The room is high ceilinged and airy, the furniture simple and elegant and thoroughly uncomfortable. On the bedside table is a vase of hydrangeas—presumably Tanner's doing, as he named the operation and is an unabashedly avid gardener. He's responsible for their code names, too, also flower related: Q is to be called Jonquil over the airwaves, Bond Hyacinth, and Khadija Amaryllis.
He spreads his things out amiably, fully aware that there is a possibility of his room being searched. He employs the safe for his laptop and uses a few Q-Branch tricks to make it harder to open for anyone under a genius IQ. He lays a few of Komaromy's things about so that it all seems quaint and settled and then practices murmuring Komaromy's name with the correct Irish lilt. He slips into a slick, black suit and tries to look fresh for the evening, not as if he's just spent the last twenty-four hours in transit.
Bond appears just as he's straightening his tie in the mirror, his footfalls almost imperceptible.
"Our contact at Station C is called Orchid," Bond says, pushing an earwig into Q's ear gently. "He's got a direct line to Julian in Q-Branch if needed."
Q just nods, feeling an uncomfortable taste of nerves.
"You look lovely, by the way," Bond growls lusciously.
Q gives him a skeptical look. "I always dress like this."
Bond shrugs. "I suppose you always look lovely then."
"Well, obviously," Q snorts.
Bond grabs him them, pulls him forward without reservation and kisses him until he can't breathe. It's a classic James Bond kiss—the perfect combination of rough, amorous, warm, and the complete erasing all excess thought that may distract from the perfection of skin and against skin.
It's the sort of kiss that leaves Q with the strange feeling of both sanity and euphoria, control and at the same time the relinquishing of all higher function to Bond. It brings with it a peace that defies logic and understanding, even when faced with foreboding truths and likely patterns. He wonders if it has something to do with the weather, if everything would seem so peachy if a wintery mix was snapping down viciously from the heavens. This is an easy answer but he knows it's a lie. What's far more honest is that falling in love with Bond is like drawing a treble clef—once you get started in the brisk, curving lines, the only way to even hope for a beautiful outcome is to continue until you've reached the end, wherever that may be. Even after all that, you may be left with a lopsided design, a mockery of it's possible grace. But to pause in the middle, halfway through that first loop, would be to most certainly ruin everything.
"Ready to go?" Bond asks against his lips.
"If we must."
He lets the double-O leave first, giving himself a moment for collection before following him out into the hallway.
m m m
The event is even more formal than he'd expected, the women in evening gowns and the men in tuxedos. It doesn't really make all that much difference, though, considering Q wouldn't be caught dead in a tuxedo ever, unlike Bond, who seems to actually go out of his way to wear them whenever even remotely practical.
Bond and Khadija fan out immediately, pasting on the resolute expressions of private security without incident. Orchid introduces himself through the earwig and informs them that all nearby radio chatter sounds perfectly ordinary for an occasion such as this.
Q approaches the bar and attempts to look casual without sitting down. He orders a water with lemon on the rim and ignores Bond's snort from the earwig, not bothering to explain that alcohol is the single substance that without exception sends him down the path to psychosis faster than anything else, a fact he figured out at university that has made him completely dry ever since. The woman seated next to him makes uninteresting conversation on the oddly sunny weather. They lapse into silence and she eventually shoves off to find someone less dull.
He makes eye contact with Khadija through the sea of mingling people. She's wearing a black sleeveless dress that emphasizes her curves well with sensible looking shoes on her feet. She has a slightly shimmery grey head scarf on over her hair that's in nice contrast to the fabric of the dress. He realizes she's a lot like Bond in mien—they both have a curious glamour to them that's not necessarily a given at their age. He figures it's probably a reflection of the unquestionable confidence guarding their every motion.
Bond breaks through the crowd, predictably, to order himself a vodka martini. Q heads for the h'ors d'oeuvres table and finds himself overwhelmed, facing mountains of food he can't pronounce. As a person who, admittedly, subsists mostly on bread and microwaveable Indian food, it's all he can do to keep his head and grab some artisan cheese before retreating off again.
He spends the rest of his time scanning the mass of wealthy party goers, not entirely sure what he's looking for. Presumably the Marteles are among them somewhere or will be soon, but he's not positive he really wants to go up to them unscripted. His shyness dictates that he'd much rather have them approach him and set the terms for whatever he should expect, as the plan initially specified. He's not sure he has the wherewithal for improvisation. But the evening progresses and he doesn't see the ginger-haired brothers anywhere among the increasingly drunk multitudes.
Bond seems to be getting antsy with the inactivity, elegantly slugging down a few more martinis and flirting with a handful of the partygoers to fend off boredom. Khadija is fully content to people-watch from a few invisible corners, checking her phone every now and again. Finally, the liquid mass of people begins to move in the direction of the auditorium as the time for presentations grows closer. Bond and Khadija move back toward Q subtly.
It's here that several things happen in rapid succession.
The three earpieces crackle to life unexpectedly, letting out a roar that has Q, Bond, and Khadija wincing uncontrollably at the sudden sounds of gunfire and merciless screaming coming in over the airwaves. They hear Orchid groan almost inhumanly; he wheezes a few more times and then goes silent. More of the rapid popping of automatic weapons and Station C is incapacitated. Bond is the first to realize this and rips out his earwig, reaching for the Walther under his arm and converging on Q. Before he makes it a second hail of bullets is heard, along with the shattering of glass—it takes Q a moment to register that these noises are no longer coming from inside his ear but have erupted from across the room.
All hell is breaking loose and without warning bullets are soaring past Q's head and it's all rather unbelievable, so unbelievable he's afraid he's dreaming or that he's so manic he's hallucinating and he doesn't even realize it. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Khadija fall to the ground and can't fathom why.
The next thing he's aware of is the full weight of Bond smashing into his left side, sending them both cascading to the floor and into a field of broken glass.
