Chapter Text
On the day Richard Moriarty was promoted to quartermaster, he walked into his flat to find that sex toys had been placed on every available surface.
He took in the sight for approximately six-point-two seconds, sighed, and walked right back out to find the nearest pub.
Unfortunately, when he returned two hours later – and slightly tipsier – the toys were still there. Since he really didn’t want to go hunting for a new flat at three in the morning, he was forced to sidle into his own flat like a criminal deviant. This did little to improve his mood, which was further soured by a note attached to a bright pink vibrator on his kitchen counter – god, they had better be brand new or heads would roll – which read simply:
Since you’re never going to have a life now.
xoxo, Jim.
His eye twitched slightly, a nervous tic that he blamed fully on childhood trauma. Unfortunately, as the source of said childhood trauma was still alive, the trauma too was ongoing and unlikely to go away anytime soon.
Despite several long moments of staring and wishful thinking – all involving massive explosions and rather gory deaths, none of which happened despite his very best efforts to connect with the gods he did not believe in – Q eventually gave in to the inevitable with a sigh. He gingerly cleared a non-dildo covered space on the table (god, there were even toys in his sink), and pulled out his work phone, new work phone, personal phone, emergency phone, and the in-case-you-are-kidnapped-and-are-in-grave-danger-of-losing-a-limb-or-two emergency phone before he finally reached a non-descript black flip phone. He didn’t bother looking at the screen as he dialed; there was only one number listed.
The phone had barely rung when a voice purred, “Did you like my gift?”
“Loved it,” he replied, with only the barest hint of sarcasm. “Why don’t you send me the address of whatever hovel you’re holed up in so I can send you a proper thank you note? Preferably attached to a missile.”
The voice tsked in feigned disapproval. “Does MI6 know that you are abusing your position to threaten your family?”
“Does it count as abuse when said family is an internationally-wanted terrorist?”
James Moriarty, better known as Jim or that bloody arsehole who I will personally explode in the near future, laughed. Oddly enough, this did nothing to cure his twitch, which was quickly evolving into a full-on vein throb. “Please, I wouldn’t be very good at what I do if people knew about me.”
Difficult as it was, Q managed to ignore that not so subtle jab to demand, “How did you even know I was promoted? That isn’t the sort of information they put in the office newsletter.”
“I have my ways.” That sing-song taunt haunted all of Q’s nightmares to this very day, and as long as either of them drew breath, that would continue on. “I must say though, your attitude is highly disappointing. Why, one might even think that I didn’t care about your well-being.”
“You do realize there’s a reason for that?”
Because Q was well-aware that Jim was also a melodramatic bastard on top of his many other character defects, he was more than ready for the anguished gasp. “You wound me, baby brother, you really do. And after all I do to look after you!”
“Don’t call me that,” Q replied automatically. “And don’t say that kind of thing. It’s disturbing and practically stalker-esque coming from you, especially since we both know the only time you look for me is over your shoulder.” Which was justifiable, since more than once Q had seriously pondered sending a double-o agent after his brother. It wouldn’t even be an abuse of government resources because as previously mentioned, Jim was a wanted terrorist, and that was before Q had put him on the list. “Also, it makes me think that you’re up to no good.”
“I’m always up to no good,” was the cheery response.
He paused, reluctant to concede even that point. But seeing no way around it, he finally sighed, “… true enough. But you’re usually polite enough to keep your criminal enterprises to yourself, rather than letting them come across my doorstep.” Unless… no. No, he refused to consider that possibility because it was too horrifying, and last he had heard, Jim was busy terrorizing Chinese smugglers, and there he could stay. And yes, maybe it was wrong to take solace in the suffering of others, but when the alternative was his own suffering, he was willing to make that sacrifice. Q had never claimed to be a champion of the human race, after all.
Q was sure that Jim knew exactly what he was thinking because Jim was a psychic when it came to making his life miserable, but his older brother was also an arse who liked making Q’s life miserable. This explained the tittering and feigned ignorance as Jim rather obviously ignored his last statement. “Now, now, is it a crime to send you a congratulations gift? What kind of older brother would I be if I didn’t reward you for hitting career milestones? What would mummy and daddy say about that?”
Mummy and daddy would be rolling in their graves if they knew that you squandered your education to become a criminal mastermind, he thought a touch vindictively, but instead tried to exercise some semblance of self-control by pointing out, “Can we not play the dead parents card? It got old when we were teens, and it’s no better now.”
Jim immediately made him regret his feeble attempts at self-control with the laugh that usually preceded someone coming down with a nasty case of botulism. “When you say things like that, it’s hard to tell who the sociopath in the family is.”
“Jealous?”
“Torn,” Jim replied. “I can’t decide if I should be proud of you or try to kill you.”
“And that describes our childhood in a nutshell.” Q still wasn’t sure how he managed to avoid being suffocated in his sleep, except that his brother had always needed an audience. Still needed one, really, which explained the occasional… chats they had, despite the obvious (and substantial) risks it entailed. But even then, Jim didn’t initiate contact unless he wanted something, so Q decided to cut to the chase. “What do you want, Jim?”
He was rewarded with another absurdly exaggerated gasp of despair. One day, he would make sure that the despair was genuine, but until that day he would simply have to endure. “I believe you’re the one who contacted me, baby brother.”
“Only because you wanted me to.”
Jim sighed in disappointment. This too, was something Q was painfully familiar with, although it was usually accompanied by nagging about his lack of psychopathic tendencies (which was completely unfair since Q did have a murderous streak… he just preferred to channel it constructively). “Shouldn’t you have learned not to cave in to pressure by now? MI6 should really do something about that, if they’re going to trust you with state secrets.”
He rolled his eyes, knowing that although Jim couldn’t see it, the sentiment would nevertheless be appreciated. “Like you care about national security. Besides, we both know if I hadn’t called, I would probably have come home to find vestal virgins tied to all of my door frames.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Jim said without any apparent irony. “It would have just been the one. Well, maybe two, but that’s only because you won’t tell me your type. Remind me again, is not having a pulse an automatic disqualification? I can never remember your kinks, except that your computers should be filing sexual harassment char-”
“I will kill you,” Q said in a complete monotone. “One day, Jim, I swear I will end you.”
Jim just laughed, as he always did in response to Q’s (largely ineffectual) threats, but the darkness in his words was the same that colored their entire relationship. “Don’t make promises you’re not prepared to keep, brother dearest.”
Q didn’t respond. He really didn’t need to.
In a rare showing of human compassion, Jim took pity on him, sighing loudly as he said, “Fine, fine, you know me too well. The truth is that I’ll be in town for the foreseeable future, and I only thought it proper to warn you.”
Q promptly remembered why his brother’s pity usually resulted tears and pleading for a quick death. He himself settled for choking, and Jim waited politely for him to pull himself together (i.e., not expire via self-induced, not-at-all erotic asphyxiation) before he managed to wheeze out, “You’re going to be in town?”
“Exactly! It will be just like old times, Richie, isn’t that exciting?”
“In town,” he parroted dumbly, still unable to comprehend what was happening. Or more specifically, unable to comprehend why the universe hated him so much that it felt compelled to torment him this way. “As in London?”
Even the sound of mock disapproval was insufficient to pull him out of his horror-induced daze. “That’s generally what the term means, yes. Honestly, I thought MI6 hired you for your brains.”
“But why?” The question came out as a wail, but Q was too distressed by the prospect of close proximity to his brother to care. If Jim could send people to break into his flat even when they were in different countries, he did not want to imagine the fresh hells that would be rained down when the man was in the same city. His heart just couldn’t take the stress.
“Something has caught my interest. No, no, nothing for you to worry about, rest assured,” Jim said soothingly, immediately causing Q to worry. “I give you my word, it won’t affect your work.”
He hoped Jim wasn’t actually trying to be reassuring because if he was, he was failing miserably. But then his brother had never been the sympathetic sort, lacking necessary prerequisites like human emotions and a soul. “Why do I have a feeling that won’t actually be the case?”
“Because you’re a paranoid bastard,” Jim answered cheerfully. “Although that might not be a bad thing, given our circumstances. But nothing’s changing, baby brother, you know how it is going to be. You stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. I mean, it’s not like a little domestic terrorism ever killed anyone, hmm?”
“Domestic what?!” His voice may or may not have gone up two octaves, and glass may or may not have shattered in the process.
“Oh lighten up already, I was only joking. I mean, it’s not like I want the wrath of MI6 brought down upon me. It’s just so bad for business!” Trust Jim to be practical when it came to work, although somehow Jim’s work usually ended up on Q’s doorstep (which in turn resulted in a massive headache) no matter how unrelated they seemed at first glance. “And I doubt you would want to deal with all the paperwork from killing your only living relative. Tell me, what would psych say about that?”
Considering how his life would only get better with the loss of said only living relative, he had a feeling that psych would just think that he was on some type of hallucinogen that improved his sunny disposition. Then his only concern would be psych harassing him for the name of said drug, as they would be wanting to prescribe it to the three-quarters of MI6 who had politely offered to cause bodily harm to the next person who asked about their feelings. He decided to keep that thought to himself though, in case it gave Jim any ideas. He had enough concerns to deal with without having his sarcasm backfire in his face.
“Well,” Jim said finally, once it became clear there wasn’t going to be a response, either verbal or missile-related. Q had learned as a small child that his brother was like a ghost sometimes; if you closed your eyes and pretended he wasn’t there, eventually he would go away. “It’s been lovely catching up and all, but I do have a crime syndicate to run. That little gift of yours was expensive, I’ll have you know.”
“Take it back,” Q immediately replied although he knew better than to engage in petty things like hope and optimism. “Please, you can have it all back.”
Jim pretended to consider this proposition for approximately half a second. “… No, that just seems rather unhygienic.”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you left them there,” he snapped. It wasn’t the only thing snapping: his self-control, his brain, his sanity.
“How was I supposed to know you would be so ungrateful? I try to anticipate your needs, baby brother, and this is the thanks I get?”
Q snorted; the very thought of Jim caring about anyone except himself was laughable at best. There was a reason why his brother was so successful at his chosen career, and it didn’t have anything to do with consideration for others. Morality was a definite disadvantage when it came to torturing and killing people for profit, but he couldn’t really judge too much as morality could also be a disadvantage when it came to torturing and killing people in the name of Queen and country. Sometimes the line between their chosen paths was depressingly thin, but either way, that still didn’t justify his brother being a gigantic dick who deserved to get eaten alive by a pack of rabid squirrels. “You deserve a lot more than thanks, that’s for sure.”
Something decidedly lethal.
“You can thank me in person.” Coming from Jim, that was nothing short of a threat, especially since physical contact between the two usually resulted in someone coming close to missing an eyeball. And that had been back when they were kids. “In the meantime, make sure they don’t work you too hard. Although speaking of work….”
Jim’s voice was using that sing-song tone that made Q’s blood freeze in its veins. Before he could even think to interrupt or throw the phone back like it had suddenly turned into a poisonous viper, his brother said, “I thought you might be interested to know that I heard something will be going down in Istanbul.”
“Istanbul?” he repeated, thrown by the sudden change in topic. Under normal circumstances he was used to that sort of thing, but this seemed… different. And not in a good way. “Jim, what are you-”
“Ta for now, baby brother.” And with that, the phone hung up.
When Q had been promoted to quartermaster, M had let him bask in the glory of his new position for approximately two-point-one seconds before she proceeded to make him regret his continued existence.
He wasn’t sure what had broken him: the thirteen binders of documents outlining all of his new duties in microscopic print, the paperwork requiring two hundred and sixty-three signatures swearing his everlasting fidelity to his country, the not so subtle warnings about what horrors would befall him and all of his descendants if he didn’t abide by said everlasting fidelity, or the immediate influx of expense reports from double-o agents not handling their toys properly. All he knew was that it hadn’t taken him long to start considering his own early retirement, and that was before M had launched into a startlingly detailed account about the gory fates that had befallen his predecessors (he still wasn’t sure if she was being serious, given that the last three quartermasters had quietly retired – with the exception of Major Boothroyd, who had to be forcibly extricated from his desk by his long-suffering wife after he had broken his twenty-sixth promise to voluntarily retire to the countryside).
He could understand Major Boothroyd’s reluctance though; the thrill of being named quartermaster – the youngest quartermaster in the history of MI6, thank you very much – was exhilarating, and he had almost been able to forget his concerns once the cramping in his wrist had gone away.
Unfortunately, it looked like M had a better understanding of the realities of his position than recent history did, and she was likely right that his new position would be sending him to an early grave. Well, that and the fact that he was related to a psychopathic criminal mastermind. After all, it was the combination of the two that had him at his desk for a straight thirty-six hours, running on the fumes from his leftover mug of Earl Grey because no one had time to breathe, let alone make proper tea. It had just been one thing after another since Q had sounded the alarm, waking Tanner at two in the morning with a slightly hysterical and very shrieky phone call, and in the process earning himself a permanent spot on Tanner’s shit list, right next to the famed 007.
Speaking of 007, the agent was living up to his infamous reputation as he tore through Istanbul, tearing through the Grand Bazaar without any consideration for its cultural value and causing a few car accidents along the way. To everyone’s surprise (and Q’s personal consternation), of the two agents in the vicinity of Turkey, it wasn’t 007 who was unreachable but 005, and 007 had been dispatched with curt instructions from M on how to find Ronson and the list. But for all their efforts and desperate scramble, they had arrived too late.
It was probably very, very wrong, but he hadn’t been able to keep in his soft sigh of relief when Bond had confirmed that the hard drive was missing. Fortunately, it was interpreted by everyone around him as dismay, but that was only because no one knew exactly how terrified Q was that Jim was using him as a distraction or to run MI6 ragged just for the hell of it. He hadn’t thought it was Jim’s style, but Jim had a nasty way of defying expectations. Luckily, it hadn’t come to that, but there was still the not insignificant concern about a list that shouldn’t even exist falling into the hands of the enemy.
And that was exactly what was going to happen. Even as M yelled at Eve Moneypenny to take the bloody shot, Q just knew that it wasn’t going to be enough. Jim would just laugh it off and remind him again that he was a paranoid bastard, but he was a paranoid bastard for a reason and his brother wouldn’t have alerted him to this if it was going to be simple. It broke all of their rules about keeping out of each other’s professional lives, but that was the least of his worries as the shot echoed through the room.
For one long moment, it seemed like every single person in the building was holding their breath.
“Agent down,” Moneypenny whispered.
Luckily, everyone was too distracted by the news of the immortal 007’s demise and the loss of the list to notice Q’s phone pinging. The phone wasn’t even supposed to have texting capabilities, but he knew better than to question things as he pulled it out to look at the message waiting for him.
I warned you.