"You're only a child
with the mind of a senile man
You're only a young thing
about to sleep with a sea of men
Just hanging around
Wearing something from God knows where
Just having a ball
Making all of the thin cards fall"
- Rufus Wainwright, Out of the Game
Travelling Companions
James is supposed to meet Q at St Pancras to take the train to Paris (it seemed Eve was serious when she said Q was scared of flying – unless MI6 had simply decided it was time to go green). He assumed Q would be there before him, because Q has never struck him as the type to be late, but he wonders for a moment when he can't find the younger man anywhere. And then James sees him, right under his nose, sitting on a bench just ahead. It's the way Q is hunched over his tablet that makes James recognise him – everything else looks different. He is wearing a slate-coloured three-piece suit with a white shirt and green tie, and newly polished black shoes. The glasses have been swapped for a pair with more discreet frames, and his hair is not quite meticulous but it has been brushed back from his face. He looks ten years older than he normally does, which, James realises, probably means he looks his age.
"Who are you, and what have you done to my computer geek?"
Q looks up.
"I really don't think 'computer geek' is the preferred term anymore," he says, deadpan, as if he knew James was standing there. Then suddenly there's a tiny flicker of insecurity in his eyes as James studies him. "I look ridiculous, don't I?" he asks. "I feel like a monkey in a suit. Or more like a walking stick, maybe."
James has to bite back his standard answer to that question – "You look perfect" – because although it's true, it's hardly the right tone to take with the Quartermaster.
"The day has yet to come when anyone looks ridiculous in a suit from Mr Trace," he says instead, a statement that is equally true. "You look good. Shall we catch our train?"
Q nods and puts away the tablet. When he stands up the transformation is even more stunning than it was when he sat down. Mr Trace has outdone himself. The suit is a work of art, and Q is a work of art in that suit. As they grab their negligible luggage and make their way to the platform, people actually turn their heads to look at Q (and at James, but he is used to that, when he makes an effort). Q doesn't notice, but James does, and he feels irrationally proud of his Quartermaster.
00Q00Q00Q00
On the train, they discuss the mission, talking in circles around it in case anyone is listening. Q tells James about what they might see at the conference and how to talk about it to the people there in a way that makes it sound like James knows anything about it. As he goes on, Q underestimates James' knowledge about telecommunication and computer programming by quite a bit, but James doesn't correct him. It's nice to listen to Q's soft, melodic voice while the English landscape rushes by outside the window, soon to be replaced by the tunnel wall. When that happens, Q falls silent and looks away from the window, training his eyes on the table between them. James wonders if he's claustrophobic; that would explain the fear of flying as well. Trains are not much different of course, but they do allow you to escape the feeling that there's nowhere to go if something happens. He wonders if Q takes the tube. He wonders if Q's reaction is to do with what James found in his file.
James turns his eyes towards Q when the outside view is gone, and it's only now that the sense of déjà-vu strikes him: the train; the mission on the continent to take down a man who supplies terrorist organisations with resources; the brunette seated opposite James with a sharp intellect, sharp wit and sharp beauty, who happens to be unaccustomed to fieldwork.
It's been a long time since thoughts of Vesper caught James off guard, and longer still since he thought about that first meeting of theirs, before everything went wrong. He can see her sitting there in the chair in front of him, with that little smirk on her lips, insolence and flirtation sparkling in her eyes. He's surprised by how it affects him: the pressure that settles over his chest, the way breathing suddenly becomes difficult, as if he was doing bench press and someone had added extra weights when he wasn't looking.
Q saves him by looking up and addressing him.
"Mr McEwan? Is there something wrong?"
Q, professional as always, uses James' alias already, and despite the words and the hint of concern in the blue green eyes directed at James, Q's voice is stern and down-to-business. While that tone reminds James of a woman, that woman is not Vesper. The pressure lifts from his chest. The sudden wave of anger, pain and betrayal crashes back down to the depths from which it rose, and the dull, familiar, slow burning grief that James has carried around inside him for months now resumes its place.
"Nothing. My mind wandered."
Q gives him a quizzical look, but doesn't ask.
00Q00Q00Q00
When they arrive in Paris, they check into the hotel where the conference is being held. One of their French contacts infiltrated the hotel staff two weeks earlier and has informed them that Jeunet and Chabrier are staying in the most exclusive suite. James and Q are given a two-bedroom suite. The bathroom is shared, which is not really up to par with the luxurious image of the place, but then again this is not America: the building is old and the rooms are small. The hallway between the two bedrooms doubles as some kind of lounge or living room area, with two armchairs and a music system. Q wordlessly picks one of the rooms, leaving James to settle for the other one. It doesn't bother him – he's seen enough hotel rooms of all sizes, shapes and styles not to care anymore.
As James drops his bag on the bed Q walks in without knocking, holding his smartphone in front of him like a compass as he walks around the room. He doesn't even look up at James. His hair has begun to rebel against whatever styling attempts Q made earlier in the day, and is falling down over his eyes again.
"Q? What are you doing?"
"Sweeping the suite for bugs."
James has to smile.
"With that?"
"I've made a few modifications."
That's probably quite an understatement, James thinks.
"I'm sure. You know, Henri has already told us that the room would be clear."
Q looks up, finally.
"Nevertheless, I wanted to make sure."
"Don't you trust our French colleagues, Q?"
"It's nothing against them. I trust no one as much as I trust myself. If I left bug in here because I just took someone else's word for it, we could both be dead before tomorrow."
James can tell by the sharp edge in Q's voice that the Quartermaster considers this a real and probably slightly frightening possibility. Q pockets the phone, either because he's satisfied with the result of his search or because he's becoming uncomfortable.
"And here I thought you might just be looking for a reason to waltz into my room without knocking," James says, turning the charm up a few notches just to change Q's mood. "Were you hoping to catch me changing?"
A brief pause while Q's mouth opens and closes again is the only sign of embarrassment, but from Q it's as good as a blush and a stutter.
"Really 007. You don't have anything I haven't seen before."
James takes of his jacket and begins to remove his cufflinks, partly because he actually does mean to change before dinner, partly to see how far he can get before Q caves in and stops sounding so bloody cool.
"Human bodies are works of art, Q," he says. "You can't say that just because you've seen one painting you've seen them all."
Q raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. It looks like a challenge – or the acceptance of a challenge, maybe.
"I prefer my art a bit more on the modern side," he says, the cheeky little imp, and there's a quality in his voice now that wasn't there a minute ago, something reminiscent of warm honey. For a moment, it makes James consider actually trying to win Q over instead of just teasing. He puts the cufflinks on the bedside table and moves on to his shirt buttons.
"This from the man who chose to meet in front of a Turner?"
James is smiling now, and Q smiles back; a soft smile that doesn't show any teeth but still reaches his eyes. James is glad he at least seems to have shaken all thoughts of imminent death from the younger man's mind.
"Who says that was my choice?" Q replies.
"Well, if you insist on standing there I will have to assume your appreciation for the classics is greater than you claim. After all, they didn't seem to leave you entirely cold in that club in Reading."
It's as if Q only now realises that James is undressing. He doesn't blush, but there's a distinct expression of mortification on his face as he scampers out of the room, leaving a chuckling James behind him. He doesn't close the door, and James can't be bothered to do it either.