Q woke up from his inopportune doze only about an hour after Bond had entered, left, and locked his door. He noticed what a mess he was in and decided to go home to get a much-deserved shower and some time to himself. He did notice that his door was locked, which he did not remember doing, and vaguely wondered what could have caused it before taking his leave. As soon as he returned, not three hours later, he encountered Bond on his way to Q division. "What's going on?" he asked mildly. "Another mission so soon?"
"The opposite." Bond handed the Quartermaster one of the black lockboxes that he was so fond of. "It's all there."
"Bullshit," he said in the same mild tone, not even bothering to open the box. He half wished he had his Scrabble mug so he could take a drink and glance at Bond over the raised cup in a sort of casual 'that's crap' glance. He had nearly perfected it by now.
The field agent raised an eyebrow. "Open it."
He lifted the lid on its small silent hinges and glanced inside. Nestled in the box were all of his precious gadgets. "Hmm. Which one of my employees did you buy this off of?"
"None of them." Bond looked slightly amused. Miffed possibly, but Q had only really seen miffed on the faces of proper old British ladies when he didn't raise his pinkies for tea. He retaliated with a slightly over-the-glasses scanning-for-lies glance, and found a revered, deadly spy with a completely innocent face. A professional liar. He did not take Bond's word for it and instead headed back to his office to check out the weapons that had apparently made it back unscathed. They checked out, much to his initial disbelief.
"I expect this from now on, 007," he told him in a very kindergarten-teacher tone, half serious.
"Don't get your hopes up," replied the agent from the doorframe. Q chuckled. There was a moment of quiet between them as each did a bit of sizing up the other.
Q broke the silence. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he commented, this time actually having a mug on hand to do the glance-over-the-drink look.
Bond cracked a smile. "I've got time, actually. The rest of the Double 0 section picked up my assignment while I was away."
"I'm not letting you in to anything," Q stated. A bored field agent was never a good idea.
"I think I'm going to go shoot. Want to try your hand?" he smiled a rather sinister smile.
"I've been meaning to learn, actually." Q responded to his sarcasm directly, being serious. He wanted to see if Bond would call his own bluff or take him up on the offer.
The agent didn't even hesitate. "Think you can tear yourself away from the computer for that long?"
"Try me."
Bond thought that Q wouldn't be able to handle the weapons with such grace. Clearly he had underestimated how well you got to know a gun when one took it apart, modified it, and put it back together until they were satisfied. He picked a smaller weapon with minimal kick to begin learning, and obviously knew all the safety protocols of MI6's shooting range, starting with eye protection and donning a bulletproof vest as an afterthought, with the required ear protection somewhere in between. Bond scanned his choices with a practiced ease, taking one of the Walthers from storage and then opened up the firing range.
He spent the next hour and a half just teaching the Quartermaster the very basics of shooting. Bond then showed him how to properly care for and load/unload a gun. The newcomer fired no shots for at least two and a half hours. Q admired his thorough manner and paid close attention. When he first began firing, it took him a good ten tries to actually get the bullets within ten feet of the target. To his credit, Bond didn't laugh, even when the brunet screwed up royally. He got better with time, though, and within a handful of hours was hitting at least around the shoulder area pretty consistently.
"Now you have to learn to aim." Bond aimed right at the head of the paper target and put a bullet right through the front of its face. Q watched him closely. He was relaxed, yet the traces of a rigid stance showed.
"You're not using a sight, so there's nothing to look through." He began to explain. "Find your target. Now look directly at it. Go for the heart this time, not the shoulder." He stepped behind Q and helped the younger agent line up his shot. He started with just positioning his student's arm, but then got right behind him to fine-tune his aim. Q felt 007's body heat against his back and shoulders as he was just centimeters away. He froze, knowing with icy clarity that the man a fraction of a second from his throat was a trained killer. Bond chuckled in a rather lighthearted way. "Relax, I'm not the one shooting."
He tried to relax, and 007 put a hand on his arm. He seemed to generate a lot more heat than Q did. Q let himself relax into Bond's grip and started breathing slowly, focusing on the target and keeping his arm steady. Bond adjusted Q's aim just a bit and backed up. The younger agent suddenly felt rather cold, and it was an odd thought. He dismissed it and slowly squeezed the trigger as he had been instructed, rather than just pulling hard. He braced himself for the kick and felt a sore shoulder coming later as the almost familiar feeling of the shot jolted his arm, and the shot ended up only a few centimeters from the heart area. Q smiled a bit and lowered his arm, only to feel Bond's hand on his elbow again.
"You did it once, now do it again. This time, you'll hit what you're aiming for. Look right at it." Q obeyed him, raising his arm again and dispelling the nervous shakes that had come the first time he had shot again, really only a few hours previously. His next shot cleanly hit his target, leaving a hole where the target's heart would have been. He found himself smiling a bit more and clicking on the safety of the weapon before relaxing somewhat and lowering his arm, not realizing how close behind him the older agent was. He made a lot of contact with the blond man before quickly straightening up, almost putting himself off balance. He contained a nervous chuckle. "How was that?" he asked, trying to keep some air of professionalism in his voice.
"Not bad, for a beginner." His tone was intentionally neutral. "Now do it until you can hit your target consistently." Q followed his advice, but ended up a good ten centimeters or so off every time. He was a bit distracted by the man behind him, and kept wanting his guidance, which had been sure and steady. He dispelled the thought and continued to try, though none were as good as the first or second shots. He chalked it up to beginner's luck, disregarding any other theories, and tried again and again before Bond's voice interrupted him yet again.
"You're losing your aim." He reached forward again to adjust Q's arm, keeping it straight and still. The Quartermaster had not even noticed the tremor in his arm before it was stilled by Bond's hand. He was frustrated with himself.
"You're just starting. Don't give up before you start," he stated. It was sound advice, and the younger man tried to take it to heart. "Now look at what you're shooting at. Focus on it. And never inhale when you shoot. Inhale, aim. Exhale, fire. Try your luck."
Q lined up the shot and focused, though it was hard with the nearly inhuman heat radiating against his back. The blond agent wasn't even that close to him anymore, but he apparently generated enough heat for both of them. He kept his arm still and inhaled, aiming directly at the heart of the target which his bullet had gone through once before. He exhaled slowly and pulled the trigger, making sure not to lose his arm in the recoil of the gun. He had done that a few times at the very beginning to disastrous results and almost a broken nose on Bond's part. To Q's credit, he kept it pretty straight this time, and the bullet nearly went through the very hole he'd made before. He smiled, feeling a bit more accomplished.
"Good," the other agent said, stepping to Q's side. "You can aim fairly well. You just have to keep it consistent." Bond picked up the Walther he so favored and stood near Q , shooting the head of the target in the same place for two, three, four shots. "You try. Aim for the chest area, and try for three shots in the same place. Don't aim for one, aim for three."
Q tore his eyes off the older agent, who looked deadly, relaxed, and poised, and looked at his own target, raising the gun and squeezing off three shots in rapid succession. They all ended up in the same general area, and he was quite pleased with himself. Making progress quickly sounded good to him. He kept shooting as per 007's directions, and may have intentionally lost his aim or not prepared for the recoil more than once so he could have Bond instructing again, so close to him and so sure of himself. He tried not to think about what that meant, pushing thoughts out of his mind and trying again. There was a certain magnetism about the Double 0 agent, and Q thought he realized why he ended up off track with so many women. It became harder and harder to keep his mind on the task at hand. His hand began to waver and Bond signaled for him to stop.
"Something else on your mind?" He put down his weapon.
Q tried his best to look composed but he was sure that something would give him away. Maybe it would be the pupils that he feared were blown or the color that he suddenly was afraid would appear high on his cheekbones.
"I think I'll call it a day," he said, pulling off his protective gear after engaging the safety on his weapon and unloading it.
"You've made good progress. Though you do need to work on keeping your arm steady when you shoot." 007 also put away his gun and started to lock down the firing range.
"I think I need a drink," Q said mostly to himself. He wasn't talking about tea, either. The job was catching up to him and he wanted to relax somewhat, maybe casually forget a couple of hours.
"You sure you're old enough?" Bond asked in jest.
"You sure you're fit enough to be out in the field? Silva's not the only one who knows that your test results were falsified." That seemed to be a bit of a low blow, but Q was on edge.
Bond responded with the shadow of a smile. "I could use a drink too." He checked his watch. "It's two in the morning. Probably not much luck finding someplace decent open at this hour."
Q sighed and resigned himself to thinking about decaf tea. "Have you even gotten a flat yet?" he asked, straightening his rumpled work shirt and cardigan, and adjusting his tie.
"No, not yet. Currently living out of one of the hotels in the area on the agency's dime. It's not my problem."
He nodded and covered a yawn. "I'm probably just going to head home and sleep. I'm not eighteen anymore. No use in drinking now, really."
"What's the point of working for a spy agency if you can't have the glamour of it?" Bond asked half jokingly. "When I was 'dead,' the locals once dared me to take a shot of liquor with a mad scorpion on the back of my hand."
Q subconsciously glanced at Bond's hands. No visible scarring on the backs, he noted. "It didn't sting you."
"No. I knew it wouldn't," he said casually. "It was entertaining, though. I'm good at drinking."
They ended up at the small restaurant/bar attached to Bond's hotel even after Q had tried to refuse a few times. The next day (or that day, technically) was a Saturday and he figured that he wouldn't be doing much then anyway. All that had to be completed now were updates of the system which other agents from Q division could quite easily do. He made a mental note to message one of his faithful underlings to start on it tomorrow morning. Knowing them, at least a handful would be in bright and early on Saturday, as Q also usually was. It seemed as if he were about to break the tradition.
The bartender seemed to know Bond well enough already (as he'd been staying there for a while on MI6's money) and served up the usual vodka martini shaken-not-stirred without so much as a word between the two. Q contemplated his choices for a moment before bracing himself mentally.
"I'll have the same, actually," he said smoothly. He wasn't a heavy drinker and hardly knew his tolerance for alcohol, but this did not seem like the time to look like more of a lightweight than he already was in front of Bond. The blond agent gave him a glance which might have been a mixture between incredulousness and the exasperated look of one observing undeniable stupidity. He had screwed up enough already tonight, and did not want to make himself look stupid more than was actually necessary. He did a lot of staring into his drink while Bond started on his. He looked in place but by no means relaxed, and even so a knife without motion is still lethal. Q did more analyzing than talking, a method he'd found to work well. After a few minutes of unbroken silence, complete with the bartender leaving, Q picked up his drink and took a sip. He did not recall ever having drunk anything from a martini glass before, let alone a Bond signature martini. It burned going down as if he'd lit a match and held it close but not quite to his flesh. It was an interesting kind of burn and he decided he liked it a bit more than it hurt. One sip turned into another, and he downed approximately a quarter of the mixture in the time it took the blond agent to finish his and ring the obnoxious little bell for another. The noise sounded louder than usual to him, and he shook his head a bit as though that would get rid of it. The sound of the bartender shaking Bond's next drink was much louder than expected. Q deduced that the alcohol was affecting him somewhat already, but didn't stop. Why waste a perfectly good martini?