Amnesia fic! Either Q or James (even if I’d love to read one featuring Q not remembering his relationship with JB).
A/N: Why do you give me the tools with which to destroy you?
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The man formerly known as Q woke in a large, otherwise empty bed. Pale light washed across the linens, creating peaks and valleys where the fabric eddied around his knees and hips. He blinked, and tried to remember where he was. The room was a rich midnight blue. Wooden blinds covered the windows. A dark wooden armoire stood guard in the corner of the room. None of the furniture looked familiar.
He scanned his body. There was no headache, no nausea. He was wearing flannel pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt whose decal was so faded he couldn’t make it out in the dim light. As far as he could tell he wasn’t hungover, and he likely hadn’t passed out at a paramour’s home. That still didn’t explain where the fuck he was.
He scrubbed a thin-fingered hand through his hair, and was surprised to find long tufts of curls. He’d always kept his hair a little longer than his mother would have liked, when she were still alive. But even this length seemed excessive. He couldn’t remember how long his hair was supposed to be. He couldn’t remember the night before. The day before. The week before. A swell of fear rose in his chest. It was hard to catch his breath. He sat up, and noticed that the spot in the bed next to him was warm, though vacant.
The wooden floor was chilly underfoot as he stumbled across the room to the window. He opened the blinds, hoping that he could at least figure out where in London he was by the view. When he was instead greeted by grassy hills speckled with dark boulders that dipped down to a churning sea, the fear in his chest twisted to panic. His breath was ragged in his chest, scraping against his ribcage as it clawed through his body. The corners of his vision darkened.
There was a quiet knock at the door.
The man formerly known as Q knelt on the floor. He pressed his head to the cool, wide wooden planks and watched the fugue of his breath cast a pale moss across the shiny surface.
The door opened. A man walked in- average height, muscular, close cropped hair and the bluest eyes that could possibly exist. He had a small tray in his hands, with two steaming mugs and a pile of toast.
“You’re up earlier than usual,” the visitor said.
“Where am I?”
“Roonah Point- in Western Ireland.” The visitor took a few steps into the room and set the tray down on a small table in the corner. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you, but maybe the tea will ease things a little. Would you like to come up off the floor?”
The visitor’s voice was confident, almost cocksure. After careful deliberation the man formerly known as Q rose to his feet and walked over to the table.
“Am I dying?” He asked.
The visitor cocked his head to one side. “Why would you think that?”
“You said you had bad news. It was the first thing I thought of.”
“You’re not dying. At least- not any sooner than you should be.”
“Then what’s the bad news? And where am I? And who the fuck are you?”
Maybe I’m dreaming, he thought to himself. But somehow, he doubted it.
“Here-” the visitor held out a mug. It had a large, black Q emblazoned on the side, with a small number ten just beneath it. He wondered what it meant. Regardless, the tea inside the mug was delicious. Perfectly steeped earl gray with a touch of cream, just how he liked it.
“I’m afraid that while you are not dying, you are ill, in a manner of speaking.” The visitor said. “You were in an accident a little over a year ago- you healed fine, mostly. But there was some significant damage to your memory. You struggle to convert short term memories into long term memories, and a good chunk of time from before the accident seems to be missing as well. Your loved ones hired out this house here, and I’m here to care for you, to keep you comfortable. My name is James.”
“My loved ones?”
“Yes. Do you remember your family?” James asked. His eyes tightened, and he took a long pull from his mug.
“My parents are dead. I have a sister but we’re on bad terms.”
“That’s right,” James said. “Although you’re on better terms now, so to speak. Celine visits twice a year. She’ll be back in a month.”
“But I’m not going to remember that by the time she gets here, am I?” Q asked. His mind was racing through the implications of what James had explained to him.
“No, likely not,” said James.
“Am I going to remember this conversation?” Q took another pull from the mug, then selected a triangle of toast to nibble on.
“For a little while, but it’ll fade,” James said.
“How many times have we had this conversation?” The man formerly known as Q asked.
“I’ve stopped keeping count,” said James with a smirk. “But there are worse conversations to have over breakfast.”
They drank their tea, and then James suggested they go for a walk.
“You like to watch the ocean on blustery days,” James said. He drained the rest of his mug. There was a ring on the man’s finger. Silver, with some kind of etching that was difficult to read from a distance.
“You’re married,” The man formerly known as Q said.
“I am. Going on three years, now,” James replied.
“But you live here?”
“Most of the time. I lease a flat in London, too. Sometimes I go back for holidays or to do some contract work for an old job.”
“Your partner doesn’t mind? Where is he?”
James smiled. “He doesn’t mind much. He knows that this is important to me. Or at least, I hope they do. He’s not far, either. I see him most days.”
“What’s his name?”
“Drink your tea. We have a walk to go on. Waves to watch.”
James showed him where his clothes were kept and gestured to a pair of well-worn boots in the corner of the room. Then he took the tea tray and left. The man formerly known as Q changed into jeans and a thick wool sweater. He tugged the boots on over his socks. He looked out the window. Gray clouds were moving at a furious pace across the sky. Birds twisted and dove through the air. He felt unmoored. Confused. He tucked those feelings deeper inside himself and made his way out of the bedroom and down a narrow hallway lined with artwork he mostly didn’t recognize, but some he strangely did.
The hall opened to a living room with panelled walls painted in a deep hunter green. The room was dominated by a fireplace and a large leather sofa, with built in bookshelves lining the far wall. There were pictures and knick knacks propped on surfaces around the room. Some were his- he recognized a photo of him and his college roommate at graduation. There was a figurine of the Eiffel Tower that he’d gotten on a trip as a child. Other items seemed to be bits and bobs collected from far flung places. James returned to the room while he was examining a porcelain figurine of a tabby cat.
“From Japan,” was all that James said. Then he crossed the room and pulled open a small door. He pulled out two coats, and held out an olive green one.
“What’s my name?” The man formerly known as Q asked. His mouth was dry. He was afraid to ask, and he wasn’t sure why. For some reason, it terrified him to think that this man knew the answer to that question. Like there was a danger just out of his field of vision.
“You tell me,” James said. “If you want.”
“Thomas.”
“That’s right,” James said with a tight nod.
“That’s not the name I go by, though,” Thomas said, and the briefest of smiles flashed across James’ face.
“It’s not. You’re right.” James said.
“What do you call me?”
“I call you Q, some of the time,” James said with a smile.
Thomas decided that he liked that more, and something inside him shifted to make room for this other version of himself. Whomever he was that brought such a smile to this strange, caring man’s lips. He tucked Thomas away, and took on the mantle of Q. It felt more comfortable. More him.
James opened the door and a blast of cold air filled the room. Q pulled on the offered coat and zipped it to his chin. He followed James out the door, and then moved to stand beside him. Together they walked down a muddy path worn into the hillside. Q thought he saw the remnants of boot prints in the dirt. Traces of a traveler from the day before, perhaps. He wondered if they were his own. The treads didn’t match the tracks that James was leaving in the mud beside him.
They made their way to the edge of a rocky cliff. Dozens of feet below, the sea churned in on itself in a tangled mass of waves. James was right. Q enjoyed watching the waves immensely as they beat against the rocky shore. Wind whipped through his hair and stung his cheeks. James moved to stand on his other side, the bulk of his body shielding Q from the worst of the wind. Q glanced down, and saw that James was worrying at the ring on his left hand. Q squeezed his own fingers, frigid from the cold.
“There are gloves in your pocket,” James said. Q reached inside, and found soft, knit gloves. He slid them on.
“Thank you,” Q said.
“I’d try to get you to wear a hat, too, but you don’t like how it squashes your curls,” James said. “I gave up on that a few months ago.”
“How long have we been here?” Q asked.
“Sixteen months, give or take. It’s hard to track the time,” James replied, and Q could tell that there was a lot that the man wasn’t saying.
“Almost half the time you’ve been married,’ Q observed.
“Almost,” Bond nodded placidly.
“And do we do this every day? You come and explain to me that I am an invalid, permanently unmoored from time, and then make me tea and we go for a walk?”
“Just about,” Bond said. “Sometimes I make us a proper breakfast first. Sometimes you’re a bit angrier when I explain things. Rightly so, of course. Then there are days that you remember a little bit more.”
“I remember more?” Q asked.
“Just a little. I think sometimes you have dreams that help bridge the gap. You wake up and remember who I am, at least. You remember more about your life around the time of the accident. It’s not much more, usually, but it’s enough to make those days different.”
Q glanced away from the waves and back towards the little cottage where they’d ventured from. He could see a small gray car in the driveway. There was a shed off to the side of the house and a substantial wood pile, though he couldn’t see any nearby trees.
“And do I ever remember that we’re married?” Q asked. James stiffened next to him.
“No. You never remember that,” the man replied after a long moment.
The sadness in James’ voice made Q want to reach over and take his hand. He shoved his hands in his pockets instead.
“You must hate me a great deal for that,” Q said quietly.
“Never,” James said. And he turned towards Q, and laid a hand on Q’s shoulder. His blue eyes blazed despite the dull gray day around them. “I don’t hate you. I hate the situation sometimes. I mourn the time we lost, and I grieve the memories we were promised. But I could never hate you. I’m grateful you’re alive and here and I can stand beside you still, in whatever capacity you’ll have me.”
“Thank you,” Q said. And there were a million more complicated thoughts and emotions roiling inside of him. He had the sense that some days, he might roll up his sleeves and sort through them. But today, he wanted only to exist in this comfortable pocket of a life that James had provided for them. He wanted to drink tea and watch the sea and learn more about the man that stood beside him, through sickness and health.
Q reached out and took James’ hand. He held it tightly. He hoped he would hold it tomorrow, too.
