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Bond strode through the plane, last to board and flashing easy smiles at the stewardesses. The waxen quality of their usual expressions melted slightly at the heat in his eyes, and he was sure he caught a blush from the willowy brunette checking that the window blinds were up. She was pretty enough, but airline stewardesses rather put him off and well, any woman whose hair didn't move was hardly trustworthy, if 009 was to be believed.

The woman seated next to him did pique his interest. Blonde—natural caramel accentuated with a few low lights that had been allowed to grow out, falling in smooth waves around her shoulders. Her breasts were on the large side, but then so was her waist, though her hands were long and graceful where they held the magazine she was flipping through. Her face was round, lips full and lush and just kissed with lipstick, everything about her seemed to exude the sensual fertility of the Venus of antiquity.

Bond slipped into the seat next to her and said in his most silken tone, "Evening, Miss."

"Shove it up your arse, 007."

"Q," he all but gasped, jet blue eyes widening imperishably. A smirk crept over his face as he re-examined the long delicate hands holding the magazine, which Bond now recognized as Guns and Ammo, and the faint sneer that hovered above the woman's lip.

"Bond," the wo(man) murmured in the Quartermaster's posh, but decidedly masculine tone. He (difficult though it was to reconcile that pronoun with the luscious curves) still had not looked up from his magazine, "M deemed it necessary that I accompany you."

"Is that so," he snorted and shook his head, "And why, pray tell, have you taken on such a charming figure? You look as though you've just sprung from a clam shell."

"A girl tries," Q muttered and shot him a simpering smile that barely disguised the snarl in his faux blue eyes. His posture stooped for a second, then, seeming to remember he had breasts, folded back into a slightly more feminine pose. "Happy to know my efforts were not wasted."

"And what efforts were those?"

"Excuse me?"

"006's finger prints are all over this," he hummed knowingly. "She does an excellent smoky eye."

"006 doesn't wear make up," he flicked the page on his magazine with greater force than was strictly necessary.

"She did your passport as well, then? Let me have a look," Bond snagged Q's purse from the tray table before he could protest.

"Bond!" he hissed and finally folded the magazine, "give that back!"

Repressing what would doubtlessly have been a fiendish grin, Bond turned to face the aisle to protect his prize from the flailing hands of his quartermaster, who he knew desperately wanted to snap at him, but just as desperately wanted to avoid attracting any undue attention to them. 006 was unanimously recognized as the best forger in MI6, but was also renowned for the less than flattering names she often gave under-covers. And for Q to fight this hard, well… it must be some of her better work.

"Now, now, Q," James fended his attempts off with an elbow, "I'm going to have to know your name if we're meant to be dating."

"As if I would bloody well—" Q hissed before drawing to a sudden stop as the stewardess breezed by, "Give me the purse, you colossal twat!"

At long last he drew out a wallet, pulled out the document and dropped the leather monstrosity in Q's lap.

"Don't sweat, darling, your makeup will run," Bond chuckled.

"Bond, I'm warning—"

The end of his sentence was cut off by 007's explosive snort.

"Good Lord," the agent chuckled, "she really has out done herself. What did you do to her?"

"Nothing," he snapped, looking harassed.

"Miss Anna Lingus," he shook his head, "I do believe you are lying to me."

Say it out loud. You know what it sounds like.