Author's Note: This might be a mess. I've been thinking about this ship for about week, thought up a little plotline, and watched six James Bond movies in five days. My mind is a fluffy wreck. But comments do, in fact, make my day, so you should leave some.
003 had been shot dead in the Pribilofs, 005 had disappeared suddenly in Ulaanbataar; in short, it had been an eventful week for MI-6. And, for once, James Bond was not at all involved.
However, Q was in the midst of all of it, directing, listening, fidgeting, and occasionally finding it necessary to stay up all night to work on his oil paintings, read six novels, develop three new prototypes and learn a new sonata for his viola.
On Sunday, he runs four miles, until his lungs burn, his back doesn't hurt, and he starts to feel like himself again. It's these sort of traumatic, fast-moving weeks that usually kicks his existing mania into overdrive. It's productive, but it ruins him, and in retrospective he's mortified in his sureness that the entire office can tell when he's feeling particularly out of control.
It doesn't help that he had to listen to 003 die slowly over the airwaves, two bullets in his left chest not quite ready to let him slip into oblivion. The agent had the decency to yank out the earwig before he gave his last gasping breath, an action that proved to be his last. Q is selfishly grateful for this final act on the double-O's part, even though he's fully aware that it was not so much for him, and more for the privacy that all things crave in the moments before death.
Monday morning, after carefully programming in ten hours of sleep the night before, he comes in feeling considerably more put together. He bids a self-conscious good morning to the minions before shutting himself in his office. Everything seems to have calmed down a bit in the hallways of MI-6, the overwhelming movement of last week replaced by the somber blanket that dead agents tend to bring.
He settles into his standing work station, rolling his shoulder blades to see what sort of day he's going to have. There's only one chair in his office, and it's only for visitors who fancy a place to sit next to the tinted windows. In his email he finds new orders from Tanner to fix some new Q-Branch device that Medical is complaining about causing hairline wrist fractures in the agents that use it. Q finds the correlation highly unlikely, but bites his lip and gets to work.
Khadija saves him twenty minutes later, appearing in his office without knocking and falling heavily into the seat with the view. She's in her early forties, wearing the nondescript business casual that most of the eccentric minions have succumbed to.
"Something wrong?" Q asks her, one eyebrow raised.
She sighs. "The software guys for Project Beehive are bitching about reformatting again."
"What set them off this time?"
"We had a meeting a few minutes ago and they claimed that everything would go quicker if they could clean everything up so they could read it easier. As you know, though, it's not like we have the time for beautification. It's total horseshit. They're the only ones that have a problem reading it."
"You're just upset because you're a hardware girl and therefore must perpetuate the age old feud between the two," Q smirks. "Really, should relieve your stress the way I do: chewing out the double-O's when they decide they don't care about our government equipment. There's something so satisfying about seeing a look of shame and apology on the face of a person who could snap your neck with one hand."
"You sadist," she laughs. "They must be terrified. They've all got PTSD, you know, you've got to be careful."
"I send them running with their tails between their legs," says Q, sarcasm dripping but with a smile on his face. "Anyways, though, tell the software teams that we're not reformatting. I maintain the base code, and I have no problem interpreting it, so if they don't like it they can eat their own livers."
Khadija leaps to her feet. "The overlord is on my side. I will make sure they eat their own livers."
"Make sure you quote me exactly. Don't want them eating their kidneys by accident." His mind wanders back to his email, where there's a new message from Moneypenny saying that 007 will be on his way down any moment to collect his mission essentials. She's enclosed the mission description so he'll know what to prepare. He digs around a few file cabinets until he finds the correctly modified handgun and a functioning GPS watch they've been working on. It's not the only watch they have of this sort—Q knows better than to give James Bond anything that can't be replaced.
He steps out of the office just as the agent becomes visible, strolling in among the minions' desks, eyes sweeping the scene for Q. Bond stands out, as always, recognizable just from the heaviness of his foot falls and the swing of his shoulders as he walks with his preternatural confidence, begging to be reminded that this is Q's division, not his. All the double-O's, Q has noticed, seem to have the same skewed sense of reality, clouded by the ability to get whatever they want from anyone they choose. But they can work in reverse also, disappearing into the background at will. On occasion, he's found himself losing track of an agent in room populated by only four people.
The power they have is unnerving. Q usually compensates by reprimanding them. But James Bond is different, and that unnerves him too. He's one of the older agents, face rough and hard. The double-O's like to think they are the most perceptive bunch around, reading off your face anything that can't sneak in and read off your file, but Q has sharp eyes too. When he thinks no one's looking, Bond does everything slowly. Sitting down, reaching for high shelves, standing up. He's decaying inwardly, like most of those with a license to kill, but his body is betraying him too. And in a fucked up sort of way, Q finds that endearing, because it reminds him so much of his own mannerisms.
Bond, though, doesn't seem to be in the mood for his usual, bantering back and forth that is a near guarantee for any of his visits to Q-Branch. Instead, his stride is purposeful, his burning eyes locked on to Q's. In the few seconds it takes for Bond to cross the room, Q finds himself wondering that if the eyes are the windows to the soul, would he see anything at all in 007's pupils?
"Morning," is all Q has time to say before Bond crashes into him, which is about the same time that Q's mind begins to unravel and lock onto the one tangible thing in the universe.
Bond's lips against his.
It defies all rational thought. An impossibility as Bond wraps an arm around him and pulls him closer. Q closes his eyes and tries to put together sentences, to separate himself. No wonder Bond always gets what he wants—no one's ever kissed Q like this before.
Finally, Bond releases him, and Q stumbles back, his knees a little wobbly and his brain closing in on itself. He looks to Bond for some sort of explanation, but the man simply picks up the gun and wristwatch that Q had found for him and smiles a smile that doesn't quite reach his lips. He winks, then swiftly turns and walks away.
The minions have all stopped working to watch the event. Q looks to them, cheeks flushed but the embarrassment still fended off. He sees his own look of surprise and shock mirrored on all of their faces. No one seems particularly sure what just happened, and certainly no one knows what to make of it. Q is left checking his memory to make sure that it really did just occur, that it wasn't some half-manic, subconscious dream working it's way to the surface.
His entire face is tingling as he secludes into his office again.
He leans against the cool glass of the window, tries to slow his heartbeat and regaining command of mind and body. There has to be reason in this, hidden beneath the surface.
His first thought is that he's being manipulated.
Because that's what double-O's do. They play with people. Not necessarily for fun, but because the job calls for it, and they live for the job. Sex (love, even) makes everyone fight a little harder for each other, tell a little more. None of them seem to have much preference for one gender over another, and their charms work on everyone in arm's reach. This isn't new information for Q, because he composes himself for dealing with the agents everyday. They all flirt, to the point where sometimes it seems their only way of communication with the world, through thinly veiled sexual innuendos and a lack of respect for personal space. Some are easier to ignore the others—for Q, preferring men, the female agents don't have much control over him. Bond is always more of a challenge, because he is attractive, and could almost be Q's type, if Q wasn't fully aware of the consequences that come with loving someone like James Bond. He'd decided, from the moment he met James Bond in the art museum, that it isn't worth the inevitable heartbreak. Someone would end up dead or alone and, at the time, it had all seemed so pointless.
All this, before Bond proved that Q has no willpower whatsoever.
For the rest of the day, he's unfocused, bouncing from one thing to another alarmingly. He looks at a clock in the late afternoon and finds that Bond is in Zurich by now. A moment later, he asks himself why that matters at all.
Still feeling a little volatile, he decides sleep is his first priority and leaves by six, pulling on his jacket and backpack without looking at his employees. They don't dare stare at him for more than a few seconds, except Khadija, who's always had more balls than the vast majority of her colleagues.
He meets up with Moneypenny on the way out. She's dressed for an evening out, in a short green dress with her tied up in an elegant bun. He gives her an easy compliment, and she asks if he's off to an evening of entertainment.
"More like an evening of tea and Spanish soap operas," he smiles, more than a little glad that she doesn't seem to know about the exploits of the morning. He wonders if the information has even made it out of Q-Branch yet.
"Well, I'm sure that has it's charms," she says as he holds the door for her. After a year and a half, he's finally gotten over her telling Bond that he's afraid of flying, which isn't even completely true, but the events of earlier today have brought it forward in his mind. He bids her a terse goodnight and heads toward the underground.
It's only once he's on the train that he realizes that he's unwittingly lied to her; that he's forgotten that his evening plans are considerably different than they might normally be. He sighs at his scattered mind, and changes trains at the next station.