Professionalism:
"How can I trust you to have my back when you lie to me about things like this?" Bond says, quietly now. "You put on a good show, Q, but I'm a professional."
a/n - I'm going to be honest with you and say that I don't really know what this is. I don't know why I wrote it. I don't know what I'm trying to say. I just had an idea for a single scene, started writing, and ended up with this; the original scene I envisioned ended up very, very different.
Regardless, I sort of like this anyway. I hope you do too.
Post-Skyfall; as spoiler-free as physically, humanly possible. Inspired by a post of Tumblr which said that James Bond is basically the worst spy in the world. 00Q: romantic if you want it, friendship if you choose; it's open to interpretation.
Disclaimer: I am not Ian Fleming, a production company, nor the government of the UK and therefore claim no ownership of James Bond, 007, or MI-6.
"I don't understand you, 007."
James steadies his hand and shoots – once, twice, three times – then calls the target forward with a touch of a button before responding. Satisfied by the accuracy of his aim, he grins and pops the plugs from his ear, glancing over his shoulder at the young man behind him while the target rolls back into place. "Sorry, what was that?"
Q drops his slim hands from his ears and glares at the agent, whose smirk grows wider in answer. "I said, I don't underst-"
Bond's hand flies up and he shoots again, eyes still locked on the Quartermaster's. Three more shots crash through the room, each one causing Q to jump and grimace; but the young man stands his ground, the annoyance even more palpable in the sharp lines of his face.
"Bond," he snaps through the ringing in his ears, shaking his head slightly to clear it. "You are acting like a child."
Bond's hands fly smoothly over the gun, disposing of the now empty clip and loading a new one without taking his eyes from Q. "Is that your professional opinion, Quartermaster? Maybe you should take it up with M."
Q opens his mouth to speak, but Bond interrupts by raising the gun and firing off several shots in quick succession, turning bodily away from Q to focus on the target. Frustrated, annoyed, and with a growing migraine pounding on the inside of his skull in time with 007's shots, Q leaves the room, grumbling to himself. The steady rhythm of the shots follow him out and into the underground hallway of MI-6 Headquarters, and he swears he can still hear it as he curls up at his desk with his laptop and signs Bond onto some very interesting mailing lists in retaliation.
–
"Bond. James, Bond."
From a few dozen kilometres away, Q rolls his eyes. "Cut the flirting, 007. I'm sure she's lovely and would enjoy nothing more than to share your bed tonight, but your target is about 20 feet behind you. Focus."
Bond turns slightly toward the nearest security camera and makes a discreet gesture that is nevertheless extremely vulgar.
"Oh, how insulting," Q says in a dull, bored, monotone. "My delicate sensibilities can't handle such crudeness. Dear me, I feel faint."
"Cut the crap, Q," Bond murmurs into his microphone, a pleasant smile still adorning his lips as his hand slides sensuously into the woman's lower back. "Passive aggression will get you nowhere."
"Maybe not," Q concedes, fingers tapping lightly on his keyboard as he hacks his way through the CCTV cameras in the hotel in whose bar Bond stands, casually flirting. "But your target is leaving, so at least I'll be right."
Q can't hide his grin as Bond swears viciously and tears away from the woman. "He's in the elevator. There's a staircase to your left. I'll let you know what on floor he gets off," Q offers helpfully, letting his amusement at Bond's plight colour his tone.
"I swear to god I will smash that pointy little face in if you don't shut up," Bond growls through grunts of effort as his feet pound up the stairs. "You may be pretty but that won't stop me from hurting you."
Q snorts and shakes his head, making his way through the hotel's security protocols as easily and tritely as a hot knife through clichéd warm butter. "So you think I'm pretty, 007? That's not professional behaviour, now, is it?" Bond swears again, and Q laughs delightedly. "8th floor. Hurry, Bond; once he's in the room he's out of my reach."
Hours later, when Q and Bond meet at the extraction point, Bond's fist collides neatly with Q's cheek.
"That's for the Lithuanian Mormon Life subscription," Bond explains smugly as his Quartermaster writhes in unexpected pain on the floor at his feet.
–
It's late, and MI-6 is nearly empty save for the custodial staff doing their rounds, M reading completed mission reports, and a field agent/Quartermaster team who are supposed to be writing their own report but are instead doing something quite different. Bond's grip on Q's wrist is firm but not painful, holding his hand in the right position and moving it to point at the paper target approximately ten feet away.
"Be prepared for the kickback," Bond says carelessly, releasing Q's hand and stepping back. "Don't try aiming quite yet; get a feel for how the action works first."
Q nods, brows drawn together in concentration behind his glasses, and braces his gun-toting hand with the other. He pulls the trigger.
The gun pops and the bullet bounces into the mortar of the ceiling above, sending a cloud of thick white dust over them. Almost as an afterthought, the gun flies from Q's hands and lands with a clatter behind him.
There's a long moment of silence as the dust clears, and when everything is settled Q looks sheepishly over at Bond and shrugs helplessly with a little laugh. "I guess this attempt to teach me self defence is a resounding failure." Bond doesn't answer immediately. His jaw is clenched, his eyes tight with fury. "Bond..?"
James stalks over to the Quartermaster and picks up the gun from the floor behind him. Wordlessly, he pushes the weapon into Q's hand before moving away and unholstering his own.
"Bond?" Q asks again, his voice unsteady. James remains silent, popping the clip out of his Walther and examining it with a cold, clinical detachment. He replaces the clip and raises the gun, levelling it casually at Q's head. "Bond!"
There is a moment where Q is certain Bond will hesitate and lower the weapon; laugh, perhaps, and call his own bluff. He doesn't. His finger tenses, the muzzle flashes, and Q acts on instinct: he ducks and rolls from the line of fire with lightning speed, his gun up and firing before he can stop himself. His bullet connects with the Walther, sending it tumbling from 007's hand.
Breathing hard, Q raises himself laboriously to his feet. "What the HELL was that about?!" he screams, his voice surprisingly quiet in the wake of the gunshots. "You SHOT at me!"
Suddenly Bond is in his face, twisting his wrist until he's forced to drop the weapon. "And you LIED to me!" James shouts back, kicking the revolver away. "How can I trust you when you LIE to me, Q?"
Q tries to break out of Bond's grip, but the older man is much stronger. He twists Q's arm behind him and presses his free thumb into the back of Q's neck, a pressure point that can incapacitate and even kill. Both men know this; Bond increases the pressure until Q stops fighting, then both slowly relax.
"How can I trust you to have my back when you lie to me about things like this?" Bond says, quietly now. "You put on a good show, Q, but I'm a professional."
Q snorts, trying to pretend that his arm isn't causing him immense pain. "We can't all be like you, James Bond," he says, a sneer in his voice. "Some of us have secrets to protect."
Surprised, Bond releases the Quartermaster. The younger man brushes himself off and gathers up the guns without glancing at the agent. "Forgive me for the damage done to your Walther." Q's voice is cold, without a hint of real apology. "I will have it repaired for you tomorrow."
–
Bond does indeed find his Walther, repaired and upgraded, in his MI-6 locker the next morning. Satisfied and admittedly pleased, he makes his way to the Operations room where he knows Q will be setting up for the day's events.
As usual, it's a hustling, bustling hive of activity, permeated with the ever-present scent of morning coffee. James manages to snag a cup on his way past the break room and goes in search of the Quartermaster. Strangely, he is nowhere to be found. His laptop sits, cold and untouched, on his desk next to the coffee stain over which Q is wont to carefully position his mug.
Today there is no mug. There is no Q.
Confused, Bond hangs around in Operations, aiming for discretion and failing, until he sees a familiar shock of untidy black hair exit M's office and bob sluggishly through the crowd to his desk. Bond pounces (figuratively, of course) but by the time he arrives both man and laptop are gone.
Tanner appears as though from nowhere and pushes an envelope into Bond's free hand, chattering away about the upcoming mission. Bond interrupts him only to ask: "Q's meeting me on the jet, then?" and Tanner's face falls just slightly, the barest change of expression.
It's enough.
–
007: That's three missions without Q now.
M: Would you like me to draw you a bath, or have you grown up enough to do it yourself?
007: I'd like to know why I've lost my connection to my Quartermaster.
M: And you're asking me because…?
007: Don't you have all the answers, oh great and powerful one?
M: Sarcastic flattery. Interesting tactic.
007: It's unusual for an agent and technician to be separated short of death, is it not?
M: Unusual, but not unheard of. There are certain circumstances that can warrant such a change.
007: Such as?
M: Why don't you ask Q?
007: I could have used you in Belize.
007: Walther's broken again.
007: Can you translate the word gašlus from Lithuanian to English for me? It was a major subject in this month's Mormon Life issue.
TNR: Q has requested that you discontinue contact. It's against protocol.
007: How can it be against protocol? He's the Quartermaster!
TNR: Q has been transferred.
007: Why?
TNR: Personal request.
–
Q is packing when a dark shape appears on his balcony. He isn't surprised – to be honest, he's been expecting this – but he doesn't help the intruder enter his bedroom. He merely stands and watches as nimble fingers work their magic on his lock and slide the glass door open.
"Come to shoot me again?" Q is casual, almost friendly, but James doesn't miss the way his knees are loose, his muscles relaxed but braced. Q is ready to move; to dodge an attack. James sits on Q's bed and starts folding clothes from the pile Q was sorting through before the agent's arrival.
"Only if you annoy me."
Q shakes his head, not smiling. "This is an incredible invasion of my privacy, Bond. I could have you arrested for this."
"Go ahead."
James looks at him then, and Q deflates slowly, dragging his gaze away after a tense moment. He crosses to the bed and takes the clothes from Bond's hands, placing them carefully in a box that sits on the floor.
"Q." The Quartermaster freezes, because Bond's hand has caught his wrist and stilled his motion. "What have I done to you?"
Q doesn't fight the grip, though he wants to. Instead, he looks up from where he kneels by Bond's feet and catches the other man's eyes. Holding the eye contact with deliberate intensity, Q stands shakily, running his free hand nervously through his hair to make it stand even more on end before dropping his slim fingers to brush against the skin of Bond's hand. James blinks and glances down at the contact, then meets Q's eyes again questioningly. Q's touch becomes more insistent, a caress, and he leans in close to the other man. Bond's eyes widen and his mouth opens in confusion.
He's unprepared for when Q grabs his pinky finger and snaps it backward. It cracks quietly and James swears, nearly throwing Q away and cradling his broken pinky in his other hand. With a satisfied smirk, Q straightens fully and walks away.
"See yourself out, will you, 007?" he calls over his shoulder.
The next thing he knows, he's cowering and there's a hole in the wall right above his head. Bond crosses to him and drags him upright by the back of the neck, slamming him face-first against the ugly wallpaper that Q has yet to replace.
"You said you didn't understand me," Bond growls. Q is shaking, gasping for breath, and can't quite process what's been said.
"W-what?" he stutters, nonplussed. James spins the Quartermaster around, holding him against the wall with one firm arm over his chest.
"You said once that you didn't understand me." Q's eyes finally focus, the ringing in his ears slowly fading as he frowns at James. "So go ahead. Ask away."
Q stares, dumbfounded and confused, for the first time truly showing just how young he is. The silence between them stretches and twists, broken by the unnervingly loud crash of an original Jackson Pollock falling to the floor, its frame shattering spectacularly near their feet. It takes a minute or so for Q to compose himself, but even then all he can manage is a shaky smirk and a stuttering chuckle.
"Your actions are unprofessional, disruptive, inappropriate, and unorthodox, both personally and in the field. You care about no one, yourself least of all." James' expression changes very slightly and the pressure on Q chest lessens. Spurred on, Q continues with more gusto. "You are a wild card and a danger to those around you. You are not a trustworthy ally." Almost without realizing it, Bond steps away from his Quartermaster. Q pushes his glasses back up his nose with one slightly-shaking finger. "You can't seem to manage keeping your own secrets, Bond; James Bond, so why would I trust you with the secrets and the life I hold dear? Everyone has things, people they wish to protect, and you are a risk to those. Please leave my apartment and allow me to return to my packing."
Q turns from him then, brushing the shattered glass from the priceless painting with one casual hand and lifting it with difficulty. Bond does nothing to help as Q returns the now-broken frame to its former place. Bond does nothing to repent his actions as Q surveys the damage to his wall. Bond does nothing at all.
Until he speaks.
"Everything and everyone I have to protect is already in constant danger," he says. "There is nothing for me outside of MI-6, Q. All I hold dear, all of my secrets, are there. I have no reason to hide who I am. While my enemies are looking to use my outside life against me, my real life is safe. And it's much, much easier to maintain that veil of protection when those I care for remain close at hand." Q stills, Bond's words slowly sinking into his skin like tiny volts of electricity. When he turns to look at 007, the man is already gone and the balcony door locked, leaving Q standing in his bedroom with a hole in his wall, glass at his feet, and a strange, thick feeling in his chest.
–
As usual, the MI-6 Operations room is a hustling, bustling hive of activity, permeated with the ever-present scent of morning coffee. James Bond leaves M's office with a scowl on his face and is intending to head down to the weapons testing lab when Tanner catches his eye and waves frantically from the head of the room. Sighing, James makes his way down the steps and enters the fray, weaving his way through the throng of analysts, assassins, and able-bodied agents with skill, if not enjoyment.
He's so distracted by the over-abundance of people – unusual, really; there must be something big happening today – that he doesn't notice where he is until slim fingers grip his wrist and halt him in his tracks.
He's at Q's desk. And so is Q.
"Lust," Q says, eyes meeting Bond's with clear intent and devilish purpose. "Gašlus means lust. In Lithuanian."
Bond grins, Q grins back; and for one brief moment, neither man looks professional at all.