Warning: There is a slight suggestion of SLASH, but this can also be viewed as friendship.
Also, I love Mini Coopers, and therefore hold nothing against them.
They were all orphans. At least, they were all orphans mentally- although Q could never understand how his cold fellow employees could ever wish to remove themselves from their parents for this job. But that was beside the point. Because he was an orphan in every way imaginable- mentally, and literally. And that really hurt sometimes.
He relaxed back into his office chair; since being 007's Quartermaster his previously hard-backed plastic one had been replaced with something leather that almost felt like being concealed by a duvet. The only perk so far of being forced to work in alliance with Bond (admittedly, that might have been a tad callous, but the agent had just dropped on his desk another of his perfectly manufactured armaments, destroyed), happened to be this chair. So therefore he treasured it.
Q tapped on the keyboard, eyes intently observing the screen as he attempted to ignore the broken parts of the discarded gadget- he hadn't the motivation to remove them quite yet, to go through the laborious task of deciding whether to repair, or start from scratch. Both went severely unappreciated, but that was his job. And however much he complained, he secretly ravished in it.
He got to create, and explain, equate and solve puzzles, all day long. Perfection really, for someone like him- and there weren't that many people like him, which meant that however much he complained that he wasn't appreciated, he knew he was. He was unique, valuable. An asset. So therefore, he would continue working, because today of all days, he could needed to escape into the part of his mind organised with numbers; pure, sensible numbers.
This plan of distraction from reality, and the date stomping its foot at him obnoxiously from the toolbar, of course is set to a soul destroying stand still when Bond enters.
"You fixed it yet, Q?" He asks, much too nice, and innocent, and with too kind a pair of eyes (who thought a double-0 agent would have such kind eyes), and with a look of hope that makes Q almost feel bad for putting the former revolver at the bottom of his list of things to do. Below even sock sorting and searching for his mustard cardigan under his bed. Guilt.
Then, however, he feels angry because it's blatantly obvious that it is not fixed, but still on his desk, in pieces. He glares, and Bond actually looks suitably affronted, like the some woodland animal that gets too close to a fire, he jumps back, retracts, curls inwards. Unlike a woodland animal, however, he doesn't have to common sense to make a hasty retreat. Instead he comes in, sits down on the chair, and rests the feet up on the desk. His desk.
"Yes?" Q tries to keep his tone polite, he really does, but it fails impressively. And perhaps he hadn't been trying that hard anyway. Bond wouldn't care, like everyone else in the cold-hearted, icy institute, would he? Although, when Q looks up, he is surprised. He can't yet work out if it's in a good way or a bad way yet, however, as Bond's feet are suitably on the carpet, and Bond himself is looking at him with far too much concentration, he decides to try a smile. It doesn't last long
"You're not up to the job tonight. Have a break, later will do. You need some time off. Two nights in your own bed instead of your office chair, at least." A command. Embarrassing. Should he follow it, look weak, or disobey, and appear stupid? Decisions, decisions…He could go for a compromise, right? A compromise that would let him work tonight, just tonight. That's all he needs. Truly.
Q's ponderings were interrupted at the smooth shutting of his laptop in front of him, followed by the quiet shuffling of Bond's feet across the maroon carpeted floor. He sits awkwardly, before Bond turns, and he follows, humiliatingly enough, like a lost puppy, out of the room.
Bond's car, Q has decided, is very nice, but he couldn't really have expected anything else, could he? Although the image of Bond getting out of a Mini Cooper is a hilarious one, which would have made him smile if he wasn't in such a dismal mood. He can stretch, and sit down, instead of standing and gluing his fingers to a pole on the tube, where more than once he's been thrown to the floor by the ruthless businesspeople of London.
Staring out of the window, he ponders what to say. Bond is driving, and apparently putting a lot of concentration into it- although traffic is slow. It's five o'clock, in London, in December; what else was to be expected? The only conclusion that can be drawn is that Bond is trying to make it less awkward for him, which is actually surprisingly courteous- since what could be more awkward than trailing after your agent out of your office, and following him into his car.
Wishing he could rewind the last twenty minutes, Q tapped at a laptop that he wished was at his fingers, then asked before his commonsense got in control of his fumbling words. "What makes you think I'm ill?" Bond scoffed, and turned to look at Q, which made the younger man blush. Again. Why was he so awkward?
"You tell me." Oh. Personal. Share and tell. Q knew he wasn't very good at this, but he couldn't say "Nothing"- since it was blatantly a lie. Instead, Q settled for honesty, in the bluntest way possible, to at least make it appear as if it wasn't bothering him as much as it was.
"My mother died three years ago today- just feeling sentimental, is all." There. Should he expand on that? Or just wait for a reply? There was silence, before Bond decided he couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer, and Q was relived of the burden of yet another violent stillness. But the awkwardness didn't disappear.
"Liar. You're trying to run away from anything that could be classified within the semantic field of sentimental." Sentimental- harsh, spat out. Like chocking on blood.
It was true though. Why else would he plan an all-nighter, tap, tap, tapping away at his allies, the keys of his laptop? He didn't want to think about it, to be forced to grieve- he never had. Even just after he found out, he stored the information away, and carried on tapping.
"Face it, Q. Mourn, and then move on. Don't keep doing whatever you're doing." Q stared straight ahead, confused. Today, perhaps, he had definitely different than usual, but Bond implied that he was so often…wrong. Bond continues, suddenly louder, "You have a shell Q, like all agents, but you have never let it down, not once. It's as if you're still in shock, on autopilot, as if you only found out the news minutes ago, not the three years that you say!"
"Oh." What else can he say to that, as he observes the windscreen wipers smoothly wrecking the perfect circles of the rain drops? "How?" is next, because…he doesn't know. The answer to stop feeling quite so cold, and hollow, is apparently obvious, but the equation is harder. He tries to balance it in his mind; it doesn't work. Instead, he turns his eyes from the blurred roads to Bond's fists upon the stirring wheel, as he concludes that Bond is offering him a chance to stay in his apartment tonight. Interesting.
The fists are tightening, paling at the knuckles. "Remember.", the spy says. Q is wary. Bond sounds angry, and is it his fault? Honestly? The car drives on.
A.N: Hi, I hope you enjoyed this story. Please, please, give feedback- I desperately want to improve, and the interned is wonderful enough to allow constructive criticism to be shared. I am pondering whether to do a more angsty sequel to this, where Q does remember; your views on this would be deeply appreciated. I'm quite in secure if I warbled for too long in this, about nothing in particular, or if I cut off at the wrong point, so yet again, reviews are adored. Thank you for reading. :-)