in front of Owen a millisecond before Quin's fist can connect with his twin's jaw. This — the fact that Owen remains unhurt, that Quin's strikes only ever manage to hit Aaron — is the only reason Aaron stops when Owen screams for him to.

Quin is bloody and bruised but alive. He manages to get up on his own, staggering and gasping raggedly, but still standing tall. His blue eyes are dark, almost black, and not because of the bruises forming around them.

"Fine then," Quin rasps, stumbles against the nearest wall to avoid the helping hand Owen offers. "I'll do it myself."

"Brother, wait-" Owen calls out, although he must know the futility of his words.

Quin whirls around, the rage within dulled by the pain he must be in, but no less cutting for it.

"We are not brothers!" Quin hisses, and even Aaron takes a reflexive step back at the force of his hatred.

This time, when Quin leaves, Owen makes no move to stop him. And Aaron, who has never loved anyone but Owen, never cared about anyone but his twin, is glad to see him go.

Later that day, the twins sit together on the small, shabby couch they own. Pressed so closely against each other that Aaron can feel his twin's body heat warming the entire left side of his body. It's a nice contrast to the cool ice Owen insists he keeps pressed against his jaw.

Owen is curled around him, hands around Aaron's side, digging painfully into his rips that have already received too much abuse today. But Aaron bites his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, to keep quiet, because Owen has buried his head in his shoulder and is crying soundlessly, for their sister, for their brother, for him. Hearing his twin's hitched breath, feeling the helpless shaking, Aaron thinks this is as close to agony as he will ever come.

"Vesper loved him," Owen repeats eventually. The tear tracks on his pale face are still wet, but his tone is calmer, more secured, now that he has had the time to properly process the information. "She loved him enough to leave us."

And that — that lack of resentment, that unvoiced understanding — is perhaps the greatest difference between the two of them, Aaron thinks. Owen has never held Vesper's chosen distance against her. Aaron hasn't either, but then, he has never exactly wanted her around in the first place.

"I know," he answers, but says nothing else.

Vesper, who has always payed more attention to a long string of men than her own family, hasn't done much to earn Aaron's loyalty. Her obsession with finding someone to fulfil her dreams for her has rubbed him the wrong way time and again. Because unlike Aaron — unlike Quin — Vesper was whole. And Aaron, who barely feels like half a person without Owen close by, can't help but despise her a little for not cherishing the gift she's been given.

True, Aaron has Owen, and he would never wish for anything that might change that. Owen is all he will ever need, and he knows the same is true in reverse. But want and need, as Vesper has so often shown them, are two different things.

And Aaron hasn't missed the curious glances Owen has thrown Vesper's latest — and last — admirer. Owen has never resented the place Aaron holds in his life. But he is like Vesper in ways Aaron will never be. And that terrifies him more than he will ever admit.

For all that Aaron will kill Quin, should he ever lay eyes on his brother again, he can't imagine what their brother must have gone through when Vesper chose a stranger over him. Aaron refuses to let it get that far. He won't wait around for the curiosity in Owen's eyes to grow into longing. Won't sit by idly, while interest slowly festers into frustration.

Involuntarily, Aaron tightens his hold on Owen. He can barely imagine a life without his twin by his side — he won't. And if he'll have to give Owen the world as his playground to ensure that his twin will never want for anything — will never want for Aaron to leave and not come back — then he will. He will.

That day Aaron holds Owen tight enough to feel like he's slipping beneath their skin, like they are so closely entangled that they'll never fully come apart again. The following morning he will look out for the people that make Owen smile. Will start a new game — because it's always Aaron who starts a new game, it's always Owen who ends them — to make Owen smile. Will hunt down Quin and stop him from hurting Owen ever again.

But tonight, there is only Aaron and Owen. And that is all they will ever need.

The first time Q wants to kill 007, he has only been in the man's company for ten hours. The first time he actually tries to kill him comes two months later.

Against all odds, they do make it out of Raymond Kessler's stronghold alive. Most of Kessler's men don't have the same luck, but uroboros would be lying if he said the deaths bother him. Not the ones 006 and 007 cause, and sure as hell not the ones he deals out himself.

Damaged, his mother used to call them. The word, with all its associations, has long ago stopped bothering uroboros. The world is filled with damaged people after all, the two agents on either side of him — bracketing him in, though whether to protect or to contain uroboros isn't sure — are proof of that.

"All this just to kill Kessler?" Trevelyan asks him quietly, as they watch the exploding warehouses in the rearview mirror of a car 007 has liberated from the head of security on their way out.

uroboros shrugs. He's sitting in the backseat, 006 next to him. uroboros supposes it's a good thing he's gotten used to the man playing his guard — it seems like he's going to remain stuck with the role for the time being.

"All this to utterly destroy Kessler," uroboros corrects softly, head twisted to stare at what's left of the building behind them. They are too far away by this point, of course, but uroboros swears he can feel the warmth of greedily licking flames on his face.

"He killed my brother." uroboros repeats, as though willing Trevelyan to understand. "This was the least I could do."

Their differences don't matter, never have. The only one who touches a Merces, is a Merces. But that last part will not be voiced out loud for as long as uroboros is alive — for their name, their true name, has long ago lost all meaning to them. They have all left it behind for a reason. And even in a world made of shadows and lies, some secrets are best left undisturbed.

In the driver seat, Bond looks tense, some blood smudged on his cheek the only colour on his skin, and uroboros abruptly wonders whether the man is in any state to drive. Double-0 agent or not, a human body does need a certain amount of blood on the inside to function. And after everything else, uroboros would be quite put out, where he to die in a bloody car wreck of all things.

"Right," Trevelyan mutters, though it's clear that he doesn't understand at all.

uroboros doesn't bother with explanations. MI6's files have made it clear that Trevelyan doesn't have siblings — a relationship that can be hard to understand from the outside, long before you figure in the various mental issues, limited range of emotional capacity, and tendency towards obsessive behaviour that could be observed between uroboros and his siblings.

"In that case, let's focus on the important bit." Here Trevelyan's voice sharpens, though he simultaneously sinks back into the soft leather, hands folded in front of his chest. The dichotomy of relaxation and accusation throws uroboros for a bit. Only until he realises that Trevelyan isn't addressing him though. "Namely what the fucking hell you're doing here, James."

uroboros suppresses a wince at the hostile tone. 007 doesn't seem to share his reservations, if the blindingly charming grin he throws over his shoulder is anything to go by. Then again, can he really expecting common sense from a man who courts death for a living?

"Just doing my job," Bond states with the sort of easy carelessness one might associate with a quick glance outside the window to check whether the clouds have cleared yet.

If anything, Bond's clear dismissal seems to raise his fellow agent's hackles though. And from the small smirk that twitches along his cheeks for a moment, uroboros has a feeling that Bond damn well knows that.

Speaking of dysfunctional relationships, uroboros thinks with the tired resignation of someone who has spent many a family location locked in a car with three other children for multiple hours.

"This mission is mine," Trevelyan growls, voice deepening as he does so. The muscles in his forearms tense and then relax again as he flexes his hands. uroboros finds himself mesmerised by the sight — and vaguely worried. A fist fight inside a car is hardly desirable when you are also inside said car. And driving 90 miles per hour. "I haven't spent twenty-seven months of my life hunting these bastards down, just for you to sweep in at the last second and pull a fucking Bond Move™ on me!"

uroboros doesn't think he's imagining the capital letters. Or the trademark, for that matter. From the way Bond tilts his head in inquiry, glacial blue eyes warming with intrigue, he isn't the only one to pick up on that.

"A Bond Move™, Alec? Really?" 007 drawls mockingly.

"Oh, you know exactly what I'm talking about." Trevelyan sneers. uroboros can't decide whether the aggression fuelling it is genuine or not.

"Jealousy is not a good look on you."

Trevelyan laughs, and this time uroboros knows it's fake. "Everything's a good look on me."

As enjoyable as 006's and 007's game is, uroboros wishes they would shut up already. He's too tired to properly appreciate the show — planning murder is terrible on one's sleeping hours — and the dull ache in his right leg hasn't let up yet. Falling down the stairs truly isn't preferable to walking, uroboros will attest to that. He presses his hand on top of his knee, which thankfully doesn't seem to be sprained. The pain sharpens, but uroboros doesn't mind. It gives his racing mind something to focus on, blends out the dizzying, white noise of too many unknowns and none of the security and foresight his plans usually entail. Which is par the course, considering said plans involve two Double-0s. uroboros has pretty much given up on foolproof plans for the foreseeable future.

"Would you mind resolving your personal issues with each other at an undetermined time in the not-foreseeable future?" he interrupts with dryness that is driven more by exhaustion than annoyance.

A moment of silence passes. Oddly, it doesn't ease the pressure building behind uroboros' temples. It only makes him feel like a parent of two unruly and ultimately unrepentant children. He hopes the sensation will pass soon.

Sadly, the peace doesn't last for long. Even sadder is the fact that uroboros can't find it in himself to be even a little surprised.

It starts with a challenging smirk that glints in the rearview mirror like a cocked gun in a dark side alley, accompanied by a sinful invitation into 007's bed, and deteriorates quickly from there.

"I'll have you know, I am an excellent host."

"You're a blanket hog, Jamesy. And an awful sharer."

"Is that the thanks I get for leaving half the gunmen to you?"

"Six out of twenty-two is not half, and you know it."

Later, uroboros will find out, is what men like 006 and 7 look like when they're balancing on the precarious line between finishing a mission and coming back from a mission. This is what monsters are like when scrambling to regain their human façades, feeble though they may be. And like a thunderstorm caught in a glass bottle — contained but not safe — like a wild wolf faced with a leash, they crackle, and shake, and growl. Let the raw violence pour out of them in wild rivers, rather than drown helplessly in its flood.

What uroboros is witnessing in this moment are two Double-0 agents dulling their claws on the safest, most convenient target available: each other.

But at this point, he doesn't yet know that. All uroboros knows, is this: he has just ended five lives, been thrown down a set of stairs, and his entire body aches in places he doesn't think are supposed to ache. The two agents with him, meanwhile, seem determined to waste all their energy fighting each other. Over him.

"Says the one clinging to my mission."

"If anything he's my employer."

"This is ridiculous!" uroboros snaps, tired of being talked about like a favourite toy that's only desired for the fact that nobody else has it yet. "Now can we please act like the grown men I assume we all are?"

Trevelyan glowers at Bond. "You heard him."

"Only if you take your hands of my hacker."

uroboros closes his eyes against what feels like a truly monstrous, oncoming headache. He hasn't even made it into the official custody of MI6 yet, and he is already regretting his decision.

Maybe he should have tried his hand at world-domination instead.

They make it back to London, and the heart of MI6, in one piece. Somehow. Strong pain medication plays a significant role in the outcome, uroboros is sure of it.

As it turns out, MI6 does have use for a man of his abilities. But then, that was never the question, was it?

uroboros spends his first three weeks back in Britain in containment. It's only half power play — too much about uroboros remains unknown, even in spite of his general cooperation. His birth name has yet to be discovered, the first twenty years of his life a complete unknown. And even when it comes to the identity uroboros has created for himself, many questions are left unanswered.

uroboros, after all, has only taken credit for three great hacks. He never does confirm that those three were the only ones he committed.

The hacker's stubborn silence on personal matters makes people in all the wrong positions twitchy. When one of their own, agent 006, whose standing has been precarious even before his latest undercover mission, breaks him out of his cell after three weeks — as announced, though only M and Bond will be aware of that particular fact — this does not help to assuage their fears. Neither would the knowledge that Bond had done nothing to stop him, not that M will share this particular tidbit with anyone.

uroboros, who doesn't appreciate cages of any kind, is hard-pressed to care about hurt feelings. Instead of disappearing, burning MI6 to the ground or whatever other, dramatic notion the various politicians in play have probably had, uroboros uses his newfound freedom to buy himself dinner. Then he goes flat-hunting.

After that, an agreement is struck. Undoubtedly helped along by money and favours the likes of which uroboros prefers to remain ignorant of. There are, after all, quite a few people who have their own reasons for wanting to keep uroboros firmly at MI6.

And so uroboros joins the TSS as a lowly IT-assistant, and disappears into the forgettable crowd of coders, IT specialists, and inventors, whose names and faces never make it onto the frontpage of an international newspaper the way Double-0 agents' are known to.

He doesn't lose touch with Trevelyan and Bond precisely. It's just that both Double-0s are soon sent out on new, other missions, and uroboros, who is faced with suspicion and distrust from all sides and does not have the clearance to assist either, doesn't go looking.

[Here is what uroboros will never tell anyone: In the five hours and twenty three minutes following his escape from Austria, he sees more emotions on Trevelyan's face than he has seen in the entire time they've spent together. More and more, Trevelyan sheds the skin of the silent bodyguard, and steps into the role of the mischievous, troublesome Double-0 agent who is most cordial with a man as deadly as he himself is. It's not a development uroboros dislikes per se. It is not a development he likes either.

uroboros doesn't know what to do with a man who is more than a blank canvas, free for uroboros to paint him however he likes. He doesn't know what to do with a man who breaks his orders at the drop of a hat to greet him with a smug smirk and a challenging, "You coming or what?"

He doesn't know what to do with a man whom he looks in the eyes and sees someone look back.

Here is what uroboros will never admit to himself: Looking at James Bond, what he sees is a handsome face and a razor sharp smile. Is his sister's pale face, lifeless and all the more beautiful for it. Is his brother's bloodied knuckles. Is what's left of his family — the only people in the world who have ever mattered enough to be his — tearing itself apart in the wake of an implosion none of them had seen coming.

It's not blame, exactly, but the difference is a negligible one.]

Two months after Austria, after giving up Ω and becoming uroboros, he lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling. The room is empty, safe for the thin mattress uroboros is lying on and a small chest filled with carefully folded clothes, there is no furniture. The walls are an ugly shade of white, the colour peeling off near the edges, and there is a small dent where a previous tenant threw the door open too often.

uroboros holds no particular feelings for his current home, be they positive or negative. Home, as a rule, has never been a building. And right now, uroboros feels the loss more keenly than he has in a long time. Right now, he feels a crushing emptiness, that goes far beyond the sad state of his room.

This must be what is left of a person, when all the things that make them human, all the cords that attach them to others, all the cables that make them care, have been torn out. Leaving nothing but a hollowed-out shell behind.

There is no uroboros. There is no Ω. There is nothing there that holds him, keeps him tethered to anything worthwhile. He is weightless, is empty and bereft and incomplete, and it's the most terrifying sensation he has ever experienced. There is no one and nothing but the ever-present darkness that swallows shadows like him and never lets them resurface.

A movement yanks him out of it. uroboros jerks violently, feels like he's been left dangling over a steep cliff for hours, to be suddenly pulled back and expected to stand on his own legs again. There's a brief moment that crystallises itself in the brightest, sharpest sense of relief uroboros has ever felt. The kind of gratefulness that stems from undeserved forgiveness and spared lives.

Then he realises that the movement is not a figment of his imagination. Is real. Is a threat.

A thing most people don't give uroboros is this: He always sleeps with a loaded gun in easy reach.

"You shot Bond."

uroboros doesn't grimace, but it's a near thing. He's not sure how he imagined his next meeting with the formidable head of MI6 — whose grey hair seem to be a manifestation of the steel in her spine, rather than a sign of growing age — would go, but this isn't it.

"He broke into my home unannounced," is the deadpan reply uroboros settles on. He holds M's glare, though it does take more effort than most other people require.

M's eyes are like small mirrors that reflect nothing back at him safe what he sees and knows already. Slowly, her thin lips crack into a smile just as dangerous. "I must admit, I've had my doubts."

She's not talking about Bond anymore, and they both know it.

"U." It's the only concession on his name situation that she will allow. uroboros has a feeling he is lucky to get as much.

"M," he replies in turn. Then he turns on his heels and leaves. He has a medical-shy agent to hunt down.

To uroboros' relief, Bond is the kind of person who doesn't take getting shot personal. Although being well-practiced at stitching up wounds undoubtedly works in his favour.

To everyone's utter lack of surprise, Alec Trevelyan thinks the entire incident hilarious.

[What MI6 will never know is this: The next time a Double-0 breaks into uroboros' home, he stays, and uroboros lets his steady, sure touch anchor him to a world that has no hold on him. Both are fully clothed and their only connection is the arm thrown over uroboros' chest, firmly pressing him down, but it's intimitate in a way they refuse to acknowledge.

And it's not perfect — because though uroboros is physically weighed down by the presence of someone else, his body feels almost like too thin a shell to keep his soul contained, like a full glass swaying from side to side, right on the brick of spilling over — but uroboros breathes through it until it's close enough.]

The first time Q takes on the moniker Q, 006 almost dies.

[Here is what Q doesn't pay attention to: It takes two years before MI6 begins to actually trust uroboros — now christened U by M of all people. As the name spreads, most having never been fond of the term uroboros anyways, U soon learns that people assume 'U' to be his title rather than a replacement for his name. In an agency as fond of monikers as MI6, U supposes it is a reasonable conclusion. That still doesn't quell his amusement over the curiosity he faces when agents try to figure out where his place on the hierarchy is.

This guessing game is kept all the more interesting by the fact that, though U is never seen handling anything above the lowest of security clearances, two of MI6's most infamous agents have supposedly been seen around him multiple times. There are even those who claim U has shot one of them — 007 at that. And like sharks drawn to fresh blood in clear sea water, field agents and Double-0s alike draw their circles around U. Who remains rather unimpressed — which is to say oblivious, which is to say he simply doesn't care to notice — to the attention he's gathered.

Neither Alec Trevelyan nor James Bond suffer the same oversight. And Double-0 agents — these two in particular — do not share well.]

It's supposed to be a simple mission. Actually, it's not supposed to be a mission at all, which is the only reason U initially has any part in it. Even so, he is at the very bottom of the list. But after two other technicians call in sick, a third just broke his arm in an incident that no one can prove involved 006, and a fourth has managed to not shop up on time again, U becomes an attractive option.

R — Boothroyd's second in command, a middle-aged woman with flinty eyes and a perpetual scowl that has the power to make even Double-0 agents hesitant to mess with her — is the one to call him in. "Congratulations, you're our Quartermaster," are the exact words she uses.

It takes U four precious seconds to process what R carefully isn't saying. By that point, apparently, his right to protest has passed, and R turns to begin delegating U's daily responsibilities to some other, lucky bastard. Not that there are that many responsibilities to begin with.

Whenever the Quartermaster leaves the sanctuary of MI6 for a foreseeable, public occasion in his official capacity, there is at least one double out and in play. U has never seen himself as one of them — which is not to say that he has never considered becoming Quartermaster, he has to keep himself occupied somehow after all — but it's abundantly clear that his opinion isn't relevant. And that in spite of how many important people still hate to be reminded of his existence again.

Not that U blames them for backing down in the face of R's ruthlessness. Some fights are better off not fought.

He accepts his fate with the grace of a younger brother who has grown up enduring his sister's obsession with dressing people up. All things considered, running around London with an entourage of four bodyguards is going to be more interesting than fixing Mitchell's coding yet again anyways. U is convinced of this right up until he learns that one of his bodyguards is 006 — undoubtedly M's punishment for the aforementioned incident involving a Q branch member's broken arm.

At that point, U knows for sure that his day will be interesting. Things never manage to stay boring with 006 close by.

U's prediction comes true a mere two hours later, when he finds himself locked into a small, cosy internet café with two dead bodyguards — one a turncoat, who shot the first, but was thankfully taken out by 006 before he could point out U among the dozen other, wide-eyed civilians — three living ones, albeit spread across the entire café, and at least six gunmen.

Perhaps it's arrogance, but U has the suspicion it's not the Quartermaster he is pretending to be that's the target. If nothing else, both Omega and uroboros made many enemies — and they aren't the only ones.

What's worse than the attackers themselves is the tech they're using. If U didn't know every weapon he has ever built by heart, he would have sworn he had outfitted them himself. From their high-quality protective vests to the odd-looking tasers that are definitely not set on stun.

U is kneeling behind an overturned table, huddled closely together with a young girl who looks about seventeen and is recording the entire event with her smartphone. Just thinking about how many channels he'll have to wipe in the aftermath of this disaster exhausts U. But that will come later.

For the time being, U reminds himself that he needs to focus on staying alive. And keeping Trevelyan alive. Who, in true Double-0 style, has taken the 'don't move, do as we say, and we might not shoot you' speech at the start of this mess as a challenge. U would snarl some very unfriendly truths into the agent's ear, if Trevelyan wasn't currently on the other side of the room, wreaking havoc.

He does an admirable job of it, U has to admit. Not that he's ever doubted Trevelyan's ability to create chaos merely by breathing. It's a different matter entirely to bear witness to 006' prowess in the field however. Especially when compared to the way U's two remaining, well-trained bodyguards handle the situation. There is a difference between handling a weapon and being a weapon. One that Trevelyan, for all his brash taunts and undaunted laughter, underlines brilliantly. And for once, U is sure it's not a point 006 is even aware has to be made.

Watching Trevelyan take on armed gunmen with his fists and a lot of pent-up frustration — no doubt fueled by Psych's refusal to clear him for field work these past three weeks — is as awe-inspiring as it is horrifying. And also stupid.

U really can't stress that last part enough.

He doesn't know where Trevelyan and Bond have gotten the impression that they're bulletproof from, but should he ever find out, there will be consequences. As it is, it's a miracle that 006 lasts as long as he does, despite all his training. There is only so much a one-man army can achieve when outnumbered, outgunned, and out in the open. Also, there are civilians to consider. Or at least, U dearly hopes Trevelyan is considering them. He would hate to explain to M how twelve people got shot in the middle of London on a Double-0's watch. Of course he'll probably just leave the explaining to Trevelyan. U is willing to share credit like that.

Only three of their attackers are left standing when one of them makes a move in U's direction. For one horrifying moment, U fears he will end up a hostage in one of life's baffling twists to indulge mindless clichés. Thankfully, he is spared the embarrassment. Instead he finds himself scrambling backwards to stay out of reach. A mistake that leaves him open on the floor without shelter — and it forces 006 to leave the corner he's been fighting in, give up the limited cover the walls provide.

The taser comes out of nowhere. Or so it will seem later, even after U has rewatched the security tapes for the thirty-second time. Thin straps hit Trevelyan right into the chest. One that U unfortunately knows very well isn't sufficiently shielded against the kind of voltage these tasers have proven to carry. From the barely perceptible stutter in Trevelyan's fluent movements, he knows it too.

Unlike U — who freezes in place down to his very core, struck by that breathless moment in which loss, inevitability, and denial dance in perfect tandem across time's edge — and the other spectators though, Trevelyan also knows something else a fraction of a second before the rest of the world realises it: The taser isn't loaded.

The strings do, however, make for a guillotine quite nicely. U forces himself to take a deep breath when the aftermath leaves three more men dead and Trevelyan standing. He doesn't have to force himself not to be bothered by the violent ends they meet. They did try to touch his agent after all.

When it's over, Trevelyan bounces over to U, looking remarkably like a three year old on a sugar high. He checks U over quickly and efficiently. It's a well-practiced ritual, thanks to the months they've spent side by side, and U doesn't miss the way Trevelyan doesn't fully turn his back on any of the other agents. Or the civilians for that matter. He wears a faint smirk as he stares down at U though — as always taking delighted pleasure in the proof that he is insignificantly taller than U — so U knows they're fine. Pissed off, but fine. MI6 has a way of taking attacks on home soil personal.

On the way back to U's tiny flat later that day Trevelyan is quiet. U considers the irony at ending the day with an assigned bodyguard, 006 at that, but he has a headache from the collective yelling of the many people who wanted to make their opinion on the incident known, so he let's it go.

"You could've told me," are the first words Trevelyan says to him, now that they're away from prying eyes and curious ears.

U presses his head against the cool glass of the window. Usually he delights in these games with 006, where neither says what they mean, get the message across through hints and gestures and context instead. Today, he has been shot at, dragged into three crisis management meetings that got exactly nothing done, and watched his agent get shot. By a taser, but it still counts.

"Told you what?" U asks, making no effort to mask his exhaustion.

Trevelyan turns his head to smile bitingly at him, and U concentrates on not tensing at the blatant disregard 006 is showing the road whilst driving. "That you put the taser to stun."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." Trevelyan scoffs. "That taser just happened to fail the first time it was used."

U doesn't bother correcting 006. Where fights are concerned, a Double-0's word is as good as fact, and if Trevelyan says the taser hadn't been used before, then it hasn't been used. It's a curious thing for sure, considering how effective the others were. But that doesn't change U's answer.

"Apparently it did," he agrees calmly. When the only reaction that evokes is a huffed breath, the tension underneath Trevelyan's joyeval mask tightening to the point where the first cracks can be noted, U resigns himself to a more elaborate explanation. "What you're suggesting isn't simply unlikely or illegal, 006. Short of manually messing with it, which was not possible due to the combat situation we were in, I couldn't have done anything. Just because these tasers happen to be automated and are a work of art-" which is not an exaggeration, U's biggest regret of the day is not being in at his workstation right now, playing with it, "-doesn't mean I can just shut them down. Even I need a network to hack into, 006."

U doesn't turn to check, but he feels Trevelyan's steady gaze on him all the same.

"I'm not going to-" Trevelyan starts, then trails off. There's something meaningful in the pause that follows, but U is in no mood to decode it.

"It's impossible, Trevelyan." U closes his eyes, tired of the conversation already. "You were lucky. It happens." Not on his watch ever again — because U refuses to leave his agent's life up to luck — but that's besides the point.

"I'm a Double-0." Trevelyan growls, presses down on the gas pedal harder than necessary. His words are quieter though, no longer aggression, just the bloody stubbornness he is so well-known for. "We don't get lucky."

But they do. They do all the time.

It's the first time U has this particular argument with Trevelyan, but it won't be the last. Somehow Bond gets involved as well, the both of them coming up with increasingly ridiculous ways U is apparently watching their backs. It's all in good fun of course.

Except for that hard glint in Trevelyan's eyes, that cool assessment in Bond's gaze.

"Maybe you've got a guardian angel watching over you," U tells them at one point, his lips twitching just so. Because everyone knows that Heaven has little interest in matters of the Double-0s. It's Hell that sits up and pays close attention.

They don't believe him, though they hide it well. U can't decide whether their disbelief is born out of an unacknowledged hope that they have someone looking out for them or the inherent mistrust they regard everyone with.

Of course he knows. Their world doesn't leave room for romantic tales, and men like Bond, Trevelyan and U have no use for them anyways.

[Here's the thing MI6 keeps track of: Alec Trevelyan was declared dead three times, wounded in the line of duty twenty-seven times, and his psychological evaluation forms are a thing of beautiful horror that has caused the development of many a compulsive twitch. James Bond has only returned wounded twenty-three times, though he makes it up with five death certificates, and a enmity with the Psych department that's swiftly approaching legendary status. Each and every mission they're sent on is a success. Eventually.]

[Here's the thing MI6 doesn't keep track of: When Bond barely makes it out of a mad business manager's private torture chamber alive, the surveillance stationated around the house fails due to a power shortage. When Trevelyan jumps out of a four storey building, there is a giant bouncy castle conveniently on the street beneath, placed there due to a paper getting filed incorrectly. When Bond gets shot by a sniper in Spain, the only reason he isn't dead instantly is a malfunctioning light bulb that explodes over his head half a second before the shot is fired. When Trevelyan is drowning in the North Sea, he is pulled aboard a small tucker boat that is miles off course due to issues with the equipment.]

The first time Q kisses James Bond, he does it because he can.

There is something oddly thrilling in being close to a breathing legend like James Bond. To know that for all the times his strong hands have ended lives, all the people who have thought to control Bond and sign their own death warrants for it, all the times the agent discards others orders and opinions in the firm conviction that he knows better, the violence barely leashed under scarred skin, if U were to step into his personal space and kiss him, Bond would let him.

So he does. And Bond lets him.

It makes U wonder what else Bond would let him do sometimes. Feels the occasional itch to find out. He doesn't understand why the agent indulges him, why he charms and jokes where he could threaten and use, but he knows that Bond does.

Maybe that's all that should matter — but it isn't. Bond is a fantastic kisser, U has to admit as he takes a regretful step back. But U isn't the kind of man to enter games he doesn't understand unprepared.

The first time Alec kisses Q, he doesn't see it coming at all.

Granted, U — who is still U at this point, despite his brief stint as Q — has a clear preference for computers over people, for he isn't very good at understanding the latter. Not that he is blind. U knows of Alec Trevelyan's interest in him. Off-mission 006 isn't a subtle man in general, and especially not in this particular matter. Obsessive stalker is a much more fitting description.

But despite the occasional hint or comment about the nature of said interest, U has never taken Alec Trevelyan seriously. Like all agents of his calibre, 006 wields desire and sex appeal like a lethal weapon, with the skill that guarantees he never misses and always kills. Therefore U has taken the lustful gazes and playful leers with a barrel of salt, and Trevelyan has done nothing to dissuade that assumption. If anything he's done his best to play right into it.

So, yes. When Alec Trevelyan walks up to U on a Saturday morning just a few doors down his apartment and pulls him into a kiss, U is very much caught off guard. He is even more surprised by his own receptiveness of said kiss.

True, U is no stranger to the pleasure of intimacy, affection or sex — no matter what the Q branch betting pool claims — but it's not something he indulges in often. But Trevelyan, who has spent the past year and a half slowly digging himself through U's walls, hasn't registered as a threat in a long time. Registers as pleasant company by now. U simply never stopped to consider how this fact might mix with something a little more physical.

Apparently, Trevelyan has. U relaxes into the warm hold, that has all the secure and none of the trapped sensations attached to it. It's not rational exactly, but Trevelyan is steady and sure, and his lips are a gentle question, and U finds himself unable to deny his agent anything.

Time passes. U rises slowly through the ranks, not so much because of lacking skills but because of bureaucracy and pesky security clearances. But he does rise, and in an odd way, U delights in the challenge. Machines he can hack, but people? U has never had to gain so many people's trust before and it's refreshing.

Yet even that challenge can't last forever. Luckily, U has inadvertently adopted himself two double-0 agents, who, not unlike stray cats declaring themselves at home, are keen on keeping things interesting. On and off missions.

Things like break-ins in the middle of the night and food left in places that U definitely didn't cook have become common, to the point where U would believe his flat haunted if he wasn't personally acquainted with the ghosts in question. That doesn't include the things they consider harmless enough to bring home, the states they consider healthy enough to come home in or their utter inability to not leave blood on the carpet. Not that U has tried very hard to curb them off those habits. But then, nobody should nominate him as a moral compass for anyone, ever, as it is.

Still. Occasionally, U wonders what it says about his relationship with the both of them that the only reason he hasn't offered them a key to his apartment yet is that he knows all too well they'd take it as an insult to their lock-picking skills.

U doesn't come over to James' flat very often, and never does so uninvited. One simply doesn't sneak up on a double-0 agent. As such, when U enters through the unlocked door and doesn't see James anywhere, he is immediately suspicious.

When he finds the picture on the otherwise empty dining table, U knows it isn't a coincidence. He was meant to find it. He was meant to know that James bloody Bond had left it there for him to find.

Taking a steadying breath — and hating himself a little for the faint shudders running along his tense muscles — U steps closer and stares down at his sister's smiling face.

Vesper had always been pretty, but only when she had hit twenty had she truly blossomed into the woman their mother could have become if she hadn't let the weight of four children, who couldn't love her like she loved them, pull her down. Reaching out slowly, U hesitates, leaves his hand hovering in midair, right above the photograph. The picture shows Vesper at her most beautiful: head thrown back mid-laugh, her hair spilling down her shoulders in artful waves, eyes sparkling as they look up at the man by her side. U had always known that Vesper loved Bond, of course. This though? This is the first time he sees it. He's not sure why it makes a difference, but it does.

U drops his hand back at his side.

He doesn't turn around to check whether James is here, watching him. He doesn't need to.

"You've been waiting for me to kill you from the get-go," U states. His tone leaves no room for doubt.

Because there is no room for forgiveness and second chances in the world they live in. There is no letting go and moving on. Part of him wants to ask why James is doing this, why he's confronting him now of all times. But the thing is, U may not understand people, but he does understand James, in this at least. James will await his death patiently, invite it in time and again — only U hasn't taken him up on the offer. And James is too much of a double-0, has long ceased being anything else, not to casually court the reaper once more.

Or maybe, U supposes, it is easier to invite betrayal, rather than wait for what you consider inevitable come to pass.

Finally, U manages to tear his eyes away from the sight of one of his sister's last, happy moments. When he faces James, what he notices first is that Alec isn't there. Is that they're standing in a brightly lit room near the windows, and Alec is undoubtedly out there somewhere, possibly with a sniper rifle. The question which one he is there to protect is one best not asked. There are many things between the three of them that they don't acknowledge, and their ties of loyalty are one of them. Too many broken hearts lie in a promise of unfailing faithfulness that, at the end of the day, can not be given to more than one person.

"U," James says softly, and nothing more.

U wonders whether there are tears in his eyes. He's grown tired of crying over Vesper a long time ago.

"Vengeance isn't my style," he says, and it tastes like a lie, even though he means it.

He doesn't think James believes him. U is unsurprised when he learns that this doesn't keep James from pulling him close and pressing a barely felt kiss against his temple, soft like the brush of a butterfly's wings. It's as close to an apology as he will get.

Theirs is not a love story.

It can't be, for they aren't men of eternal vows and tearful declarations. It can't be, because whatever bond it is the three of them share, it's not one of love.

U will never categorize it as such. He will learn to recognise the warm surge of affection, the welcoming burn of desire, the startlingly stubborn dedication. But never will he add two and two to equal four.

Because U has grown up with a love unlike anything he's ever seen, and though it may not be a romantic love, may not even be a healthy one, he has yet to witness anything that could ever measure up against such a bond. U has witnessed the brilliance out of two people dividing through zero successfully, and now he struggles to adapt what he knows to be true to the rules and ideals society offers.

U isn't in love, and neither do his agents love him. But they are his agents — 006 and 007, Trevelyan and Bond, Alec and James — and that means something, even if U can't quite put a finger on why that is.

Here is what MI6 can never know: Alec doesn't promise U the world, doesn't even promise to follow him wherever he goes. For all his charm and lies, Alec doesn't make any promise at all to U. But his every touch feels like a brand, every kiss like a chain that ties them closer together. And Alec doesn't promise anything, but when M orders 005's death, Alec looks to U for the briefest of moments before he accepts the mission, and that is all that should ever be said on the matter.

James always makes promises. Not all of them he voices out loud, and the most important ones will never see the light of the day. But when he splays his hand possessively over U's chest, the weight sinks into him like the most steadfast of anchors, holds him in place when the rest of the world is adrift. And when he is declared dead for the sixth time, U receives a message on a burner phone he didn't know he had less than seven hours later. It's rare for James to intend to keep his word. U notices that it's becoming a bit of a habit where he is concerned though.

[Here is what Q will never know: When James Bond first begins to take down SHADE, it's done to establish a connection and, preferably, a rapport with the hacker uroboros. When he succeeds, the technology suddenly on his side more often than not, he gets himself captured. He is growing tired of playing hide and seek, and if his vague plan of forcing the hacker out into the open was reckless, than that's besides the point. Because it works.

It works. And the moment James Bond first comes face to face with uroboros, he starts planning his death. But uroboros — U — is playing a longer game than Bond initially gives him credit for. More importantly, Alec refuses to exit the game, long past the point of no return. Not that Bond is one to throw stones. He may not love the game, but he so loves to play.

Bond is no stranger to compromised agents. He has even turned a few himself. And although Alec hasn't betrayed Britain, might never betray Britain, there was a reason James didn't ask Alec to come with him and Vesper. And it wasn't because he thought Alec wouldn't follow. He doesn't report Alec though.

The thing is, James falls in love with women the way he loves countries; fast, hard, and unrelenting. It has never been identified as a risk before. Of course, Vesper has never asked James to turn against Britain, only to stop his fight for her. He knows better than to ask himself what he would have done if she'd wanted him to. She betrays him in the end, so it's a moot point anyways.

Because James will fight and kill and move on from the ones he loves if he has to. But he doesn't turn his back on them first. Not that James loves Alec, or U for that matter.

James doesn't fall in love with men. Every psych evaluation MI6 ever put him through will confirm this.]

Their lives — and their relationship, for that matter — are anything but normal. With three predators, two of them trained killers, living in close quarters, that's only to be expected. But for all the distance that comes with long-term missions, the frustration born out of long forced leaves and lots of physical therapy, there are moments when they fit so beautifully that it throws even U himself.

They're like a numeric code, a never-ending mathematical formula that's constantly in motion, he supposes. Only at the odd moment do the numbers align, but when they do, they do it perfectly, shaping the most brilliantly balanced triangle.

It strikes him during mornings like this one, where Alec leans against the doorframe to the small balcony, a cigarette dangling loosely from between his fingers, whilst James handles the stove with a calm competence that wouldn't be out of place on a award-winning chef, and U is buried under four of the fluffiest blankets, erasing the last evidence of his agents' latest exploits. He is warm and comfortable, and James doesn't ask how he prefers his tea, and Alec reaches for a pack of gums without seemingly thinking about it.

And U, who has never liked company, never enjoyed the presence of other people in his life, thinks that this, right now, is a good place to be in. It's a good place to stay.

Absently, he wonders whether this isn't as close to retirement as the three of them will ever get. None of their jobs are the kind you walk away from, after all.

"Come on, Q. Even Quartermasters have to eat," James teases. He hasn't stopped since rumours about Boothroyd finally retiring have first started.

Against better knowledge, U is beginning to get dangerously attached to that title. But now isn't the time to worry about such things. With a few confident key strikes, U shuts his laptop and joins his two agents with a smile that feels foreign on his lips, but familiar whenever he catches sight of it in a mirror. Vesper used to smile like this, he thinks, and the ache gets easier to bear every day.

Especially when you have two double-0s doing their very best to distract you from darker thoughts with jokes, and smirks, and touches that are never harmless but always welcome. His agents are infuriatingly capable like that. And smug about it too.

Yes, if this truly is retirement, then U can see what about the idea has drawn his sister in all those years ago.

He wonders whether she, too, would have grown bored with the reality of it eventually.

Four years later, on the 23rd of April, at 4:07pm every MI6-issued screen turns black. Two seconds later, the blackness fades to reveal a black snake biting its own tail. Underneath the symbol are three words, written in bold letters the colour of freshly spilled blood.

Miss me?

— A

Down on the lowest floor of the building, the Quartermaster of MI6 takes a sip from his cup of Earl Grey to hide a telling smirk.

The end.

Cut scenes

"uroboros is the beginning and the end. You can not have one without the other." The dying man chuckles, a raspy, broken sound that would make a lesser man wince. Raymond Kessler doesn't so much as twitch. "Believe me, I've tried. But where one is, the other will follow, and never do they serve any master but themselves." He tips his head back then, and smiles at something only he can see.

"You won't listen, of course. You will take it as a challenge, just like all the others. Many have tried, but like all of them you will fail. I'll look forward to seeing it. Men like you, they focus on the beginning in all his brilliance and brutality. They never see the end coming, soft-spoken and oh so final."

He laughs again, eyes shuttered, blood and spit running down his chin. He faces Kessler directly then, or so it appears, for his eyes refuse to focus on anything. He is long past the point of caring.

"And you know why?" his voice grows weaker as strength and breath leave him in equal measures, but there is a determination straightening his spine that has carried him through the past hours and days. And he will not go before he has not said his piece. "Because you yearn to keep what you find. Even when it isn't yours for the taking. Especially then, probably." Another chuckle. Unerring, blue eyes meet Raymond Kessler's for the last time, broken but undefeated. "Hell reserves a special place for men like us, who try to take what can only be given freely."

"Let's play hide and seek!" Aaron suggests, young face alight with an eager smile. "I'm it!"

Owen rolls his eyes. "You're not supposed to want to be it, A."

"Why not?" Aaron's grin slips, slides into something mischievous and calculating. "Everyone's always on the lookout for the ones in hiding. No one bothers to keep track of the seeker."

Their mother is a soft-spoken woman with intelligent eyes and a tired smile. It's only in retrospect that Vesper understands that her exhaustion isn't born out of a job she has no passion for or a marriage to a man she doesn't love. It's the people she does love with all her heart that are at fault.

It's Aaron, who bears her warm hugs with an expression of long-suffering amusement, long before he reaches the age typically associated with this kind of rejection. It's Owen, who is polite and affectionate, but always turns to his twin first and his parents second. It's Quin, who shrugs off inquiries and comfort, like rain dripping off his coat, a casual disregard that cuts deeper than words spoken in anger ever do.

It's Vesper herself, who is too busy watching over her siblings and searching for something she doesn't dare to name yet, to pay her mother the attention she undoubtedly deserves.

Despite all that, there are moments when Vesper seeks her mother out. Moments when she asks for advice even, though they grow rare by the time she is fourteen. After that, there is only one time Vesper remembers, where her mother sought her out on her own.

She is at the playground in their neighbourhood, watching Quin bowed over a book in the shade of a tree. Vesper isn't blind, she notices the glances some of the other children give her brother, so she pays close attention. Yet, occasionally, she can't keep her gaze from drifting over to where Aaron and Owen play with each other — and only ever with each other.

Her mother sits down besides her in an unhurried motion. Likewise she only breaks the silence a few minutes later, when she deems the time to be right.

"You shouldn't envy them so."

Vesper turns, startled out of her thoughts, but her mother is facing away from her. Towards the twins.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The denial slips over her lips easily, thoughtlessly. She is getting better at it, the lying. To others and to herself.

But her mother only shakes her head, a barely perceptible movement. "I know my children, Vesper," she says and is no trace of judgement nor condemnation in her words.

When she meets Vesper's startled gaze a beat later, the shadows under her eyes are almost black, but her eyes hold nothing but compassionate warmth. "The beauty of the rose is visible for all to see. But only those who hold her feel the pain of her thornes."

Vesper furrows her brows, but her mother's quiet, painful laugh locks the questioning words into the back of her throat. "Dreams are a beautiful, dangerous thing, my dear daughter. But obsession, like love, is a force not to be taken lightly."

Years later, as the memories of her mother become blurred with time and negligence, Vesper still remembers those words. It doesn't save her, in the end, and in her final moments Vesper wonders if that isn't precisely the point.

"We can be in two places at once, O." Aaron chuckles. "We can do anything."

The first time Quin tries to kill James Bond, he blows the man's cover mid-way through his third, and as of yet most dangerous, mission. Then he leans back and watches the fall-out.

The second time, Quin traps Bond in an elevator whilst he is on the run from a dozen trigger-happy henchmen.

The third time, Quin, tired of watching Bond survive against all odds, hacks into the plane Bond boards to bring the entire thing down. His attack is thwarted by another hacker. One with a familiar signature.

Many, many attempts later, Quin resigns himself to the inevitable. He is a brilliant hacker, but so is his opponent. And whilst he is too good to lose, he can not win this battle either. Quin would take matters into his own hands, but by that point, he is certain that the damn bastard has eyes on him at all times — turnabout is fair play after all. And neither of them has ever played fair.

So instead he seeks out a man powerful and resourceful enough to pull off a physical attack electronics won't be able to stop. And if he has to hit his brothers where it will hurt the most, then that is just added incentive.

Quin knows he is playing a game not all of them will survive, but he finds himself hard-pressed to care. The one he loved the most - the only one he loved - is already dead. And Quin has always been the coldest of the four.

"He's mine," Alec mutters later that night, after they've dropped uroboros off at MI6 for questioning, had a charming chat with M - involving a matter-of-fact "You've got three weeks, then he's out of here," from Alec that neither M nor James acknowledge, though they certainly don't forget - and escape Medical fairly unscratched. "Get your own."

He doesn't sound angry or aggressive anymore, just resigned. James pulls out a bottle of high-quality vodka from his hidden stash that he keeps around precisely for occasions such as this.

"You've never cared before," he points out reasonably.

Alec snorts and takes a gulp straight from the bottle. Glasses are wasted on conversations like this one. "Like you didn't with Vesper?"

At that, James falls silent. Briefly, he considers telling Alec. About how uroboros has her eyes. About that reflexive twitch of his fingers, slightest tilt of his head. Knowing Alec though, he already knows.

Besides there was a death sentence in Vesper's lifeless eyes that James has been waiting for a long time to come to pass.

"Learn to share," is what he ends up saying with a shrug that pulls at the stitches in his shoulder.

Alec tips the bottle back even further, almost overbalancing as he does so. When he comes up for air, he's laughing.

The morning after their vicious fight with Quin, Owen wakes up alone, with a bright pink post-it note stuck to his forehead.

Tag, I'm it!

*screen fades to black*

And so, my dear readers, I leave you with one question only: Who is Q?

[And what do you think of this fic? Was the ending satisfying? Did you enjoy the twists? Please let me know!]

I hope you enjoyed the madness that is Scarecrow, and maybe I've even inspired your love for this particular pairing :)