Always Delete Your Internet History
A/N: Written for the lovely Wishuponawhishaw, who has great taste in men. Hope you guys enjoy it!
Disclaimer: I do not own Skyfall, James Bond, or Q, even if I'd really like to. Because owning people is bad, kids.
Bond wondered how a teenager had gotten into the most secured building in Britain.
The kid was sitting in a corner, fingers jumping across his keyboard like the world's top Starcraft champion. They were slender, the nails clipped short. Staccato taps filled the room as they performed their intricate routine. His glasses flared with the screen's glow. A pair of Bowers and Wilkins headphone with the music cranked up just a tad too loud ensconced his ears, and he wore a pink v-neck embellished with a cat print that Bond recognized from a billboard he saw in Tokyo. The other suits didn't pay the kid any heed.
Bond made a note to have a word with security about letting stray orphans wander around MI6 unsupervised.
The kid must've noticed Bond staring. He looked up, raised an eyebrow, and looked back down at his computer screen. Bond knew the look. It was the one he got from punks who hung around Soho smoking on street corners. The kid reminded Bond of them, all bones and tussled hair and the tightest drainpipes.
Bond decided right there and then that he was going down.
Bond approached, plastering a faux-smile on his face. The one he reserved for people he was about to shoot or fuck or both. The kid didn't as much as glance up again til Bond was behind him.
"Can I help you?" he said, removing his headphone. Bond craned his head to look at the kid's screen. He glimpsed sequences of code, ones and zeroes bleeding across the void.
"I was just wondering," Bond said. "If you'd gotten lost on your way to a nightclub."
"I've got a VIP pass," the kid said, and flashed him a shiny new MI6 badge.
Must be an intern, Bond decided. "Okay, since it's your first day here, why don't you get me a coffee?" he asked. And since Bond's a dick - "Make it a venti non-fat decaf with a pump of caramel and a pump of hazelnut, sugar free, extra whipped cream caramel macchiato." He paused. "Extra-hot."
To Bond's disappointment, the kid looked unruffled. "I'll get it for you straightaway."
"Bring it to my desk," Bond said. As the kid walked out, Bond noted how great his ass looked in skinny jeans.
If Bond had known how much paperwork resulted from killing someone, he'd have joined Quantum. It was only 9:30, and he could feel the onset of a headache already. He signed off another file without bothering to read through the first 20 pages, and wondered where he could get a secretary as attractive as Moneypenny.
Bloody Monday mornings.
The kid showed up forty minutes later with a ginormous Styrofoam cup in hand. "One extra-hot venti non-fat decaf with a pump of caramel and a pump of hazelnut, sugar free, extra whipped cream caramel macchiato right here," he said, and set it down on Bond's desk. Bond, who'd forgotten what he ordered, was begrudgingly impressed. He took a sip of the coffee.
And spat it all over the report that he had spent all morning writing up.
"What the hell is this?" he managed to choke out. "You trying to poison me?" The concoction tasted worse than gin straight from the bottle, worse than the pills he'd dry swallowed and water from the Thames on a hot summer's day and the toxin Le Chiffre had slipped into his Martini.
And the kid smirked. "Shouldn't a hotshot Double-O like you know better than to accept drinks from a stranger?" And that's when Bond knew he had misjudged him. Badly.
"Ah, Bond, I see you've met your new quartermaster," Tanner said, coming over to them.
"I was just about to show 007 the inside of my van, actually," the kid said. Tanner laughed, and Bond's glare could've curdled milk.
Bond didn't see the kid until a week later, after he returned to London following an assassination in Copenhagen. Not that the distance stopped him from doing a little research. But other than the boy's official designation - Q - and a personal tumblr profile, nothing turned up. The brat had retrofitted his blog with a banner that read "Evil Genius Controlling the British Government." Bond made a note to talk to tech support about security-compromising teenagers, then realized its futility.
The next day he received a text from an unknown number. Meet me at the Marriott for your documentation. Saturday 21:00, Ballroom B. Don't be late. XOXO, Q
At 8:45, he drove his Aston Martin over and headed into the lobby, secretly lamenting that Q had chosen a hotel as second-rate the Marriott. Then a terrible thought occurred to him.
What if Q booked him a Marriott room on his next mission?
Or worse, economy class airplane seats.
He shuddered, cursing every penny-pinching accountant at MI6 underneath his breath. Briefly, Vesper's face flashed across his mind, and he crushed the memory with practiced ease.
"Good evening sir," a doorman said. Bond brushed past him without so much as a nod.
And froze.
The lobby was packed with costumed teenagers. A few wore outfits that even someone like Bond knew, popular Japanese animation characters which had permeated London culture. But he didn't recognize most of them, scantily-clad schoolgirls and pink-haired men and - was that an angel stripper? Christ. Half the attendants looked like they weren't even old enough to buy a condom without raising a few eyebrows. Bond's brain was going haywire from subconsciously assessing every plastic weapon in the room.
A pockmarked youth wearing a deerstalker sidled up to him. "Nice suit man!" He exclaimed, and touched the Tom Ford. Bond resisted the urge to break his fingers. "Who are you suppose to be?"
"Bond. James Bond," came the automatic response.
Pockmarked Sherlock Holmes laughed. "No dude, I mean, what character?"
"You've never heard of him."
"Whoa, no need to be uppity about it," the youth said, then backed away at the glare Bond shot him.
Bloody kids, thought Bond. Bloody quartermasters. Bloody prepubescent jailbaits running MI6.
He found Q lounging by the ballroom, wearing a pair of fluffy cat ears and another printed t-shirt. This one was teal and had two big letters on the front: Q(t).
"That outfit's a bit conspicuous, don't you think?" Q asked. "Although it does show off your age quite nicely. All eighty years of it."
Get your shit together, 007, Bond told himself a little desperately. You've faced down murderers and assassins and M without her coffee, you can handle one irritating quartermaster.
"Maybe I should get you one of those cat ears as well," Q mused.
Think of the lecture if you kill him. Think of the paperwork.
Q just smirked, as if reading his thoughts.
"Here's the documentation for your mission to Mumbai," he said. "And the address of the family you'll be subletting with."
"Subletting with?"
Q shrugged. "The Savoy's not exactly my scene," he said, and Bond swore the kid must be laughing at him.
Not even a direct appeal to M could stop Q from reserving discount motel rooms for him.
'I don't see what the problem is, 007," she'd said, her lips twitching. "We're in a recession Every penny counts."
Bond sputtered. "But-"
"No buts. You're to debrief Q about the virus that attacked your laptop in Mumbai, and find out if any information has been compromised."
"Can't he just hack into it himself?" Bond said, not caring that he sounded like a petulant child.
"For god's sake Bond," Q said, coming into the office. "Nobody uses the word hack anymore. This isn't the 80s and we're not in a Wargames montage."
Bond couldn't help but notice how Q's nose scrunched up in irritation, in a way that isn't adorable at all, oh no. He quickly went through a list of all the enhanced interrogation techniques he knew to distract himself.
"Besides, I've already sequester the virus on your hard drive and traced it back to its source. I'll have a name for you within the hour. By the way, have you ever considered seeing a therapist about your porn addiction?"
"You bastard."
The first thing Bond did after he got his laptop back was to change the password. And the security questions. And his screensaver. However, nothing seemed to deter Q, who left a series of retina-searing images on his hard drive that Bond had the misfortune to discover while in a crowded café.
True terror was being afraid to use your own laptop whenever he needed to rub one out. Man was not meant to live like this, Bond was sure of it. At night, his sleep was chased by the staccato taps of fingers on keys. His dreams were a catalog of better uses for those slender fingers. He didn't even think about what Q might say about his selection of porn - most of which involved thin bespectacled men with ruffled hair that bore no resemblance to a certain coworker, none whatsoever.
As a result, he stewed in the pot of sexual frustration that had been simmering ever since he met the quartermaster.
And the kid seemed to know it. It might've been Bond's imagination, he wouldn't put his mind past it really, but it seemed like Q's pants have gotten tighter, his v-necks more daring. Surely someone else had noticed the way he would wiggle his hips just slightly as he strutted past Bond's desk, and it wasn't just him going mad.
He tried the broach the topic at headquarters one afternoon. Subtly.
"Tanner," he said. "Is Q single?"
Tanner gave him the look. The one that suggested he knew what Bond was up to, and thoroughly disapproved of it. "I didn't know he was your type."
Oh shit.
"He's not," Bond quickly backtracked. "Oh, oh, oh god no. I'm just asking because I saw him with a young lady the other day, and I want to make sure another mess like with Vesper's boyfriend didn't happen again." Good thinking on the spot 007, four for you 007.
Tanner seemed to have bought it. "I'll look into it and let you know."
"You do that," Bond said.
"By the way, is that a new laptop? I thought Q cleaned up your old one."
"Didn't want to take any chances," Bond said. "You know, in case someone could still access it."
"Good idea." Tanner nodded. "You and Q seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He's upgrading our whole system, so he'll need to give your new laptop access to the network."
Bond looked at his new laptop, and tried very hard not to cry, really, he did.
He managed to forget about Q for a few days while tracking down the cyber-terrorist from Mumbai. By the time he returned to London bruised, bloodied, and minus one bullet in his PPK, he was much too tired to be horny. MI6, however, seemed to have other ideas. Word of his success had spread, and everyone in the office wanted to shake his hand when he came back.
"Congratulations!" Eve gushed.
M nodded. "Good job," she admitted. Which Bond knew was the most he'll ever get from her.
"Let's go out for a drink after work, yeah?" Tanner said.
"Listen, Tanner, all I want to do is take a shower and relax in my apartment-"
"Q is coming too."
Bond snorted. "He's old enough to buy?"
"Just barely." Tanner nodded.
Bond fiddled with his tie knot, thinking about schoolboy uniforms and classroom desks and feeling like the world's biggest cougar. "I suppose it's better than going alone," he said, telling himself it was only because he really, really fucking needed a drink.
Which, Bond decided when he arrived at the bar, wasn't altogether off the mark. Because of course Q would pick a karaoke bar. The glass walls shimmered neon blue and orange, strips of tubing snaking along the dim walls. Eurotrash clubbers lounged by the walls, their tanned skin tattooed with lattices of light. On a truncated aluminum stage, two Welsh drunks warbled what might pass for Korean five beers ago into a sputtering mic.
"I am not listening to that all night," Bond proclaimed, sliding into a stool next to a skinny familiar figure hunched over the bar.
"Aren't you going to buy me a drink first?" Q asked.
Bond furrowed his brow. "Is that what you call what they serve here?"
Q shrugged. "Let's find out," he said, beckoning the tattooed bartender over.
"What can I get you?"
"Two vodka martinis please," Bond said.
"Sure thing. Would that be flavored with lychee, raspberry, or green tea?"
"Green tea please." Q jumped in, before Bond could say anything. The bartender nodded, and poured what looked like glowing green nuclear waste into two glasses.
Bond gave Q a look of disbelief. "You trying to poison me?"
"That does seem like a recurring theme."
Bond took a tentative sip of the concoction. It reminded him of cough medicine. Shriveled little tea leaves drifted around the bottom of his glass like dried insect carapaces. It resembled something a hyperactive Japanese person might make if he read about martinis in a textbook, but got bored halfway through and mixed the contents of his tea box with his liquor cabinet. Bond looked at Q, supping up his drink without any hesitation, and thought longingly of the Macallan bottle in his cupboard.
Do it for Queen and Country, Bond, he told himself. Queen and country.
"That wasn't too bad, was it?" Q asked.
"Next time," Bond said, "I'd prefer you just bring me coffee."
"Be careful what you wish you, Mr. Bond." Q poked at his chest, the corners of his lips twitching. It was the first time the Quartermaster had touched him, light and playful. The sort of touch, Bond realized, that he's never encountered before in his world of violence and seduction and disposable conquests. The thought sent tingles of warmth down his chest where Q prodded him.
He took a large gulp of the martini. This time, he barely noticed the taste.
"Where's Tanner?" He asked, more to break the silence than anything else.
"He couldn't make it," Q said. "Pity, really."
"That's odd. He was the one who invited me."
"Between you and me," Q said, leaning forward. "I'm much better company anyway." Suddenly he was much too close, his breath hot as it fell upon Bond's neck, and dammit, Bond knew he hadn't had much to drink at all.
"And why's that?" He managed to gasp out. And considering his state, it was a feat and a half.
"I'd be happy to show you," Q whispered, fingers now running down the lapel of Bond's jacket. "But I don't think you'd want that in public."
"What if I do?" Bond riposted. The statement seemed to throw Q off balance, and he straightened.
"Well then, I suppose I'll-" He paused.
"Yes?"
"I suppose I'll have to sing you a song!"
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
Bond should have been embarrassed, really. Anyone should have, if they were watching Q sashay up to the stage and grab the mic, smiling and wiggling his bony hips in a way that - for the love of god, didn't he know what he was doing to Bond with those hips? It was unfair that anyone should have the right to look so happy and ridiculous while bouncing beneath a kaleidoscope of neon, his ruffled hair haloed pink. His dimpled cheeks shone with his grin, and without quite knowing how, Bond found himself laughing and clapping along with the crowd.
When it ended, Q slid back into the stool next to Bond. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead like a garland.
"Is this what you do on Friday nights?" Bond asked.
"What, sing to older men?" Q ran a hand through his hair. "Sometimes Tanner comes along."
It occurred to Bond that MI6 would find him insane if he told psychological evaluations that he wanted to kill Tanner for singing karaoke with a coworker.
"So, are you and him, ah-"
Q raised an eyebrow. "Are we what?"
"Karaoke mates?" Bond finished weakly.
Q smirked, and leaned in close. "You should know," he purred, his lips almost brushing against Bond's ear, "I'm indeed single."
"What does that have to do with anyth-" Then Bond froze. "Wait, he told you? The bloody traitor!"
Q grinned. "Maybe he did. Or maybe your laptop has ears."
And Bond, who had gone far too long without internet, decided that a little payback was in order. After all, you should be careful where you look. He reached a hand over, snaking it around Q's waist and pulling him over. "If you were peeking into my laptop," he whispered. "Then I suppose you already know what I like to do to boys like you." His hand trailed across Q's thigh.
"And what's that?" Q asked, his voice a squeak.
"I'd be happy to show you," Bond said. "But I don't think you'd want that in public."
Bond had never seen someone toss money on a bar counter that fast. "My apartment's three blocks away," Q said, untangling himself from Bond. "Catch me if you can, old man!"
Then they were running out the door, laughing following their footsteps down the crisp night air.