I'm going to kill that son of a bitch…

Q glared at the bright glowing screen of his cell phone as it proceeded to ring. Behind it, his alarm clocked bared the numbers "01:24" in bright red at his face.

There was only one bastard who would dare call him at this time of night. The same bastard who always called him in the middle of the night. His employer, Mr. Bond.

"Hello?" Q answered, keeping his voice courteous because, that's what he was trained to do.

"Hey Q-babe. I need you to bring the car by Pussy Galore."

Q resisted the urge to scream. They both had to work in the morning and Mr. Bond was at a damn strip club? He shouldn't be surprised, he really shouldn't. It wasn't like this was the first time Bond had done something outrageous.

It wasn't even the first time Q had been forced to pick him up at that particular strip club.

He sighed, "Be there in 20 minutes, Mr. Bond." He didn't bother listening for a response, it's not like Bond ever dignified him with one anyway.

He was the only PA for Bond that had lasted more than three months. The rest had cracked under the pressure of Bond's incredible schedule and his outrageous ego.

As Q drove to the club, he couldn't help but fret about the number of things that would have to get done in the morning. Bond didn't make his millions by sitting on his ass (even if that's what it seemed like a majority of the time) and Q was in charge of everything in the man's life. Which was fine…until Bond himself got in the way.

Q stopped in front of the overly gaudy strip club, with the words "Pussy Galore" in bright neon pink letters. He couldn't help but blush, honestly, hadn't the owners ever heard of a thing called tact? They weren't even trying to be discreet.

Someone must have told Bond his car was waiting, because the banker walked out of the club less than a minute later. Judging by the suit that he was wearing, Bond must have gone to the club after work.

"Took you long enough." He chuckled, climbing into the back seat of the car. His employer looked at him in the rearview mirror, "You look like shit."

Q bit his lip, resisting the urge to throttle his employer, "Well not all of us can function on no sleep." He responded carefully, driving away from the god awful club.

Bond snorted, "I can see that." He settled in his seat. From the glitter Q could see on his employer's shirt collar and slacks, he had been very "lucky" that evening. "Nice bedhead, by the way."

It wasn't like Q had enough time to fix his hair when he went to pick up his boss. When did he ever have enough time for himself?

"Seriously, your curls are getting ridiculous, Q." Bond laughed, "I would hate for my PA to look like a vagabond. Take a little time to work on your appearance. It's not like you have anything else to do."

Something inside Q snapped, causing him to slam the breaks on the car. To his satisfaction, Bond (who had not been wearing a seatbelt, the smug bastard) fell forward with a loud thump.

"What the hell, Q?" Bond glared up at Q, who had pulled the car off the road.

But Q wasn't listening; instead he turned off the ignition and turned to face his employer, "Nothing else to do? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Bond blinked, most likely because Q never swore in his presence. Q took the chance to continue, "I have not just my own life to live, I have to live yours as well. You know how many of your files have to be kept organized, how many bank accounts that need to be balanced with all your spending , just to make sure that you don't spiral out of control?" He gripped the steering wheel tightly, "You know how many of your meetings I've made sure you went to, after a night of your ridiculous parties? Or how many of your clients I've placated after you've insulted them with your pigheadedness? How many of your deals I've had to save?"

Bond opened his mouth to speak, but Q beat him to it, "No, I'm talking, you're listening!" He was fuming now, venting everything he had been bottling the past few months, "And don't even get me started on what you do when you're not working! I mean, do you just think it's alright to constantly call a person in the middle of the night because you can't be bothered to drive yourself home? Or can't be bothered to call a taxi when you've obviously drunk yourself off your ass? I am a personal assistant, not a babysitter!

"I had a wonderful job with the government before I came to work for you, I am not some bimbo who will bend over backwards for you." He hissed, seeing the incredulous look on Bond's face. "You may think you're God's gift to the world, James Bond, but without me, you're nothing."

Q was losing steam and he knew it. He took a deep breath, "Now, before I tender my resignation letter, will there be anything else, Mr. Bond?"