Summary: ...and sometimes bombs. In 1992, the current 007 meets his predecessor's two-year-old son, who is apparently a child genius. Begins directly after "An Old Friend" in 2014, but flashes back to 1992 and takes place mostly when Q is a child. A cute and fluffy family story, but with a splash of action. Part of the Bright Star 'verse.

Note: Thanks to bee, who suggested the handy-dandy literary device of flashbacks! (Actually, does it qualify as a flashback if the majority of the story is a flashback and the only scenes in the present are a short one to set it up and an epilogue at the end? Hmmm…)

The 2014 scenes take place directly after my fic "An Old Friend." The 1992 scenes take place about a year after "Fibonacci." I would really recommend reading the rest of the series before this one. This story has lots of original characters that show up in the last chapter of the first story in my 'verse, "The Star to Every Wandering Barque."

In the notes on my last story, I asked if anyone wants me to continue posting on this site instead of only on Archive of Our Own, and Pheonixriv said that they'd like to continue to read them here, so I'll be posting here as well as AO3. Thanks for the feedback, Pheonixriv and TheOneThatIsAddictedToHPfics!


Bed, Breakfast, and Bandages

Chapter 1

2014

"Q," M said, once the quartermaster's mysterious 'old friend' had saved Bond's arse. "A word in your office, please?"

"Yes, sir."

Q had known that this was coming, ever since he had made the decision to call Sam Carmichael to get Bond out of the disaster of a situation. Bond had been unarmed and stuck after an explosion, with men waiting to kill him, and the nearest extraction team had been five hours away. It had seemed the best course of action to call in an old friend who lived on the next island over in the Greek archipelago.

Q hadn't asked for M's permission to call a civilian in. He had simply done it. He had, however, pulled up and shown M (and only M) the man's MI6 file so he'd know that Carmichael wasn't just any civilian.

Sam Carmichael had been 007 before Bond, and retired or not, he was still very, very good.

Q ordered his underlings to begin carrying out the mission wrap-up, then walked into his office after M with some trepidation, though he didn't show it.

He watched his boss help himself to a glass of the scotch he kept on hand for calming double-ohs down after missions, then realized with amusement that he was only in for an exasperated scolding at the most rather than a harsh reprimand.

M leaned back against Q's desk and sighed wearily.

"How do you know Sam Carmichael?"

Q tilted his chin up, the very picture of composure. "My father was...in the business, as you know, if you've read my file, sir," he said primly.

M took another sip and set the glass down on the desk, then crossed his arms, fixing Q with a look that demanded explanation. "Carmichael was your father's successor in the 007 designation. I wasn't aware they'd met." 'It wasn't in your file' was what he meant.

Q had already decided to tell the truth; there was no use prevaricating. He did, however, decide against admitting why the information wasn't in his file...anymore. "Stuart Thomas - that is, the 005 in my father's time, brought him to visit. He eventually became a family friend."

M's eyebrows shot up. "Visit?" he asked incredulously, and for good reason. One did not simply bring professional assassins to visit, though M supposed that professional assassins might bring assassins to visit other assassins, if they were...friends.

Q's expression softened with something like nostalgia. "My childhood home used to serve as a sort of unofficial safe house for double-ohs. Bed, Breakfast, and Bandages, my father would say," he smiled, as though he had fond childhood memories of welcoming bleeding visitors to his home. "And sometimes bombs. The house would be chock full of agents and ex-agents on holidays and birthdays. Whoever was in the country."

Good grief, M thought. "I see," he said instead. "That's why Carmichael has known you since you...were a child." M's light blue eyes danced with amusement as he remembered what the retired agent had actually said.

'I've known him since he was being potty-trained' had been Sam's exact words to Bond, knowing quite well that there was a room full of technicians, not to mention M, listening in on their conversation over comms.

"Yes, sir." Q suppressed his deep annoyance lest he appear unprofessional.

Damned 007s. All of them. Alright, maybe not his father this time, since he had nothing to do with this situation, but definitely Sam and Bond. And damn himself, too, for bringing Sam into this. Most definitely Bond, though.

"Right," M heaved another weary sigh and emptied his glass. "Be sure to get the paperwork taken care of. We wouldn't want Legal to get on our cases about this."

Q nodded. "Of course, sir. Thank you."

M made his way to the door. "Do you happen to have any other aces up your sleeve, by any chance?" he asked, his hand on the knob.

Q smiled mysteriously. "I might."

"Yes," M said, and fought the urge to rub his forehead. "Of course."

. . . . .

April 1992

Stuart Thomas, Agent 005, beamed at the annoyed-looking former 007 who had just opened the door.

"Hullo, Damien," he said quickly, his grin a touch manic due to the pale and bleeding companion he was supporting. "This is Sam Carmichael. Sam, Damien Drake. Sam's the new 007."

Damien arched a brow at the slowly-growing pool of blood at their feet. "Not for long, if he keeps bleeding like a stuck pig. Come in," he sighed, and moved aside, opening the door wider to accommodate the clumsy steps of the two active agents.

"Ta, Damien," Stuart said lightly, his voice a little strained.

Damien met Carmichael's bleary gaze and received a slight nod of thanks before he grabbed the injured man's other arm and threw it over his shoulders. It was always a good idea to get permission before touching a double-oh, especially an injured one.

"I ought to start charging for my services," he mused. "I'm turning into a bloody bed and breakfast for double-ohs."

"And bandages," Stuart added as he and Damien dragged the nearly-unconscious man to the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood behind them despite the makeshift tourniquet on his wounded leg. "Can't forget the bandages."

Damien snickered quietly. "Damien Drake's Bed, Breakfast, and Bandages for Banged-Up Bloody Boneheads. Catchy."

Stuart laughed softly, setting Sam down on the lid of the toilet. "Fresh muffins included?"

Damien grabbed the much-used first aid kit from under the sink and hummed in agreement. "Blueberry alright?"

He handed Stuart the scissors to cut open the leg of the ruined trousers. The thigh wound would need cleaning and stitching.

"Mm, I love blueberry," Stuart said, "Haven't had a decent muffin since the last time I dropped by."

He sliced open the sodden fabric with quick, efficient movements while Damien pulled out the rest of the supplies and laid them out neatly on the bathroom counter.

"You're trying to butter me up so I won't make you clean the blood off of my floor."

"Am I that transparent?"

Sam watched the two of them working in perfect harmony, slumped against the cold ceramic of the toilet tank. It was as though Drake had never retired, he noted with a pang of jealousy. Stuart Thomas was never this...friendly with him.

Damien snorted. "You are to me. I'll go grab some clean towels."

"How are you holding up?" Stuart asked Sam once Damien had slipped out.

Sam nodded. "Fine." He paused a beat. "Are you sure we're safe here?"

It was Damien Drake's home, but still...there were rumors, and he'd been warned at the start of his double-oh career to never fully trust anyone if he valued his life. And now, with everything going on back at HQ...

Stuart's steady grey eyes bore into his. "Perfectly safe."

They heard Damien's deep voice murmuring to someone upstairs and a higher voice respond.

Sam jerked out of his slumped position, his heart thudding. "Who's that?"

'But Daddyyyyy!' they heard, quite distinctly this time.

"His kid," Stuart answered, his lips twitching up in an amused smile. He patted the younger man's uninjured leg to calm him. "It's only the two of them here."

"Sounds young," Sam said slowly, relaxing and feeling his limbs go boneless again.

"Just turned two."

It took a while for that to register in Sam's oxygen-deprived brain. "Drake retired two years ago."

"He did."

He frowned. "Wasn't there anyone else who'd take the kid? What about the mother? Adoption? There are nanny services, aren't there?" He hissed and clenched his teeth as Stuart poured disinfectant over the wound.

Once Sam was finished cursing, Stuart responded, catching his streaming eyes with a stern gaze. "He's a good father. Don't judge him for leaving the service. He's put in more years than most. He's got someone to live for now. Someone to protect. That sort of life doesn't fit in with being a double-oh." He swapped out the disinfectant for the needle as he spoke.

Sam panted, trying to catch his breath. "I wasn't judging him. It's...well...he was so good at it. Everyone knows that. It seems a waste. Especially now. We could use someone like him."

Sam wasn't one to admit it, but he had had a hard time filling the large shoes of the previous 007. Everyone seemed to be waiting for him to fail - that is, get killed. The fact that he hadn't died - yet - at nearly two years in was apparently a little surprising to a number of people. Damien Drake had been very good at his job.

Stuart gave him a long look, the one he gave Sam when he thought he was too young to see sense. "We can always use someone like him. But sometimes they've got someone better to tend to than a broken and corrupt organization that's always going to be broken and corrupt. See if you still think he ought to come back after staying here a while," he said mysteriously.

"Will we be here long?" Sam asked.

Damien came back at that point, his arms full of fluffy towels. He raised his brows inquisitively at Stuart, having heard Sam's question.

"Until Sam can get moving again. Couple of days at most," Stuart answered. "It's not safe for you and Danny if we stay too long. Sorry for bringing trouble. There wasn't anywhere else we could go at such short notice."

Damien frowned, and his green eyes sharpened. "That bad?"

Stuart pressed his lips together, debating whether to tell him. "There's a mole. No one knows who it is. Agents are getting killed off left and right. Ambushes, traps - it's like they know when we're coming and where we're going before we even get our orders. Sam and I need to lie low until they call us back in."

They worked in terse silence for a few minutes.

"You can stay here." Damien's words pulled Stuart's attention to him. "You're not going to get far with his leg like that."

"If they come for us-" Stuart protested.

"You'll have another gun," Damien finished firmly.

"What about Danny?" Stuart hissed.

"With things as you say they are," Damien said calmly, "how long do you think it will be before they come for me? I may be out of the game, but some of the players will want to make damned sure of it. Might as well have you two here to give me a hand and send a message to the rest of them."

He fixed them with a suddenly-mischievous look. "Besides, Q helped with my...fortifications, if you know what I mean."

The two active double-ohs traded looks. Fortifications? Q-Branch fortifications?

"Ah," Stuart said, "that does change things, doesn't it?"

. . . . .


Note:

More mini Q next chapter!