Title: "Albedo"
Status: WIP
Fandom: James Bond (Craig!Bond; Movieverse)
Pairing(s)/Character(s): James Bond/Q; M (Gareth Mallory), Eve Moneypenny, Bill Tanner, minor OCs
Disclaimer: The James Bond Franchise belongs to MGM and Ian Fleming, not mine, no claim.
Rating: M
Genre: Alternate Universe, Sentinel/Guide, spirit animals, H/C, angst, humor, slash, 00Q
Warnings: unbeta'ed, canon-typical violence, language
Summary: M never mentioned that Q was a Guide. It took a meeting for Bond to find out and nothing more than the tingling of his palm and the younger man's unique smell to rouse the Sentinel in him...
Note: "Albedo" is a collection of drabbles and one-shots, situated in the same AU, as such each part is a stand-alone and complete.
A Fork In The Road
It always makes me feel a little melancholy - a grand old war ship, being ignominiously hauled away to scrap. The inevitability of time, don't you think? What do you see?
James remained sitting on the bench when light footsteps faded, rooted to the spot. To the few people wandering around, admiring the paintings, it must have looked as if he was absorbed in his study of the Temeraire.
007. I'm your new Quartermaster.
He had no eyes for the ship, the soft glow of gold and pigments of brown, did not allow the finer focus to set in that would have revealed where the brush strokes had become hesitant in their flow from left to right. James had zoned on Turner's moody seascape once before, as a young boy, he knew that the artist's hands had begun to shake with strain while applying the white highlights.
Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?
No, James didn't move because he feared his instinct might get the better of him, compel him to follow Q. The younger man's smell dominated the salon: bergamot and gun oil, metal and a faint whiff of perspiration underneath; less acidic, more musky-sweet. Pleasant. Such an unusual combination would linger in the dry air for quite some time; an easy trail for a Sentinel to track to its origin.
My complexion is hardly relevant.
He looked down at his palm, rough and worn, strong fingers full of calluses; a gunman's hand, a killers hand. His skin still tingled with the memory of firm pressure, a calm pulse under his fingertip, and warmth.
Age is no guarantee of efficiency.
James remained seated because his duty came first; failing a mission was not an option. He waited until the pull of possibilities faded with distance, carried out of the National Gallery with each step Q took towards MI6 HQ.
I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pyjamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field.
Had the quartermaster even noticed? If he made it back alive, James resolved to do something reckless. Taking a chance while there was still soul left in him seemed like a good idea.
James got up and left; each controlled breath shallow until cold air hit him.
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