Summary: The conclusion of To Salvage One Inch. The aftermath of Q's interrogation.

Rating: T

Warnings: More swears. More not being British. And a very optimistic view of how people act when they've just been through a trauma. (Just felt the need to add that out of respect for people who do survive a traumatic event, because I really do know better.)

Disclaimer: I do not own the James Bond franchise. But if I did you can be damn sure that Q would be in like every scene in the next movie and he and Bond would have adventures together and maybe a few heart to heart discussions and...yeah. I don't own it.

To Salvage One Inch

Two hours later, Bond received the call telling him he could see Q. He had spent these past two hours sifting through everything M's investigators could dig up about Rebecca Green. He had a picture of her in front of him now. She looked different enough from Q that a casual observer would likely not peg them as related. Rebecca Green had a narrower face, brown eyes instead of green, and mahogany hair that was stick-straight rather than curly. Yet there was something...the unreadableness of her eyes, the neutral set of her thin lips, a face that managed to look old and young at the same time, that convinced Bond the quartermaster had been telling the truth, about this at least.

...

"She's his half sister," M had said. "Different fathers. She's about five years younger than him. The handful of waiters and establishment owners we've managed to talk to remembered them. They would stay for hours sitting and talking. He always paid for her."

"Charges?" Bond asked. He was, after all, looking at a mug shot.

"A few over the past couple of years for drug possession and prostitution. That's it."

"Is Rebecca Green her real name?"

"We're not sure. Possibly not."

"Seriously?" Bond could barely conceal his aggravation, and to be honest he was not trying very hard.

M had sighed then. "Q wasn't lying about his innocence. We've got enough to cover his alibi. But he hid this girl well. There's no mention of her in his files, and the information we've managed to uncover is minimal. She's almost entirely off the grid."

"No idea why?"

"None. Any chance Q might tell you?"

"What do you think?" Bond had snapped, and hung up, even though the man had had enough decency to sound guilty.

...

Bond approached Q's curtained off bed in the infirmary warily. The wing was quiet, and he was grateful for that. No one must have told Q's minions what had happened. To his great relief the long white room, as well as the corridor, had been suspiciously devoid of them. They were the last people on Earth Bond felt capable of facing right now, with the quartermaster himself coming in a close second. He steeled himself, and pulled the curtain back.

Q was sitting up, regarding him with an unnervingly calm expression. He looked...all right, Bond had to admit. True, his skin was pale and the bags under his eyes were deep purple, but these were nothing out of the ordinary for Q, who often worked until the late hours of the night, surviving on caffeine and innovation. Except for the fact that he looked disturbingly worn around the edges; eyes too dull, hair flattened by old sweat, nothing spoke of his ordeal.

With a nod of his head, Q indicated the regulation metal chair beside his bed, and Bond took a seat, surveying the space as he did so. An IV stood beside the bed, but the quartermaster had no further need of it. The only equipment being used was the machine monitoring his heart rate and blood pressure. There was also a small bedside table, which held nothing but Q's Scrabble mug. "Eve was here," Q said, seeing Bond take note of it. His voice was raspy. "She may shoot you again." Bond could not decide whether Q was making a joke. He just nodded, deciding to play it safe and assume that, under the circumstances, Q was not.

They looked at each other, the agent and the quartermaster. Bond did not know what to say. Q was sitting there, looking at him expectantly, and Bond did not know what to say. How do you feel would be asinine. You look good would be callus, as would any comment about how well Q had held up under the torture, even though Bond had seen grown men three times Q's size fall to pieces at the first prick of the needle. Most damningly, I'm sorry stuck in his throat. That phrase always had. Bond had never, and would never, apologize for doing his job. But with Q sitting there, waiting for him to say something and every line of his body showing disappointment as the silence stretched on, Bond blurted out, "It shouldn't have been me."

Unfortunately, even that was wrong. One look from Q told him how selfish that sentence had been. "Yes, it should have," Q said incredulously. "Bond, you know as well as I do that if it had been anyone else in that room they would have been ordered to go much higher with the drug."

Bond said nothing; he could only nod and look at his shoes.

"They know how well we work together," Q continued, and Bond looked up with a start. But Q was not looking at him, he was staring straight ahead, and his voice had taken on a sharp edge that made Bond instantly wary. "They could be reasonably sure I would tell you the truth. They know I trust you, you see."

"Q," Bond began, but the quartermaster kept talking, seeming to not hear him.

"So when they accused me of treason, they remembered how I know every detail of your missions. How I bring you home safe. How I build your goddamn weapons..."

"Q!" Bond said again, soft and sorry now, because this was not just anger. This was hurt. Q's breathing was harsh and ragged, his eyes were wide, and he was clenching the sheets in his fists the same way he had clenched the arms of his chair as the drug ran through his veins. Fearful of what the monitor was suddenly showing, Bond forgot himself and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, one hand going to rest on Q's heaving shoulder.

He had made a huge mistake.

He should not be doing this; should not even be here. He should have listened to M (both M's) for once and waited until the fucking therapy sessions because he and Q were not fit to be in the same room, much less running missions together...

But Q did not pull away from him. On the contrary, he turned towards Bond and leaned until they were almost touching. Not quite, but almost. He stayed close and simply breathed slow, measured breaths. The edges of Bond's heart tightened as he realized Q, who knew so much about him, from hight and weight to where he preferred to holster his gun, to which missions made him anxious and which made him break things upon his return, was relearning him. Relearning Bond to assure himself that Bond was safe. Bond did not move, did not dare move. He was under no illusions that he was in any way a safe person; he had lived and seen too much, but for some unexplainable reason he could not stand the thought of this young man having a reason to think otherwise. Finally, Q began to lower himself forward by degrees until his forehead rested against Bond's shoulder. Only then did the agent tighten his arm around Q's back; with his other hand he began to rub circles into the nape of Q's neck.

They sat like that in silence for a while. Bond felt Q's racing heart slow down and the muscles in his neck and back loosen until it felt like he was not so much holding a frightened rabbit as an exhausted young man.

Q muttered something from the fabric of his shoulder. "What's that?" Bond asked softly, somewhat lulled himself by the rhythm of another's heartbeat and the muted hum of activity around the curtained off bed. Q's bony shoulders sagged in a sigh and he turned his face to one side. "I said 'ask.' I know you want to."

"It can wait," Bond insisted. His fingers had not stopped moving in Q's hair.

"No, it can't," Q said. "I take it you've received information about her."

"Not much," Bond admitted.

"There isn't much," Q replied. "I made sure of that."

"Why?" Bond asked. He managed to stop before he said what has she done? But the question must have been clear in his voice because Q answered it anyway.

"It's not what she's done, but what she might do. Or more to the point, what MI6 thinks she might do. She's a genius."

"Like you?"

"Almost like me," Q clarified without a trace of arrogance. He was simply stating it for the fact it was. "But do you remember when I told you six people could write the same failsafes I could? And therefore six people could break them?" Bond nodded. "Becky could be the seventh. If she wanted to be."

"And does she?" Bond had to ask. Q shook his head emphatically. "No. Absolutely not. But...she hasn't been doing so well lately. I imagine you've gathered that much. So I've been meeting with her as often as I can, making sure she's ok, giving her money so she doesn't have to..." He cut himself off abruptly. "That's it. That was always it."

"Then why lie?" Bond could not keep the frustration out of his voice. "Why would you go through that if she's done nothing wrong? My god, if she's as brilliant as you say M would probably find a job for her."

"He might," Q sighed. "Or decide she's too dangerous for anyone else to get ahold of and tuck her away somewhere until there's a use for her. She deserves to make the choice herself."

"So you were protecting her," Bond said with a nod. This he understood.

"Yes," Q said. "And also..." He pulled away from Bond and studied his face intently. His mouth turned down at the corners as it always did when he was considering how to explain something. "Becky...she's my sister. I love her so much."

"Of course you do," said Bond, puzzled. Did Q really think he had to explain this to him?

"No, you don't understand," Q said. "I've given everything I have to MI6. My talent, my past, my name." He was beginning to sound distressed again, his hands and eyes were moving restlessly. "And to an extent I've given it all gladly. But...sometimes I feel like I've got nothing left. They've cracked me open; there's nothing they haven't seen. Nothing left that's mine. And some things, how I feel, who I love, some things they shouldn't be allowed to take." He dropped his head into his hands and burrowed his fingers into his hair. "I know that doesn't make much sense," he said, his voice muffled. "I sound foolish."

"No. No you don't, not at all," Bond said urgently, not wanting to lose Q to that dark place he had seen behind his eyes as he watched him shake from across a steel table. "Q, you have someone who means that much to you. Someone you're willing to go through hell for. That's extraordinary. We should all be so lucky."

Q dropped his hands from his head and slumped back onto his pillows. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and gave a mirthless laugh. "Yeah, I feel really fucking lucky." Bond remained quiet because who was he to try to argue that right now? "You should get some more rest," he said instead. "I won't disturb you any longer." He made to leave, but Q's voice stopped him just as he was pulling the curtain back. "You can stay for a bit. That is, if you like." Bond looked back and saw that Q had settled down on his pillows as though ready for sleep, but he was watching him out of the corner of his eye. Surprised, and humbled at this display of trust, Bond returned to his seat.

They were both quiet for a while. Bond, unsure of what to do with himself, glanced around the space, studying the folds of the curtain. Then he happened to look down at Q and noticed that he was not asleep. He kept shifting restlessly. His hands worried the sheets. He moved his head from side to side, struggling to get comfortable. Finally, Bond laid a hand on Q's wrist, lightly rubbing his fingertips against his sleeve. The repetitive motion seemed to sooth Q, for he stopped fidgeting. Truth be told, Bond found it soothing as well. He stopped restlessly glancing around and let his gaze rest on Q's face.

"Are we going to be all right?" he couldn't help but ask.

Q cracked open one eye. "I believe so," he said. "But you're not to shout at me for at least a month."

"Of course," he said softly.

"And I expect coffee. The good stuff."

"The best." Softer still.

Q closed his eyes, and Bond watched his face relax and listened to his breath even out until he was sure the quartermaster was asleep. "I trust you with my life," he said quietly, sincerely. "Please know that."

It was the best way he could think of to say thank you.

Thank you for letting me salvage this.

...

Every last inch of me shall perish. Except one. An inch. It's small and it's fragile and it's the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it, or sell it, or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.

- V for Vendetta

...

As always, thank you for reading!