Disclaimer: I don't own Bond.
There are few things that irritate Q more than when his co-workers, or his sister's husband, or his mother, or anyone really, assumes that he is utterly helpless in anything other than computers.
And really, what does everyone say about assuming?
It isn't like he can tell anyone other than his co-workers of his prowess, anyway, his family would be terribly suspicious.
But what really, really gets his goat, is when James Bond assumes he is incapable of something.
"Scrawny little thing." Or, "Have you done any physical exercise in your life?" Or even, "Can you lift that by yourself?", said as he hefted a rocket launcher over his shoulder.
Q is a very accomplished man.
So one day, when he is tinkering with a tiny Beretta and adding a new feature which, if all went to plan, will detonate the gun if anyone other than the agent it was programmed to tries to fire it, when Bond strolls in and scoffs at him.
"Should you even work on things you've never fired?" Bond flings himself down in a chair.
Q snaps.
"007, you are sorely incorrect to assume that I have never fired a weapon." He sets the gun down and carefully places his tools down beside it. Bond chuckles.
"How much did you miss by?" Q is in the process of getting up when Bond says this, and he freezes.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh did I touch a nerve?" Bond laughs obnoxiously.
"If you'll pardon me, 007, has it been so long since you weren't spoon fed everything you needed to know, that it has rendered you incapable of reading a file?" Q straightens up fully and fixes Bond with an icy glare.
"I can read files. I just don't." Bond lounges in the chair, smirking.
"If you had read my file, 007, you would know that I have three doctorate level degrees, I can speak nine languages, which include russian, spanish, and indonesian, I am a military level pilot, despite my sight impairment, I am of the highest level of training in six martial arts, I fence, am a bullseye shot in archery and with knives, and use a quarterstaff with extreme effectiveness. I have travelled extensively, spent three months training with Maori warriors when I was sixteen, six months with tibetan monks the next summer, I have passed MI6's gun training with perfect scores, and am a rather excellent chef, not to mention the damage I can cause with my laptop. So I would thank you not to patronise me, bearing in mind I build you weapons and gadgets and can easily modify them in a way that will cause you great inconvenience." And then Q shoots him with a tranquilliser dart. Bond slumps in the chair, completely unconscious, and Q settles back to tweaking the Beretta.
His interns watch him with mild amusement, having had the sense to read his available file when he first became Q.
R approaches Bond, and prods him in the chest with a pen.
"Want me to have him moved, Sir?" She asks, fascinated with the double 0. Q scowls.
"Leave him. He deserves a stiff neck."
R nods, and goes to fetch a cup of earl grey for him. When she returns, he relaxes and sips it, sighing and rolling his shoulders gently.
When Bond wakes up, he apologises to Q for being an unmitigated ass, and buys him lunch to make up for it.
He also doesn't complain when Q knocks him out for pinching his ass.
Much.
