Main Computer Lab, Cambridge University, 2002
Jonathan Quinn had been staring at the list of options on his University's intraweb account for an hour now and was still no closer to making a choice. He wasn't normally so indecisive. Quite the opposite in fact. Normally, he knew exactly what he wanted and exactly what had to be done to get it. Except when situations like these were forced upon him.
Fuck it, he thought to himself, I'm only required to skate a pass. I'm going to ace every other module anyway. Mentally, he flipped a coin, double-checked his choice with an eeny-meeny-miney-moe and resignedly clicked the box next to his selection before he changed his mind. One subject sufficiently out of his comfort zone but not so far removed that it might prove useful when it came to impressing the powers-that-be. Military History. He sighed while he logged off and leaned back to stretch long gangly limbs above his head.
He hated history. The past was a place for those with regrets. Regrets were not something with which Jonathan Quinn was burdened.
Closing his eyes for a moment, he gave his normally disciplined mind free purchase to wander, the only sound the keyboard strokes rhythmically beating his eardrum and lulling his mind.
Today's world moved fast and took no prisoners. Move with it or be crushed underfoot by the stampede of ambitious arseholes for which this college was notorious, bringing up the rear and nipping at his heels. The past needed to stay where it belonged as far as he was concerned. Advances in technology both in the lab and in the field were moving at an unprecedented rate and Jonathan wanted to move unhindered and unprecedentedly along with them. He had a goal, a vision for himself. Suck it up, Quinn, he sighed to himself. It's one term, for Christ sake. He could survive one term of what was likely to be the most boring two hours a week for the next twelve weeks of his life. He logged off the system, packed up his laptop and phone and slung his messenger bag over his shoulder. Strolling out the door and past the tables of other students no doubt in a similar quandary to his own, he checked his watch. He had a couple of hours to kill before meeting the guys at St Radegund for drinks to discuss and bemoan the horror of their choices for the term ahead.
St Radegund's was a well-known haunt of the Cambridge fraternity. Known for its selection of decent ale, homely food and a friendly staff - one of whom Jonathan infrequently took home to his rented accommodation, in between regular bouts with two of his "friends with benefits." Uncomplicated, unobtrusive release without the emotional convolution that came with pursuing and managing a relationship, all too distracting to take on in conjunction with the intensity of his studies. One of his professors had made overtures but he considered that territory he wasn't prepared to explore. The man was considerably older and while Jonathan wasn't ageist, even he had standards. But… Never say never. The clientele was consistent though certain years and certain degree courses dominated year after year. In 2002, it was the PhD Computer Science graduates. At 18, Jonathan was the youngest of his peers on the course, most of them in their early twenties and a few older students. He'd had to prove himself initially, and figuratively had told them all to go fuck themselves by coming out on top in the first year. He'd already been headhunted by a few major international banks and other high punching organisations in the corporate sector. Not that Jonathan Quinn was interested in such a career, but it was always good for the grapevine on which he did have his sights set, to be aware that he was an asset worth their attention.
It was Thursday evening. The place was small so invariably, always had the feeling of being packed to the rafters, which Jonathan didn't really mind whilst in the company of friends. He spotted them in a booth to the left as soon as he walked in, jostling through the crowded space towards them. Eyes trained on their position, he failed to notice the man turning from the bar, pivoting on his heel with a full pint in his hand. The collision was inevitable and unforgiving. Jonathan stood with his arms out feeling the cool liquid seep through his pullover and turn warm against his skin.
"Oh fucking hell!" he burst out angrily. "Watch where you're going, will you? Bloody idiot."
As it was an accident, the stranger was in no mood to be congenial towards an upstart student, eyeing him with disinterest while the boy continue to bemoan the state of affairs.
He grabbed the front hem of the garment and squeezed, releasing some of the beery beverage from the material. He glared at the man, who was frankly, looking far too nonplussed and unrepentant. That, of course, needled Jonathan even more.
"This was one of my best jumpers," he ground out.
The stranger tilted his head. Jonathan waited for the apology. An apology which was, of course, not forthcoming.
"Really," came the reply, looking at the garment with mock incredulity. "Then by my reckoning, I think I've done you a favour."
Unrepentant wanker, thought Jonathan to himself, watching while the man reached into his inside jacket pocket and calmly pulled out a business card.
How fucking quaint. Probably as archaic as he looked, the old bastard.
"Here's my contact details. Send me the cleaning bill," he said smiling nonchalantly.
Jonathan's returning smile was sweetly sarcastic, snatching the card petulantly from the man's fingers before he turned back towards the bar to re-order his drink. "Rest assured," he replied glancing down at the name before meeting his gaze again, "Mr Bond. That I most certainly will."
MI6, Q's office, London, 2012
Q stared at the file on his screen.
Stared at a face he had never expected to see again. In this lifetime at least. Least of all under these circumstances. He screwed his eyes shut and clutched his hair in his hands and took a deep, calming breath.
FUCK. IT. ALL. TO. HELL. AND. BACK. IN. A. FUCKING. CAT. BASKET.
Because the last person you expect to see staring back at you is a former lecturer that you shagged for three months solid in all manner of ways and in all manner of intense-laden sexual scenarios that would give this year's winner of the AVN award for personality of the year reason to blush all the way down to the arse.
James Bond. 007. Licence to make an unscheduled reappearance in the life of one Jonathan Quinn. Apparently, the SIS's most nefarious, notorious and successful agent to date who had some kind of contract with Death, if his record was anything to go by.
Buggering Bastard Arse. If this was Karma's way of testing his resilience? Karma was a fucking bitch.
The National Gallery, London, the same day.
Bond hated art. Well, more specifically he despised the way in which so-called experts fawned over masterpieces, spouting their ill-contrived view of what was going on in the mind of the artist that forced the images manifested onto canvas via the tip of their brush. How could a man or woman, living in this brave, new world, comprehend the moment-to-moment thoughts and experiences of the person putting brush to canvas and translating—. He was dragged from his thoughts by the sense of someone sitting next to him, a little too close for comfort when the person to whom they had chosen to sit next was perpetually poised to react defensively when personal space was invaded.
"Always makes me a little melancholy…."
Bond frowned in response to the blurry but pleasant memories surfacing through his thoughts. That voice.
"… A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap."
The words were soft, smooth and completely calm. Bond kept his eyes trained ahead. Not really trusting himself to look at the man. What the bloody hell is Jonathan Quinn doing here?
Of all the galleries in all of England.
And how the hell is he staying so damn composed? If memory serves, composure wasn't exactly his forte back in Cambridge any time he came near Bond. Quite the opposite in fact…
"The inevitability of time don't you think? What do you see?"
He turned to him then. "I see…" his face impassive, betraying no recognition. "My past come back to haunt me. Excuse me," he continued, turning away to stand.
"007." It was a rare thing to stop James Bond in his tracks. "I'm your new Quartermaster."
Bond plonked his arse gracelessly back on the bench. "You must be joking."
"You'll find I never joke about matters of National Security, 007."
"The spots are still thriving I see," he said, casually.
"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"
Bond scoffed. "Hardly. But I won't hold my breath in the hopes of detecting a hint of competence."
"Breath easy, 007," Q replied, handing him a box. Bond took it and flipped it open to survey the contents. "You might be surprised. And if memory serves me correctly, you can be quite open-minded," Q deadpanned.
Bond held his tongue. Ten years since he has seen Jonathan Quinn. Ten years and he'd not forgotten any of their encounters in that year he had guest lectured for one term at Cambridge, a favour for a colleague at the end of his Navy Service before joining the MI6 agent programme.
The boy, now a man sitting next to him, though his youthful appearance might counter that impression on first meeting, had taught him a thing or two about his own sexuality during that brief but intense experience. Jonathan Quinn's relentless insistence in his pursuit of him all those years ago had broken through that steely soldier facade, refusing to take no for an answer. It appeared that tenacity had only blossomed and taken flight until he reached the upper echelons of one of the most secret organisations in the world.
"A gun. And a radio," he glanced at Q again, and couldn't resist the little tease that came into his voice. "Well, I would say it's hardly Christmas, but…"
Q could sense what was coming. Their dalliance was brief but all the more memorable for that fact.
…That would be a lie," his voice dropping to a lower cadence and while he wasn't looking at Q, the implication was clear and present.
Q chose to ignore the implicitness of those words though they were not lost on him. That aside, they were professionals now. Colleagues with the safety of the nation's interests on the international stage in their hands. He stood himself to beat a retreat.
Q paused and gave a half glance over his shoulder at the agent. "I'm sure I don't need to ask you to respect your Quartermaster's equipment, 007. I'm no miracle worker after all." And on those words, he continued on his way.
Bond pocketed the envelope with his flight details and shut the box before rising and heading in the opposite direction to his new Quartermaster. No. James Bond was not one to believe in miracles. But in a world of random chance and universal inconstants, when two timelines can re-converge ten years after irrevocably changing the lives of one another?
He might well be convinced to rethink his philosophy.