I don't entirely know where I'm going with this. Consider it a dumping ground for such ideas. Q is a Chinchilla, Bond is a reptile, it's cute, and somehow works.
Expect snark and a water pistol fairly often.
Obviously (you should know this with me having to tell you) this is a fanpiece and therefore not used for monetary gain.
Guys interested in guys, espionage, anthro-type verse, you know.
The Quartermaster of MI6 wasn't at all what he'd been expected to be. He wasn't old, creaky, stuck in the old ways of things, or horrible to look at. The Quartermaster of MI6 was instead young, intelligent, snarky, and…cute. The Quartermasters of the past had been canines mostly, though with a few interspersed felines and birds. But this Quartermaster was the first of his kind. Long before he became Quartermaster, Q for short, he had been an unassuming Research and Development intern by the name of Falk D. Weaver.
He was the young man who hid in his corner cubicle; first into the office each morning, and the last to leave each night. He was quiet but polite, his productivity the highest in his branch. At first he worked on chemical compounds in pharmaceuticals, aiming to improve antibiotics and create anti-venoms when needed. His work was challenging and fast-paced and he had no complaints about his life. His coworkers had nothing bad to say about him, only that no one really knew Falk, that he was too quiet, too shy. For his work in creating an adaptive antibiotic Falk was offered a promotion, to which he declined. Falk was content in his corner with his baubles and skeins of wire and cabling. He was happy with the anonymity in which he lived and, while happy to be useful, he wasn't interested in being the center of attention. As far as Falk was concerned someone like him didn't want or need prestige; leave such things to canines and catamounts, to the various fowls with their bright plumage always seeking attention. But someone like him was too plain, too ordinary, and content with being just that. So he kept up the good work and continued to settle into his cubicle, which was really beginning to look more like a nest than a cubicle.
In the ten years that Falk had been employed at MI6, from the tender age of nineteen after being caught with his trousers around his ankles, so to speak, Falk had made many allies. His work in both computer sciences and robotics, and biochemical engineering had his name at the top of a very prestigious list, even if he had no interest in climbing the corporate ladder, so to speak. His superiors knew who to keep an eye on, and who could, and would, rise to the occasion when called.
And so, when Raoul Silva attacked MI6 headquarters and rendered both the current Quartermaster and his second incapable of completing their duties, Falk rose to the task.
The blast that had taken out the upper levels of MI6 had been intended to cause far more damage, and a much higher kill count. But Falk, having already been at his desk for several hours, was able to deflect the majority of the attack. Because of his quick thinking, and typing, dozens of lives had been saved. The list of living versus dead should have been enough to convince the young man he'd made the right decision, but for the list of deceased he tortured himself. If only he had been faster, smarter, no one would have had to die. But that was for later, for now he had to organize his people. His people. The techs, the researchers: the boffins of MI6. And for all the mutterings he had heard behind his back with each award, for each word of praise, he heard not a peep as he stood before his peers.
Not one MI6 employee complained that not a loyal canine, sly feline, or captivating fowl lead them. Not a single person spoke a word against him. Because for all the loyalty and selflessness of a canine, their command crumbled before his resolve, the quick decisiveness of a catamount rendered itself slow and weak in the face of his wit and intelligence, and for every bright feather and articulate speech a fowl could muster meant nothing to the stony determination he exuded as he kept them alive. Falk did more than help his people survive; they thrived under his rule.
The rule of a meek little Chinchilla.
His mistake with Silva's laptop had been excused, by the higher-ups, not by Q, he doubted he would ever allow himself to forget how much damage his pride had caused. Apparently letting a psychopathic, revenge-oriented ex-double-oh, with the mental instability that seemed the plague all Hyena, screw with their internal systems and nearly cause the death of the head of MI6 wasn't all that bad (considering that M, the silver fox who ran MI6, had managed to survive the destruction of Skyfall manor in Silva's last stand). Which, really, should have been an indication to Falk concerning just how screwed he would be if he stayed in this position. Oppositely, he rather liked the Quartermaster's office (once it had been rebuilt, of course). And the free reign to build and develop and code to his heart's content was worth the horribly hectic hours, panicked texts at any given time of day, and the unending petulance from his field agents.
Yes, his agents; he may have been a Chinchilla, but that didn't at all mean that Q, Falk, whatever, was willing to let someone else take chances with their lives. They were his annoying pests and to hell with anyone who tried to take them away. Well…Falk was almost willing to part with one of his pests; the biggest, meanest, cleverest of them. And by that, obviously, he meant James Bond.
Bond was one of the few Armadillo Girdled Lizards ever found in England. There was some speculation over his lineage, but so far no one had been brave enough (re: suicidal) to confront him about it. The man was smooth and sharp all at once. Unlike many he was able to keep his reptilian characteristics in check. Aside from a lack of ear shells, some scaling on his hands, neck, and if the gossip was to be believed, underbelly the only indication of Bond's species was the long, sharply plated tail that swept along behind him. Falk had seen his fair share of interns stare after that tail, a good number whispering about the kind of leverage Bond must have because of it. Falk made a habit of tweaking those interns' consoles and computers to only play such sounds and songs as Nyan Cat, Crazy Frog, and the occasional shout of 'HEY LISTEN'. Within a few hours he would relent, if only for his own sanity.
Bond…was a problem. He was also a major distraction for even the most disciplined in Q-branch. More than once Falk had been forced to threaten the double-oh with a squirt gun filled with ice water to get the reptile to leave his bunker. The agent, after Falk had finally given over and shot a stream of icy water into the man's face, would huff, twitch his flaring tail plates and neck, and leave with a an expression that promised retribution. To this day, Falk still checked every corner he turned, every seat he took, and every bathroom stall. Field agents were known for their viciousness in revenge, and they were fluffy kittens in comparison to the double-oh section.
But back to Falk's current problem (again): Bond.
The insufferable reptile had seated himself on the edge of Falk's desk and refused to move. Falk had given up working at his desk because every time he thought he'd found a comfortable spot out of reach of Bond's tail, the other man would disprove the new Q's safety by prodding him in the ribs, the calf, and in one instance that had him reaching for the chilled water pistol, Falk's tail. The younger man had promptly choked on his instinctive squeak and instead bared his teeth at the reptile, hissing.
Bond had actually been stunned. His pale, reptilian eyes had shrunken to icy slits, tail becoming rigid behind him. Chinchillas weren't aggressive mammals, quite the opposite, but there was something about Bond that made the head of Q branch's ears flutter and his fingers begin to grow claws.
Git.
"Double-Oh-Seven, in the event that you have outgrown the tools supplied to you by Q-branch I invite you to do that again. Oppositely, if you have any living brain cells in that hollow wedge you call a head, I suggest you find somewhere else to be and to never again touch my tail." Falk's voice was low and while he wasn't quite snarling he knew that his human appearance was falling away. He felt the sharp tips of his teeth, having grown a fair bit recently as he'd been too busy to properly blunt them, against his tongue as he spoke. His claws, wickedly thin and sharp, pressed into the leather desk cover that his laptop sat on top of. Falk suspected that the black of his fur was even beginning to show, probably around his temples and jaw like he was wont to do when upset.
He half expected Bond to press further and was surprised when the Ouroboros stood from Q's desk and stepped back, palms up and away. They eyed each other for a moment, Falk's breath coming quickly, tail quivering with suppressed rage, Bond's chest rising a slight bit quicker than before. Finally Bond bent his head down and angled to the side. The gesture was submissive, unprecedented for Bond, and the angle kept his eyes in contact with Falk's.
"My mistake, I apologize, Q." It was said without sarcasm, low and smooth. Bond's eyes didn't flicker, his tail remained stationary, and the exposed plating on his neck didn't even change colour. He wasn't lying, not as far as Falk could tell.
Falk stood from his chair, back straight, fingers once again long and human. "Yes, well, see that it never happens again. I don't know how your species does things, Double-Oh-Seven, but in my genus what you did is beyond insulting." Bond's eyes flickered now, the pupil widening before shrinking back down to slits of black amongst a sea of arctic blue. He was surprised, again.
"Again, Quartermaster, I apologize. It will not happen again." The agent slowly lowered his hands to his sides, never looking away from his Quartermaster's green gaze.
Falk nodded, jaw set, "was there something you wanted concerning work, or were you merely looking for entertainment?"
"A bit of both, I suppose. One of your minions said you'd been working on something new for us double-ohs, I was hoping to provide myself for testing." Again his voice didn't waver, though the length of his tail wrapped around his left shin.
"Oh, that, well it isn't yet ready for testing. Nor is it nearly ready enough for my subordinates," he narrowed his eyes, emphasising the correct terminology, "to be chatting about. If and when the prototype comes to a stage where testing is required, Double-Oh-Seven, and I am in need of thorough durability data, I will of course come to you." Bond's lips quirked up at the snark. "Until then, please occupy yourself with something more pedestrian; running, shooting, seducing another fowl from accounting maybe?" Bond's mouth blossomed into a full grin at the not so subtle shot at his ability to separate work and play, and really it shouldn't of made Falk's ears turn so hot, but it did.
"I'll make sure to take your advice to heart, Quartermaster. Thank you for your time." With that and a sly wink, Bond spun on the toe of one, no doubt, horridly expensive shoe, and sauntered (sauntered!) from Q's office.
It wasn't until the breathless silence outside had passed into excited chatter did Falk flop back down into his chair and exhale in a loud huff. His ears hung limply and his tail curled around one thigh. Really, that man would certainly be the death of him.