The Successful Getaway

"Anytime, Q!", Bond yelled as he raced down an abandoned alleyway. Blood was running down his face in a small stream, his suit miraculously still intact. Never let it be said he didn't know what was important. Sporadic shooting came from behind him as a bullet grazed his shoulder. Cursing, Bond picked up his pace. To think this was supposed to be a routine mission. Routine, his ass. Bond barked out a short ragged laugh. He knew he was being punished. And the continued silence over his com line wasn't doing much to dissuade him of the notion. Shaking his head, he turned the corner, pausing to fire a shot behind him, catching one of his pursuers in the chest. One down. He continued down another alley, this one dirtier than the first, and quickly swung into a bustling open air market. He slipped into the crowd, trying to blend in as well as possible when one was wearing an Armani suit.

A small trinket in a passing booth caught his eye. He deftly palmed it from the table as he passed by, and slipped it into his inner pocket as he walked past. Maybe there was a way to salvage this detour after all, he mused, a small grin touching the corner of his mouth. He began making his way to the far end of the market, picking up his pace at the commotion he heard behind him as several men began pushing their way through the crowd. With barely a pause, his pace quickened to a looping run as he once again demanded a response from his handler, "If you're off making another bloody cup of tea..." he quietly ranted.

Heads around Q branch snapped up and around to stare at the command platform, as Bond's voice echoed over the speakers, and the volume slowly began to recede as Q made his way towards the central terminal. Verbal sparring between 007 and Q was not to be missed, it was enough to liven up any day filled with the tedium of inputting data for the lowly techs at the bottom of the totem poll. And, well, with an opening salvo like that, it certainly wasn't going to be boring. Soft groans of disappointment echoed through out Q branch, as Q deftly switched the com from speaker to a more private line.

"Do keep your head, 007. I rather thought you would be used to these types of situations what with the way you normally go about business." Q nonchalantly remarked, as he took a loud sip from his mug, before setting it down with a not-so quiet clink of glass. He perversely enjoyed the faint hiss that came over the coms. He felt no reason to tell him that he had been monitoring his progress throughout the entire period of silence. Let Bond think what he would. He began to type away at the central station, attempting to ascertain Bond' s current location and the best evac method. After a short , barely discernible pause, "Oh, there you are. I see you. And no where near where you should be...although I don't know why I'm surprised." Q stated dryly.

"I know where I am, Q!" Bond gruffly replied. "Where have you been?!" he asked pointedly. Quick but controlled breathing came through the com line. Along with an annoyed huff at the lack of an immediate response from his so-called handler. It made the act of dumping Q's tea into the rubbish bin during his last visit to Q branch all the more satisfying to recall. The nerve of Q, not to mention the balls, trying to dock his pay. It's not like they couldn't make another.

"Irritable, are we?" Q quipped. "That's what happens when you blow up the getaway car yet again, 007. You end up having to do a bit of light running." A scoff from Bond threaded through the speaker of Q's ear piece.

"I will never understand your fascination with explosives, 007. There are so many less flashy, and more effective ways to go about things, not to mention less destructive. To think you could have been at your destination already, if you had used the equipment I gave you as intended, instead of blowing it up.", Q dryly remarked.

Bond growled. Q then had the cheek to add, "...And this time I really am going to take it out of your pay, 007. I don't care if I have to bloody booby trap the tin with a taser. This is getting ridiculous." Q growled back.

Bond could only grunt in reply as he executed a quick turn, only to slam into the side of fruit truck as it barreled by. However, the glare he directed at the camera as he ran past spoke volumes. Forget about the tea, he snarled to himself, he was going after that pretentious mug of his next, and Q could forget about his damn 'present' as well. He cut through a small shop, slipping on a pair of glasses he snagged out of a fellow customer's pocket. He slide through the small crowd as he made his way towards the back and out the door into yet another alley.

"Are you done with your fashion routine yet, 007?" Q's dulcet tones had turned slightly mocking. "Or should I wait while you pick out an entirely new wardrobe?" Bond could practically hear Q's eyebrow arching up mockingly.

"Take your next right. No! I said, right!" Q suddenly directed. He watched as Bond pivoted and threw himself to the right, narrowly avoiding being clipped by a bullet as it whizzed past. "It seems your friends have caught up to you." Q dryly reported.

"Really Q, I never would have guessed.", came Bond's sarcastic reply as his breath puffed out over the small speaker. He heard Q's answering haughty sniff clearly over the crystal clear com line.

"I do sometimes amaze even myself." Q drawled. Bond could only roll his eyes.

"I saw that." Q coolly stated. Bond shot a look at the nearest camera.

After he had successfully corrected course, Q sat back with his now nuke-warm cup of Earl Grey. There was no reason to crush Bond's little moment of victory by informing him of the spare tins that were always kept on hand by his minions, or, ahem, interns in order to placate him after they messed up in some spectacular fashion. He took a small sip as he continued to guide Bond through the narrow streets one turn at a time. "Left."

"Right." How tediously mind numbing, Q thought. His mind was already starting to wander, as his eye drifted to the clock. Soon, he thought, with a quick grin, before his professional mask once again dropped over his features. Bond would soon by someone else's problem for a while, once he finally got to the ruddy extraction point of course. He almost had the heart to pity the poor fellow who would have to put up with Bond's complaining over his less than stellar accommodations, he thought with thrill of sadistic glee. Bond really should have known better than to blow up another one of his department's modified cars. Q was fully prepared to take this latest affront out of his hide, literally if necessary.

"Left into and through the alley, 007. You're almost there." Q deftly instructed. "Right."

"No, your other right. Do we have to go back to primary school, 007?" Q could only sigh as Bond made another hair tight turn. He sat up slightly,"In about ten seconds, there will be a shooter waiting to ambush you in an alley to the left. In three...two..."

Bond pivoted in what was quickly becoming a rather trademark move, and swung his weapon up and squeezed off two shots in quick succession. After a quick double tap to the chest of his would be assassin, he was again on his way. Securing the satchel slung over his chest, and tucking the Walter squarely away back in it's holster, he efficiently shot his cuffs and straightened his somehow spotless suit jacket. He turned into the dock's entrance, and slipped under the cheap security bar. God, he loved this country, he thought in momentary wonderment. Swinging under the guard rail and landing with a barely noticeable wince on a small motorboat, he quickly revved the engine to life.

With a quick jerk of the wheel and a push of the throttle, he set out into the bay. "Which one, Q?" he asked as his roared past a few sailboats closer to shore and out to deeper water.

"The Siesta Mona, 007. Now get on the bloody boat, and try to avoid blowing it up." Q directed, "I'm not going to be here to be your glorified G.P.S. if you do. Contrary to popular belief, you are not my only responsibility. At least, by some miracle, you managed to keep some of your equipment. But make no mistake Bond, we will be talking about your need to continuously destroy my tech at great length in the near future." Click.

Bond glanced at the ship he was to board. He had to hand it to Q. He really knew how to kick a man when he was down. That damn mug might have to remain intact after all, at least until Q's latest snit fit was over. He heard the com line click on again, "007? Do you require anything further before you depart? Do you require medical attention?.who's started the office pool on how long it will be before said phone call?" R softly called out to the room at large. A minion slowly raises his hand a few cubicles over. "Put me down for 24 hours." The hand slowly lowers, only to cover a quick grin.

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Q walked rather quickly out of M16 for a man who had a week of freedom on the books. However, nobody would call him an idiot. And if there was one thing he could count on, it was Bond's ability to act like an idiot. He gave himself two, maybe three days, possibly four if 007 was injured, before Bond got bored and he got called back to mitigate the damage. Everything else he needed to be kept abreast of could be sent to his personal tablet, so with luck he might still get a few days of downtime, never mind that he had put in for a full week.

He was slightly apprehensive about leaving R in charge for the first time, but it wasn't like M, Tanner, or Eve wouldn't be able to track him down if needed, he assured himself. And with those doubts firmly assuaged, he determinedly picked up his pace. There was a train waiting for him at the station, and damned if he was going to miss it on account of Bond on his histrionics.

Although the rumor regarding his rampant phobia was largely cultivated by Q himself, he still felt that the ground was much friendlier than the air. Who was he to care that his preferences got misconstrued so? It never hurt to be underestimated. It often came in handy later down the line. When it came down to it, Q was sometimes too smart for his own good. Not to mention that too many airplane crashes have been made to look like accidents. He should know really, he planned more than a few of those 'accidents' himself. It's amazing how much can go wrong in a pressurized tin can flying miles above the ground.

Pushing such thoughts aside, he gladly settled into his plush seat and pulled out his tablet. He had a few side projects that he had been meaning to work on in his spare time. A few would even make Bond sit up and beg, he thought with a smirk.