No own, no money, yadda, yadda.
It wasn't that Boothroyd was a poor Quartermaster. He was competent, efficient, and well suited to the position. Still, he retired and that was that. Q'ute went off to America to work with the CIA and that was a shame. They'd had chemistry. But when Q, the true Q, his Q, left it wasn't quite the same.
The voice in his ear had none of the teasing familiarity. It was polite, professional, and friendly but that was so disappointing. There was no partially restrained cursing when he ran out in the line of fire. There was no hum of disapproval as he eyed a beautiful woman who might have useful information and a warm bed. It was a successful but empty mission right up until the end.
He sat in the embassy in Mumbai with blood dripping down his arm, absentmindedly playing with the remains of the watch Q had once made for him. He was being detained until he could sit through a debriefing and receive medical. The arm itself had gone rather numb a while back, more of a throbbing than any sharp or specific sensation. He supposed that was the pain medication the local handler had given him.
Light from the window glinted off the broken face of the watch. A bullet had smashed it to pieces, left little cuts in his hand and bent the metal in odd directions. The microphone in his ear clicked on and there was a distinct sigh.
"Even when I take a holiday you choose to break my things. Really 007, aren't there more efficient ways to execute your missions? Ones that don't destroy my inventions?"
His lips curled in a rueful smile. "Q. Why, I'd begun to miss you. Won't make that mistake again."
There was a huff, indignant but only in fun. "Good. I won't make the mistake of coming home early either."