A/N: Well, I've decided to start writing a fic. 00Q has invaded my brain big time. I'm not sure where this is going yet, I'm trying not to limit it tbh, but I do know there will be Bond/Q, a mission, some chaos and quite a bit of sexy times…
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PROLOGUE
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The first time they meet is at the museum in front of that extravagant painting depicting a 'bloody big ship' in a rather melancholic manner; the pale pastel colours lacking warmth and comfort as the cracked oil paint reflects the halogen lighting raining down from above. The sounds of shuffling feet, quiet mumblings and ramblings of individuals hoping, wrongly, that visiting this behemoth of a building heralding the age of Victorian architecture will provide them with a sense of sophistication, of enlightenment that they sorely lack. Of course, the noise means little to the two gentlemen sat before that despondent ship forever known through the work of an old painter facing the horrors of his own mortality. Poetic justice perhaps that the two observed the pale hues, the finality of the 'old ways' and the birth of the 'new' in the painting reflected a distorted image of the men.
The look the younger of the two receives upon his introduction is nothing short of ludicrous disbelief, with perhaps a hint of disgust at the 'obvious' decline of MI-6 since the elder's 'death'. It is a measure of character however that the younger of the pair does not react with anger, behaving like an offended peacock as those who are doubted are wont to do; a silly action most assuredly but also an assuredly predictable, human one nonetheless. Instead, he responds with a light quip defining his skills and just how competent he truly is in this world of technology and code that has steadfastly replaced the era of direct action and agency co-operation in espionage.
Perhaps it is the calm assurance of his own abilities that he exudes, or maybe the lack of arrogance colouring his words that causes the elder of the pair to consider him more carefully, thoughtfully. To withhold making another rash assumption and taking a moment to study the one beside him, take in the manner in which he sits, the way his eyes shin with muted amusement, to realise that there is more to the youthful man beside him than he'd initially observed. Whatever it is that is seen, that is discovered, it doesn't stop the elder from throwing another barb at him, committing to their verbal sparring with a witty par and lunge at the younger's falsely revealed weakness.
The two are locked in a battle of wit, though their own stubborn nature's peak out from beneath the armour adorning them; one's a grey suit of expensive taste, the other's horn-rimmed glasses and raincoat. To the casual observer it appears as though the two are merely disagreeing over their respective interpretations of the painting before them; of the Temeraire. Of course, such a casual observer would be correct, but only in the barest sense of the term, for it is not the painting itself that they disagree over but rather what it represents; for them both most especially. They could continue with their battle of repertoire's all day but they have duties to attend to, their meeting was not by chance and has a primary purpose; besides the obvious introductory reason.
They exit the National Gallery at different times, the elder alone, the younger slipping amongst the throngs of a high school art class visiting the gallery for educational purposes. It is a simple conclusion to their initial meeting and marks the first occasion that James Bond, notorious double-oh of Her Majesty's Secret Service, meets the Quartermaster, head of Q-branch at MI-6 and primary technical support for the double-oh's.
Both can sense the charge in the air, the scent of change. And, with baited breath, they wait to see what the week will bring.
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To be Continued…