Under spot
"Q."
"007."
Q stared at The Fighting Temeraire and found himself unable to believe that someone could just see a big ship. This was a painting of light; a romantic preface to Impressionism. The beautiful golden ship in all its glory was a stark contrast against the dirty blackened tugboat with its tall smokestack and the setting sun, a symbol of the end of gold age of sailing. The painting itself was just an incredible mix of red and blue. Stunning.
"A bloody big ship," the other man muttered, then snorted and walked out of museum.
Bill Tanner walked the big underground corridors, a laptop in his hands as usual. The new MI6 place wasn't comfortable at all. Despite appearances, the rats and never-ending cold drafts weren't even the worst of it. To him, the scarcity of offices with closed doors was the greatest problem. The knowledge that half of employees sat on Facebook all the time broke his vision about MI6 being the best professional team in UK. However, what he saw in the most modern lab ruined the last of his endurance.
"What are you doing, Q?"
The young man in question flushed and hurriedly covered the small mirror on his desk with some papers.
"Nothing!" he cried.
"You had to trace the youtube film."
"I did. It's an unknown source," he said, still red in the face and very embarrassed.
"And you really have nothing to do besides gape in the mirror?"
"I was trying to figure out some new gadget," he lied, not quite looking him in the eye.
Tanner raised his eyebrows before shaking his head, sighing heavily and leaving. The young these days.
Q walked into the cafeteria and looked around. He never liked this place. The grey walls, and fluorescent lights always depressed him, but he had to talk with somebody. He had too much uncertainty. He had to know.
He approached the woman who was always so nice to him, and smiled a lot. He wanted to look very serious and his voice should be very respectable. He wanted to seem very professional.
"Eve," he finally asked, after a dignified throat clear. "Do I look like a teenager?"
The woman stopped staring impatiently at coffee machine to look over at handsome scientist. "Are you mad?" she asked in disbelief.
"You can't just tell me? Do I look like grown man, or not?" Q asked again, losing a lot of his calm.
"Now you sound like an unconfident teenage girl," she said, patting the man on the back.
Bond had never broken NATO protections at fifteen years old. He had never created indestructible firewall. He couldn't even break in someone's Facebook account. He had certainly never become the youngest and the most brilliant quartermaster ever. But he was the one who just had to look at a screen and in one second had guessed the password. He was the one who broke Q's pride like an enemy's neck, and then went on to calmly fix the cuffs of his silk shirt. And just to make Q even more irritated, before he realised what was happening, Bond was running to catch the enemy.
"I know where I am, Q. Where is he?" the voice on the speaker was, as always, calm and patient, despite the fact the spy was pushing his way through the hectic London crowd.
"Bond. Get on the train," he said, trying to copy Bond's calm and collected composure, but of course, his voice trembled.
Q couldn't see that said man rolled his eyes as he started to run after the train. He could only stare at small point labelled BOND on his screen. Then all went blank.
He disconnected me, Q thought furiously before it suddenly dawned on him. He doesn't need me anymore. Of course, I made fool of myself. Why? Why of all the times, when I'm next to this bully in his expensive suit, I act like my great ability, my extraordinary intelligence and creative power have disappeared?
He couldn't sleep. Since he stopped going to school, where moronic bruisers - Bond's progenitors - used to slap him around, he had never had a problem with sleep. But tonight he was tossing and turning from one side of his big bed to the other.
It was absolutely illogical, but he was nervous. He didn't know what had happened with M and 007. He had seen what Silva was able to do. That virus made by him had been really impressive and now, Q had figured out by himself, that this madman was on their track, which supposedly Bond had wanted, but... it was nothing to worry about, Q wasn't stressed. Not at all.
The next day, when he arrived at Churchill's underground bunkers, he almost ran to Tanner's office. He knew that there would be more on the latest news. Yet, when he saw depressed face of the man in his leather chair, his heart skipped a beat.
"M is dead," Tarnner said quietly, when he saw Q's questioning expression.
"007?" Q asked with baited breath.
"He is always fine," the man said with grievance, like it was the spy's fault that his boss had died.
Q realized that his incredibly fast beating heart was started to calm, and he had to squash the urge to smile at the news. Their boss was dead, why on Earth did he have the urge to smile?
At M's funeral, Bond stood in the first line. His suit fitted his body perfectly and, matched with his supreme posture and exquisite face, Q couldn't take his eyes away from him. He was perfect.
When he walked away from the grave, having given his respects, Q followed after him unconsciously. The man was a trained spy, and he knew that he was being followed, but apparently he didn't mind for he never turned.
Eventually, he stopped at the nearest bar. Bond sat and ordered a whiskey and Q repeated his gesture, but definitely with less smoothness.
"Isn't this where you say that I'm too young for alcohol?" the scientist asked provocatively.
The spy couldn't help but lift the corners of his mouth.
"I'm sorry about M. I know that you liked her" said Q, this time gently.
The man just nodded and drank a little amber-coloured liquid.
"What do you think about Mallory? Will he be a good new boss?" he tried again.
Bond shrugged. Q was starting to get annoyed, but he reigned in his sigh and attempted a different approach.
"Don't you think that he looks a little like Voldemort when he smiles?"
James raised his eyebrows, and, intrigued, asked: "Who?"
"You know, red eyes, no nose... Don't say you don't know Harry Potter?"
The agent shook his head, his eyebrows still lifted.
"Who would have thought? You are Double-O-Twenty-Four-Seven and know nothing about culture. First 'bloody big ship', now Voldemort... Don't say that you have never heard of Adele."
"Do you always talk so much?" ask Bond in his calm and low voice.
"Only when I'm nervous," answered Q, blushing a little and ordering a new drink.
"Why is it that in one week I get two suggestions of men?" Bond said, looking straight in front of him before standing up and leaving rapidly.
"But I didn't suggest anything!" exclaimed Q before realising that no one was there.
From the street came the low murmur of a familiar silver Aston Martin.
"I heard that you are in London, and have your apartment back." At the door, in front of the half-naked Bond, stood Q, smiling nervously.
"You brought me some new equipment?"
"Rather old. 20-year-old-whiskey." He held out the bottle. "And lubricant," he added in a whisper.
Bond raised an eyebrow and smiled mysteriously before opening the door wider and inviting him in. Q walked after him, staring at his shapely backside.
"You know, my actual name is Benjamin."
Standing next to window, the spy, drinking his twenty-year-old whiskey, looked at the young man lying on his bed, covered with just a sheet.
"M doesn't look like You-Know-Who. I watched the movie," he said suddenly and walked out of room. After a moment, the front door slammed.
Confused, Q ran to the window. He saw the perfectly dressed Bond getting into his car.
He understood perfectly. He had looked through several top secret reports and had heard the rumours. He had been treated like all of Bond's women. He should be happy that he was still alive. Statistics showed that every second person who slept with 007 died in the next twenty-four hours. Q threw on his clothes and left the luxury apartment.
Every time he presents Bond with new equipment, he talks too much.