Chapter 2
1993
Major Geoffrey Boothroyd (aka Q) stood with his trusty apprentice at his side over the papers laid out across the Drake kitchen table and tapped his chin.
"Well, Danny," he said thoughtfully, "It's not easy or cheap getting a hold of this stuff refined enough to justify the expense. Maybe we can tweak the numbers a little to see if we can calculate for various levels of impurities. Would be cheaper. M's always going on about the budget," he muttered, and reached for a pen on the end of the table.
Danny Drake, three years old and already a genius (forget the word 'budding' - he had outgrown that ages ago), started to rattle off the calculations, but was cut off by his father's shout.
"Q! Stop!"
The old man's thumb froze over the pen's clicker, which he was about to fiddle with (the clicking of a pen was such a satisfying movement). He was familiar with that commanding tone of voice. It was the voice of 007 the agent, rather than that of Damien Drake the doting father. It had served Q well over his many years at MI6 to pay heed when an agent - or in this case, ex-agent - used that voice.
"Danny," Damien said tightly, bristling with tension, "isn't that one of your exploding pens?"
Three pairs of eyes bore into the innocuous-looking perfectly-everyday cheap plastic biro.
"Oh yeah!" Danny exclaimed, oblivious to his father's 'pay attention or you will die' voice. He grabbed it out of Q's hand and began chattering at him about how he had inserted the 'improvements' into the pen, unscrewing the end to show him the insides.
Meanwhile, the old man watched with some amusement as the boy's father exasperatedly scrubbed his hands across his face, obviously silently cursing up a storm.
"Danny," Damien said presently, resignation coloring his voice, "what did I tell you about leaving explosives lying around?" 'For the thousandth time this month,' went unsaid.
Danny paused in spewing his torrent of numbers and chemical formulas. "Sorry, Daddy, I forgot." His green eyes blinked innocently up at his father.
Damien dropped into his chair with a sigh. "You'll blow up the house one of these days," he observed tiredly. It was a statement of certainty, not a mere prediction.
The little boy rolled his eyes. "No, I won't. The house is blast proof." 'Silly Daddy,' said his tone and expression.
Ah, yes, when their cozy home had been rebuilt after the event known to Damien Drake as 'The Time Stuart Bloody Thomas and Sam Bloody Carmichael Brought Hostiles to My Front Door and My Disaster Spawn Made Yet Another Toaster Bomb,' Damien had asked Q to make it as fire- and explosion-proof as possible.
Damien fixed his incorrigible son with a patented Drake Look. "The people inside it are not. Do not forget."
Danny shrugged and returned his attention to his blueprints. "Okay, Daddy."
This time, Q laughed out loud when Damien Drake, formerly the bane of Q-Branch's equipment inventory, let loose a frustrated groan into his hands and clutched at his slowly-thinning hair.
"You deserve this, Damien Drake," Q chuckled. "You know you do."
Damien groaned again...but didn't deny it.
. . . . .
Notes:
Headcanon that Damien Drake was Q's favorite 007 because they're both Welsh (at least by birth in Damien's case). I based this on Desmond Llewelyn and Timothy Dalton. Also, Q never risked his life for any of the other 007s like he did for Dalton's 007 in License to Kill that I can remember.
