OpalescentGold: So, I gave in and let the 00Q fandom swallow me. Sorry, tried to resist but it was futile. This was meant to be a light writing exercise and instead became a complete monster.

I, obviously, do not own the James Bond Franchise. I would be so much richer - and happier - if I did.

Based on this prompt: Soulmate au where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker/whatever the hell you want, it will show up on your soul mates skin as well.

No one quite knows how the whole deal works, not in explicit detail anyway. Not even the most brilliant scientists of their time, to their everlasting irritation and despite years of research and conjecture. The religious and the superstitious and the ones in love laugh and tell them: this is beyond human understanding.

When the boy who will one day be known by the moniker of '007' is born into the world, this lack of understanding has not changed. And will not be changed for some time yet.

Like all little boys and girls, James grows up with the knowledge that his soulmate is somewhere out there. Waiting for him. Someone uniquely meant for him and only him.

"Here, James," his mother says to him when he is five, handing him a pack of small, colourful, felt-tipped pens. They are made specifically for this purpose, long-lasting and harmless when applied to human skin but vivid enough for artistic use and childish enjoyment.

"Write whatever you want. Do it often enough, and your soulmate will be able to see it," she encourages as all good mothers do and leaves him with a pretty drawing book full of patterns for him to trace, vines and flowers and waves and lightning.

James smiles and shrugs and does as he's told. It's fun, so he doesn't complain.

The intellectuals of the world may not know much about how the rules of soulmates operate, but they have figured out a few things, through trial and error mostly.

Before first contact, whether it be by voice or by sight, the only things transmitted between soulmates are empty of meaning. Whether it happens to be words or designs or anything in-between, your significant other will see it show up on their skin only if there is no true intention behind it.

A thoughtless note. A rapid sketch for later. A random doodle.

It's why writing your name, address, and a time and a date on your palm doesn't work, much to the despair of more than half the human population. Not unsurprisingly, the absent-minded, forgetful types who scribble down everything on their arms have the highest chance of finding their soulmates.

If you are lucky enough to find your soulmate, well. The scientists are rather uncertain as to what exactly happens next, but they suspect, and have suspected for the past decade, that soulmates in love, truly in love, can actually communicate purposefully through ink on their skin.

Of course, no one has yet to prove anything, but at five years old, James hardly cares, or knows, about any of that. He will. In time.

He gets into the habit easily enough. Whatever comes to mind, he marks down on his body. Little drawings of his favourite characters from his best beloved stories. Stars. Triangles. Pretty snowflakes. Anything and everything at all.

Soon, there's not enough room on his hands and arms. James shrugs and starts on his legs.

Nothing from his soulmate ever shows up on his skin. Sometimes, James feels bummed about that, but then something flashy inevitably catches his attention, and he forgets all about it.

James grows up and up and up. He goes to Switzerland and then Germany because his father's job keeps them moving around. On some level of consciousness, the lack of stability is troubling, even as he revels in the new culture and experiences. His skin remains stained with odd, everyday things, although he never claims to be a good artist.

Still, his soulmate doesn't respond. He's starting to think he doesn't have a soulmate, despite how ridiculous his mother claims that notion of being.

"James!" Gregory, one of the friends he's made this time around, comes running up to him with a wide grin. "Look, look!" He wrenches up his sleeve and proudly shows off a wobbly pink heart. "It's my soulmate's! Awesome, huh?"

James grins despite the uncomfortable stone weighing down his stomach. "Yeah, that's great!"

"I wonder what's she like? It is a girl, right? I mean, it's pink and everything. But if it's a boy, I won't mind. My ma says there's a 60/40 chance, but I mean, they'll be my soulmate either way. What's your soulmate like? Do you know anything?" Gregory spits out in an excited rush.

James grimaces a little and sticks his hands in his pockets for lack of anything else to do. "I…no, not really."

"Oh." Briefly, Gregory makes a sympathetic face. "Well, you shouldn't worry. My ma says most people don't find their soulmate until they're in their twenties or something. I hope I find my soulmate before that, though. How bout you?"

James hums noncommittally, scuffing at the dirt with his shoe. "I guess so."

Then, his parents die in a climbing accident, leaving him alone.

For a long time after that, James doesn't really think about his soulmate. He still writes down random stuff on his skin, but a habit is a habit. He pushes any thoughts of his mother out of his mind as soon as they appear, and that includes everything she ever taught him about soulmates.

Instead, he suffers through tutoring at Skyfall Lounge for a year before wrecking havoc at Eton College. The curfew regulations there are stupid, so he violates them. Repeatedly. It helps take his mind off other things.

To his amusement, it's actually a little fun with one of the maids that gets him expelled.

James enjoys his time at Fettes College more, despite the increased amount of homework. He's always been an active, athletic boy, and that has never been truer than now. Rather than think about the silence in his 'home' and on his skin, he throws himself into competitions.

He wins most of them with a grin, too.

Boxing is great. When he boxes, he can forget about everything but winning the match, throwing punch after punch, revelling in the blood rushing through his veins and the heart pounding in his ears. Just for good measure, he forms the first intermural judo league for the public school circuit.

When he's not busy with that, he's skiing and climbing during the term breaks with a local Austrian instructor, Hannes Oberhauser. He isn't going to let one small accident stop him from doing what he's loved. His parents would hate that, be disappointed in him.

Oberhauser gets James. He doesn't try to push and prod, lets him just...be. The counsellors have never understood that. James likes him.

Naturally, Oberhauser disappears without a word. Well. What else was he expecting?

James graduates Fettes College at seventeen. His skin has never borne a single mark from his soulmate.

He accepts that as his due as well.

James goes to the Britannia Royal Naval College. It seems only right. The only constant in his life is England, always England, and he's always been the patriotic type.

He wants to serve his country. Where else would be better than the navy? He isn't afraid of getting his hands dirty. It's not as if there is anyone left to care whether he lives or dies.

James likes this place. Sure, the instructors aren't much on moderating their voices or going easy on them, but he doesn't want easy. The training comes to him as easy as breathing. It's good, better than the most vigorous competition he's participated in, the most brutal fight he's fought.

To his disgust, there are still curfews. He ignores them.

Three months after James turns eighteen, he's taking a short shower when he notices it. He has long since given up the habit of writing on his skin, and there's never any time to do so nowadays anyways. It's why the small green leaf on his upper right arm catches his attention so quickly.

James stares.

What the fuck?

It's shoddy work, despite the obvious quality of the green ink. The outline itself is bumpy. The veins inside are skewed. If his soulmate - again, what the bloody fuck? - was aiming for a work of art, he or she failed miserably. For the first time in a long while, he finds himself speechless.

"Bond! We have strategic operations in two minutes!" Erik, one of the more friendly guys, calls.

James shakes his head, wishing he can shake these new thoughts right out of his mind. "…yeah. Got it!"

He pushes the pathetic little leaf out of his mind and focuses on passing his latest test or, better yet, getting the highest marks. He refuses to think of the possibility that his soulmate is actually much, much younger than he is, because, damn it, he let the possibility of finding his soulmate go years ago.

This ugly little piece of... vegetation doesn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things.

It doesn't go away. Jesus Christ, it doesn't go away.

No, instead, the leaf is joined by more of its brethren. On his left arm, on his lower abdomen, on his upper right thigh. With the additional practice, the little leaves actually get better, aesthetically speaking. The occasional star, triangle, hexagon, flower, and house show up here and there, too.

James is at a loss for what to do. He's only thankful that all of the drawings are on relatively easy-to-cover places.

A month after that, letters start showing up. A, B, C, D, on his right knee. E, F, G, H, I, on his left shoulder. J, K, L, M, N, on his right shoulder. O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, on his left knee, in a small, more oval-than-circle shape. V, W, X, Y, Z, square over his heart.

James is horrified, now certain of his worst fear. Goddamn it, is his soulmate a kindergartner? What was the universe thinking? He doesn't have the time or inclination to deal with this new existential crisis, damn it! He was perfectly fine without his soulmate, thank you very much!

(He ignores the aching sense of loneliness in his chest, the haunting sorrow in his dreams. He is very good at practising denial.)

The only silver lining he can see is that, apparently, he or she does, in fact, use an alphabet he's familiar with. He's heard of random Chinese characters showing up on other, less fortunate, people's skin. Let's not even get into the hieroglyphics and obscure tribal symbols.

To stop thinking about bloody paedophilia, he returns his wholesome concentration to his training. He's doing well, very well, despite the many offences he's stacked up against himself. Just because some of his instructors can't handle being told they're wrong when they so clearly are…

Well, it's not like it's any of his business.

And James is starting to think about applying for work in Naval Intelligence.

He gets on HMS Exeter as an intelligence officer. With full recommendations even.

James thinks he has earned the right to be a little smug. Or a lot.

The ocean is magnificent in its power and beauty. He has always known this, of course, but knowing and knowing is different. He sinks into his position in the navy with enviable ease and is more than content when he collapses in bed every evening. Or morning, as it may be.

Operation Granby comes and goes, and James decides to switch to submarines. HMS Turbulent is interesting but somewhat boring. Restlessness begins to build in his muscles again, so, he volunteers for the Special Boat Service.

At least, he reasons, he'll be on the move.

SC3 and Underwater and Aquatic Training is easy. He doesn't hesitate to smirk and trounce his superiors and instructors at their own game. It's not his fault they all make it so effortless.

A bit more problematic is hiding the ink that continues to show up on his skin. Not exactly easy when he's practically shirtless and sometimes even pant-less for more than six hours. Really, all of these years and his soulmate decides to get off their ass at the worst possible time.

James adamantly refuses to consider that it's more than possible that when he wanted a sign of his soulmate's existence, they hadn't yet been born.

He buys one of those special spray-on bottles from a local store. Normal make-up can't hide the marks of your soulmate, but even this stuff can only cover the stains for a few hours. He doesn't want any questions from his comrades, though, so he's careful to apply it every morning after he shaves. The arrangement works well enough.

At least, it's words now. Even if he understands about as much as he did when it was just symbols.

Stupid Sherlock.

Stupid Mycroft.

Stupid Mummy.

Stupid Papa.

James gapes slightly when he first sees the words, showing up one after the other in the span of six weeks on his upper thighs. Apparently, his soulmate is both pouting and smart enough to want to keep their thoughts to themselves.

How old is this kid?

And what sort of names are 'Sherlock' and 'Mycroft'?

He chuckles before covering the words up. For a moment, he is tempted to search up the names he was given, but then he is told of the night limpet placement operation at Plymouth and dismisses his soulmate from his thoughts entirely.

James completes UAW training and goes on to Advanced Commando Parachute training at Brize Norton. Absently, he wonders if his life is going to be a string of different exercises, but quickly decides to actually listen to what their instructor is saying before he falls from 3000 metres up.

On a side note, his soulmate has graduated from writing down petulant insults against, presumably, their parents and their brothers to full-fledged sentences, sometimes paragraphs, about completely random subjects. On one memorable occasion, James has to conceal a rant on the behaviour and anatomy of ladybugs on his chest.

There are surprisingly few spelling errors when he bothers to check. He's almost impressed, but mostly just annoyed and horrified at the continued evidence of his soulmate's age. Thank God he's excellent at avoidance and faking ignorance.

After that, they decide to focus on basic mathematics.

It takes his soulmate about a week to go from addition and subtraction to multiplication and division. Then another two before the process is repeated with double-digit numbers. Triple-digit numbers. And…no signs of them stopping anytime soon. Four. Five.

More complicated sequences. Patterns by an addition of two. Multiplying by three. Subtraction of seven. Starting from one hundred and dividing by five. Negative numbers.

Fractions.

James isn't certain this is normal. Was he this fast with math? Is it not like he can ask anyone the normal progress of a…primary school student? He's pretty sure this kid is in primary school. Maybe. Hard to be certain. Home-schooled, perhaps. Whatever, why is he contemplating this again?

Parachuting is spectacular. He loves the rushing of the wind and the screaming pull of gravity, but what he remembers most vividly when he leaves is the incident during free fall training. Some idiot, Lieutenant Cameron, apparently, got his pins jammed and decided the best way to react was to panic uselessly while he fell, face-forward, towards the unforgiving earth.

James didn't even hesitate before manoeuvring himself around in mid-air to deploy the idiot's chute, despite the not-inconsiderable threat of damage to himself. And it was fantastic . If he could, he would do it again…not to endanger the idiot's life, of course, but just to feel that adrenaline rush once more.

Also, his little stunt and his exemplary results earn him the 030 Special Forces Unit, rather than the standard SBS Units in Poole. Which is more than satisfactory, in his opinion.

James recalls the loneliness and desolation he felt as a child when no one responded and buys one of those special pens on his way out.

James is more at home with the 030 SFU than he ever was anywhere else.

To be honest, he feels a little like a boy in a candy store. He's had his fun with the sea, so now his love affair is with the sky, although his first love will always be beneath the waves. Assault helicopters, Harrier-class jets, fixed wing aircraft, and hovercrafts; he has it all.

The marine assault vessels and armoured vehicles are really just the icing on top.

When he has time between training other candidates and initiating athletic competitions, James tries to get back into the habit. The first time he has the pen poised above his skin, he feels inexplicably embarrassed and almost simply recaps the pen and goes on with his day.

But he casts his mind around and alights on the training course he will set up later. He writes a series of lines that could mean anything on his upper arm but represents the jumping bars the trainees will have to use and hides it behind his long sleeves.

After that, James sets his goal on one message per day. Most of it means nothing, even if the inspiration inevitably comes from his military life. He has no idea who his soulmate is, and there's a reason confidentiality and security clearances exist.

Endangering his soulmate with knowledge they should not have on their skin sounds like a terrifically bad idea.

One year passes in the service of 030 SFU, at once regretfully fast and worryingly slow. He manages to successfully meet his quota of one message per day through sheer stubbornness. James doesn't know if any of them have gone through since he actually has to consider what he puts down when he writes but shrugs it off.

Meanwhile, his soulmate is scribbling basic weather patterns like the cycle of water and drawing questionable lightning bolts and lightning rods. He hopes that they're not going to electrocute themselves by accident while he is in Libya, because, from their dialect, he's willing to bet they're British.

Thank God. He doesn't want to consider what he would have done if they were enemies of his country.

James spends most of his second year running around. He's promoted to Lieutenant Commander by the end of it and finds out he's routinely doodling on his skin when he has nothing else to do. Little things like the shape of buildings in Iraq and the layers of the sunset in Somalia and the explosion he set off in Iran.

Actually, he hopes his soulmate won't figure that last one out but isn't holding his breath because, from the looks of it, his little soulmate is smart.

(James ignores how he is more or less over the problematic matter of their age. He'll cross the hurdle when he gets to it. If he ever does.)

Ramblings show up on his skin every other day, with no discernible pattern to the topic. Sometimes philosophy, sometimes violent crimes...which does a good job of freaking James out when he reads the police report. A great deal on politics, and, to James' mild discomfort, the Gulf War he's currently participating in.

At the end of his third year, James is recruited by the RNR Defence Intelligence Group and awarded the rank of Commander after saving a good one hundred men in Bosnia from a Serbian militia. It's instinctive to write his thoughts down now, in short-hand and vague terms that no one but himself will understand, and he has no idea what they think of him and his incoherent notes.

He also has a slight grasp on the identity of his soulmate at last through painstaking attention to detail and logical leaps.

Young, for obvious reasons. Well-connected, judging from the rare info on high-level politics. Smart, oh so smart. Possibly, probably, a genius.

Rich. Posh. Cultured.

James bases those last three on the recent reminders that his soulmate has been writing down. Again, how old are they exactly? What sort of household are they growing up in? Are they already?

Knife placed with cutting edge towards plate.

Red wine does not go with complex sauces.

Dessert forks/spoons brought in right before dessert.

Watch the place cards.

Cut: double vents, padded shoulders, flap pockets.

Salad course last.

Dinner knife to right of dinner plate.

Table arrangements symmetrical.

James has never been one for the rules, and he cannot help but feel frustrated and indignant on his soulmate's behalf. Yes, he appreciates the classics, but there's really no need to be this strict, especially with, he's fairly certain, a child. Just a child. When he was a child, he was running around and getting in the mud and laughing without a care in the world.

Still, he's hardly in any position to interfere…and it's not like he sincerely wants to find his soulmate.

(Right? Right.)

James leans back in his plane seat and frowns deeply as he nears Chicksands, the Defence Intelligence and Security Centre.

His sleep is restless.

Not that far away, a ten-year-old boy who will one day be known by the moniker of 'Q' tosses and turns in the Holmes household, brilliant mind racing even in dreams, a vast, fearful, brilliant future ahead of him, unknown military secrets dark against the pale of his skin.

OpalescentGold: If you'd like more 00Q madness, I'm on tumblr. Reviews makes my day! ^_^