My sincerest thanks to all of you who have been so patient with this project. In addition, my utmost gratitude to my BETA on this chapter Obfuscatress. Dedicating this to my other BETA, Wwwhat, who has had a rough time this past week. I hope things start looking brighter for you soon, dear~
There was that odd number of days between Boxing Day and New Year's that always felt endless and uncertain, because it wasn't quite a holiday, but everyone was still in the mindset of one. The stores still had up their fairy lights and garlands and baubles and the songs on the radio were nothing short of overzealously cheerful. It seemed like everywhere Bond looked, there was some sort of lingering reminder to keep his loneliness at the forefront of his thoughts. So Bond went to MI6 and spent the majority of his unoccupied hours running the treadmill into the ground and shooting at paper targets because it was the only thing that kept him from trying to drink away his self-destructive thoughts.
Six helped, because it seemed to be the only place in the entirety of London that hadn't been touched by the holiday spirit. There were no trees or tinsel or tins of cookies in the breakroom and Tanner had forgone the yearly tradition of bringing in plates of peanut brittle from Christmas Eve through the New Year, until everyone was ready to puke at the merest scent of the stuff. Even the secretarial pool wasn't as festive as usual, opting for dark coloured clothing and no decoration in their empty, neutral palleted cubicles. It seemed wrong, even if Bond never took part in the annual traditions, because even though the lack of holiday spirit was just what he wanted, it was perhaps not what he needed. He wondered if it had something to do with the fact that it was the first holiday without M, who could be as fearful as ever, year after year in her Father Christmas cardigan and sleigh bell earrings.
But there were no celebrations, the holiday party having been cancelled because of the transition and with everyone still scattered and disoriented.
"It's been a long year," Moneypenny told him, over coffee one afternoon. They were at another pretentious cafe-this one Italian, not French-that Moneypenny informed him had opened during the period they had been underground. In the past few weeks, it had become rudely popular with the admins, many of which were in adjacent tables from them. "We're just lucky that the rest of the world seems to be having one too. At least we haven't been busy with our usual dramatics."
"Leave it to you to refer to international terrorism as our usual dramatics," Bond said.
Eve smiled, but she seemed tired. Bond knew he probably looked the same.
"Funny, isn't it?" she said.
"What?"
"How everything seems normal when it's not?"
Bond chose to drink his coffee and not comment.
"How was your holiday, then?" she asked.
"You know how my holiday went," Bond said gruffly.
It was her turn to lapse into silence without a word, and Bond felt badly about his harshness, but did not apologise.
"Any plans for New Year's Eve?" she asked.
"No," Bond replied.
"You should come out," Moneypenny said. "A few of us are going to the pub."
"I'll pass," Bond said.
"Oh, come on. Don't be like that. It'll be fun."
He gave her doubtful look.
"Well, it won't be awful," she amended. "Look, it'll be me and Bill and Katie, from Intentions-you know, the cute one with the pixie haircut?-and Michael and Toby from Logistics, also possibly Mary from Accounting…and I think Mary said that if she comes, she's bringing a friend, too, but darn if I can remember her name…"
"Sounds like a crowd," Bond said.
"You sound just like Q," Moneypenny replied. "He said the same thing when I invited him out."
"Oh?" Bond asked.
"Yes, but he's coming. He just doesn't know it yet," Eve said.
"How's that?"
"I've got a plan."
"Top secret, then?"
"Absolutely," she said with a sly grin. "But it's for the greater good. I've got to get him out of that lab. It's going to drive him mad."
"We work for Six. We're all a bit mad."
"Madder."
Bond conceded that she was right with a gentle shrug.
"So I'll see you then," Moneypenny said, not asked. "7:30 at The Pint Room."
"Maybe," Bond said.
It wasn't like he had anywhere else to be.
New Year's Eve came round and it was near eight that night when Bond walked in through the front door of the pub.
He thought he might just stay in that night with his thoughts and drink, but it was too oppressively silent in his head and in the flat above him, so Bond donned his coat and went out, figuring what the hell could it hurt.
The place was loud and crowded with enough bodies to violate city fire laws, but everyone seemed to be having a good time, even the policemen still in uniform near the door, sharing a pint. It took Bond some time to get a drink, then to weave through the masses to a corner booth where he spotted Eve's goldenrod frock through the sequins and glitter of everyone else. She was lovely, even more so when she beamed upon noticing him, and Bond thought he really could forgive her for shooting him off that train in Istanbul for how gorgeous she looked.
She was surrounded by faces that Bond vaguely recognised from round the office, all the times he'd gone flirting through departments because he was bored and everyone else was too busy. Then there was Tanner, much more relaxed than the last time Bond had seen him. He had the top two buttons of his shirt undone and his tie loose round his neck and he was smiling a bit like he used to back when they had first started out.
It wasn't until he reached the table that Bond saw Q tucked in the corner amongst them.
He was unobtrusive that way. It was interesting how Q could command a room just as easily as he could disappear in one, but when their eyes met, Bond saw him. He wore different glasses-slim and silver, much more handsome than his usual specs-and a nice hunter green button down that Bond had never seen before. If Bond didn't know better, he might say that Q had even tackled his hair with a comb, because it looked tidier than usual. Q gave him a half smile round the rim of his glass, but Bond didn't get to say a word before he was pulled into Moneypenny's introductions.
Everyone already knew him by his reputation. All of the girls tittered excitedly at the sight of him, but one of their male companions went rather whey at his handshake. The other man at the table did not seem to notice him, what with his gaze pointedly fixed on Q, his lips still moving in a conversation that Bond could tell his Quartermaster had very little interest in. He thought about making his presence known, about telling the twink to move so that he could sit down, but Bill quickly made a seat for him and Bond accepted.
The conversation was spotty at best because of the volume of the pub, so Bond could only hear Bill and the girl next to him and possibly Eve if she shouted. Across the table, the words were completely inaudible, so Bond was left to fill in the gaps by watching everyone's facial expressions. Every now and then Q would meet his gaze, looking bored and somewhat annoyed, and Bond just grinned until Q rolled his eyes and continued listening to the one-sided conversation beside him.
But then, something happened, so minute that no one else noticed but Bond, because Bill was chatting up the bird next to him and Moneypenny was in deep gossip with the rest of them. But Bond saw the way Q went very rigid in his seat, the way he looked at the other man and said something with a gaze so level and serious that it brought to mind the way his Quartermaster dealt with particularly troublesome minions in the lab. But his icy expression did nothing to perturb the man, who simply laughed at whatever he said. Bond saw Q's jaw clench as he reached beneath the table.
The man looked confused and then as if he were in sudden pain. He wrenched his hand away from Q, from out beneath the table where it had obviously been wandering unwanted, and quickly slid out of the booth to let Q pass. Q paused only a moment, leant down, and said something in the man's ear before disappearing. It wasn't until after Q left that Bond saw the man looked properly shamed.
Excusing himself from Bill's side, Bond got up and made to follow Q through the crowd. He paused only momentarily to give the man in the booth an intimidating glare-finding a sort of glee when he shrunk away-and then went searching for Q. Bond found him at the edge of the bar, looking distracted even as drinks were placed in front of him. By the time Bond stood beside him, Q was on his third shot.
"Alright?" Bond asked; he could see Q's hand shaking.
"Fine," Q said, turning the glass over next to the others. He didn't look at Bond.
"Do you want me to hurt him for you?" Bond asked, half-jest, half-not.
"It's fine," Q told him. "Don't worry about it."
"If he touched you-"
"Bond, it's okay."
Bond felt some of his anger bleed away when Q put his hand on top of his, the one that was making a fist in his anger. The warmth of him was exhilarating in a way that Bond could not explain. It felt intimate, something more than a formal handshake, more than the accidental and awkward fumble of hands when exchanging paperwork or equipment. It was a touch of assurance, of trust, of something that went beyond whatever they were at work.
Bond looked at their joined hands, at Q, who was still distracted somewhere in his own head, and then back to their hands. He slowly turned his wrist and unfurled his fist, letting Q fall into the open expanse of his palm, where Bond's fingers curled just slightly around his. It was almost as if they were holding hands, but Bond wasn't grabbing and taking, just offering, and it was enough to bring Q out of wherever he was and back into that moment.
Q looked at Bond for the first time since he'd come over, and Bond was immediately enamoured by his eyelashes and cheekbones, two things he never thought much of before that moment, in the right light at the right time with the right person. Bond wondered for a moment if it would be different had it been anyone but Q, even Moneypenny. But then Q's lips parted and he knew it would be different, because Bond wouldn't feel guilty having these thoughts about eyelashes and cheekbones in front of anyone else. But because Q was Q and they were in some strange territory of not-quite-friends, Bond felt it: that crushing regret that he had trespassed a line that had been neatly drawn between them, those boundaries between desire and propriety.
Q must have realised it too, because he looked away as he pulled back his hand and used it to catch the attention of the bartender. He ordered two more drinks by holding up his fingers, and the barman obliged. Q slid the glass in Bond's direction.
"To a Happy New Year?" Q said, holding up his glass in a toast.
"To a Better Than Last Year," Bond said, and Q smiled and they drank. Bond pretended not to notice that Q watched him out of the corner of his eye as he swallowed, just as Q politely did the same when Bond watched him lick at his lips.
They had a few more drinks in them by the time Moneypenny appeared.
"There you are. I was wondering where you two had gone off to," she said, and did a suggestive sort of thing with her eyebrows that made Q go red beside him. Before either of them could comment, Eve began directing them back to the booth. The man who had been keen on Q was gone, as were two of the girls, leaving a much smaller party and more room at the table. Someone had ordered food, and Bill waved them over to join in the festivities.
Q went in first, then Bond, and then Eve appeared behind them with a tray of drinks for everyone. They spent the next hour alternating between tabs, drinking and eating and talking in a way that Bond hadn't done in years. He was rather enjoying himself, as was everyone else, except for Q, who seemed to have had one too many and kept nodding off against Bond's shoulder.
"Oh just shake him, he's fine," Eve said, but Bond let him be, because he had a feeling Q hadn't gotten a proper rest or meal in him in a while with all the stress at work.
He kept his expression engaged as the conversation flitted between subjects of little interest to him, but internally he was very aware of the warmth of Q's cheek, the rise and fall of his chest. Bond only allowed himself a few glances at Q-ones that would be socially acceptable under the circumstances-and knew that he was most definitely in trouble, because even at a different angle, in different light, Q's eyelashes still were tantalising enough to take his breath away.
Nearly a quarter to midnight, Q woke up after a few well-placed, teasing pokes from Eve. He swatted at her half-heartedly, mumbled something about getting some air, and wiggled out of the booth past Bond without another word. When he didn't return after a few moments, Bond could not quite disguise the concerned glances he cast out over the crowd in search of him. Eve nudged his ankle under the table.
"Maybe you should go check on him," she suggested, and Bond did not need to be told twice.
He checked the loo first, then walked the perimeter of the pub, but didn't see him anywhere. It was only when Bond stepped outside that he found Q, leaning against the side of the building. There were a few others out as well, huddled in coats against the cold, trying to sneak in a quick fag before having to go back inside. But Q wasn't smoking, he just stood there with his eyes closed as if sleeping, and it might have been a peaceful scene if it didn't make Bond nervous. Here was one of MI6's highest executives, drunk and defenceless on a city street corner. On top of it, he didn't have a jacket, and he was bound to catch sick.
Bond approached him, leant on the wall next to him.
"Alright?" he asked, but Q did not lift his head.
"I had a lot to drink," Q admitted, his words slow, but at least not slurred.
"Feeling sick?" Bond inquired, unsure if he managed to keep the concern from his voice.
"No, I just get overheated sometimes," Q said, pushing his fringe away from his face with one hand as he straightened. Bond observed him, all angles of cheekbones and brows and jaw with only the curve of his lips and lashes to soften him. But Bond especially liked the flushed pink of Q's cheeks, how a bit of alcohol gave him all the colour he could never keep on a normal day. He looked better for it, younger and less tired, but just as Bond was thinking this, Q turned away.
"Sorry," he said.
"For what?" Bond asked.
"Making you leave," Q answered, then looked back at Bond with a bit of apology. "Social gatherings aren't really my area."
"On the contrary, I think you're the life of the party," Bond said, and Q smiled at the reference to one of their earliest conversations. Bond particularly liked that smile, because it was a little warmer than the one he was used to seeing at work. Something a bit more unguarded, honest.
"Well then, I now have reason to only do this once a year, because I wouldn't want to steal the limelight from those who crave it," Q said, and Bond laughed. His breath visualised before him, a testament to the cold.
"And the night's not over yet, so best not to let you freeze to death before then," Bond said, as he began unbuttoning his jacket.
"I'm fine," Q said to the gesture, his flush intensifying in a way that Bond found endearing.
"Then at least come back inside."
"But they're going to do fireworks any minute."
Q had no sooner said these words when Bond heard the countdown begin from inside the pub.
"You have quite the timing," Bond said.
He expected Q to say something witty in reply, because Bond had honestly left that one wide open in an invitation for banter. But Q did not.
Instead, Q kissed him.
James Bond did not often find himself just being kissed, as he was the one that usually instigated such a thing, even if it was with nothing but a glance and a well-timed brush of fingertips along someone's forearm. But Q caught him off-guard with his forwardness, his confidence. And it wasn't chaste, either. It was a full on kiss of lips and tongue and the press of Q's body against his from shoulders to knees. Q tasted sweet, like liquorice, and something about it was completely overwhelming, like all of his senses had been dormant and suddenly come to life. Bond couldn't remember the last time a simple kiss left him reeling.
He clutched at Q's hair with both hands, weaving his fingers into ridiculously soft curls as he took control of the kiss. Q trembled against him and made a sound into his mouth like a whimper that awakened an ache below Bond's navel. Bond was only dimly aware of the cold, of the cheering, of the fireworks, because nothing else mattered but the perfection of Q's mouth, his body.
But then, Q abruptly pulled away, his hair a riotous mess, and Bond realised all too quickly what they had done, the line they had crossed.
"I'm sorry, I'm drunk," Q said immediately, lips red, eyes so dark that there wasn't any green left to them at all. He moved out of the circle of Bond's arms as if he'd been burnt, and it took all Bond had to not reach out to him to pull him back. "That was...unprofessional. I'm sorry."
Before Bond could say anything, Eve appeared, cheerfully singing Auld Lang Syne with some random strangers who had popped out to look at the fireworks.
"There you are! Happy New Year!" she said, throwing her arms round Q, then Bond, in celebratory hugs. The moment she released Q, he was gone, disappeared back into the crowded pub. Bond wanted to go after him, but he didn't know what to do or say, especially when the taste of Q still lingered on his lips.
"Everything okay?" Eve asked.
"Yeah," Bond replied distractedly, just as Q came back outside. He was dressed in his oversized anorak and not even on the pavement a moment before he was hailing one of the idling taxis from down the block. Q met his eyes for just a moment, before looking away, ashamed, and tucking into the cab. Eve did not see him with her back to the door, and Bond did not draw attention to his speedy getaway, settling for watching red taillights disappear into the distance beneath a shimmering evening sky.
"Everything's fine."
Three days after the New Year, and Bond found himself unable to stay away from MI6.
He had been doing his best to avoid the place, mostly because Q would be there and Bond wasn't quite ready to confront him about what happened. But the flat was oppressively silent and 507 hadn't been home in days to fill it with music, leaving Bond alone with nothing but his thoughts and his drink and not much else. He wanted Q, yes, but why, he could not say. He found comfort in Q, companionship in their conversation, trust in his calm voice that directed Bond over the comms. Q was smart and handsome in a way that Bond did not expect to find attractive or alluring, one of those enigmas that made Bond more infatuated the more he thought about him. But that's all it was: infatuation. It wasn't anything more than Bond misreading his own feelings. Trust did not mean love-did not mean lover-and while he felt sexual desire for Q, he doubted it would be appropriate to pursue him.
Q was young and intelligent and beautiful. He did not need to be wasting his time with someone who could not satisfy his needs and wants, who thought only of their temporary pleasure, who might be there one day and gone the next.
The more he thought about this, the more Bond felt an itch under his skin that couldn't be soothed. It was that anxiety that finally drove him out the door and pulled him towards headquarters. He gravitated immediately to TSS, where he spotted Q amongst the white lab coats, a smudge of maroon and navy in their ranks. His Quartermaster noticed him and politely broke away from the congregation to make his way toward Bond.
"007."
"Q."
"What can I do for you?" Q asked, and a thousand inappropriate thoughts flitted through Bond's mind at the question.
"A word?" Bond asked, and Q nodded silently as he lead him from the bullpen. They followed a short hallway to a small set of stairs, which led to a landing that housed only one door at its end. Q swiped his ID card and unlocked the door before stepping inside, waving Bond in behind him. It was a moderate-sized office with a large window overlooking the bullpen, offering ample room for a desk and chairs, a worktable, and some shelving units. There was also a sofa shoved in the corner that looked like it had recently been slept upon, judging from the haphazard pillow and blanket placement.
"Roomy," Bond commented.
"Much more so than the last one, thankfully," Q said.
Despite his words, when Bond went and closed the door, he noticed that Q immediately looked anxious. It seemed out of place in Q's expression, after the months that Bond had come to know him, but he wasn't about to have this sort of conversation without privacy.
"About New Year's," Bond began, and Q went very still when he looked at him.
They were standing across the room from one another, at odds with how they had been the last time they met. With all of his questioning thoughts, Bond had been reliving that one moment for days: the feeling of Q's lips on his, the warmth and taste of him. There had been desire in that kiss, something that the excuse of drunkenness could not disguise.
So that is why he squared his shoulders and stood a little straighter, because he was going to have to end this now before it went any further.
"It didn't mean anything."
"I know," Q replied.
Bond couldn't read his expression or tone, both as calm as placid water, and something about it made Bond unable to stop talking.
"It can't mean anything. You understand."
"I do," Q said, but Bond didn't think that he truly understood. He crossed the room and went to Q to look him right in the eyes, which darkened marginally under the weight of Bond's gaze. It was then that he realised just how close they were, close enough that Bond only had to lean forward and he could kiss him, bury his fingers in Q's hair, lose himself in the warmth of his body. Bond swallowed and Q watched, waited, until Bond finally found the words to say:
"I don't think you do."
"Then enlighten me."
Bond honestly thought about crowding Q up against the desk and kissing him until he couldn't breathe, couldn't maintain his stoic confidence, but instead, Bond said:
"We're friends, Q, nothing more than that."
Q's expression remained unmoved, but there was something in his eyes that flickered and shuttered closed, like a light extinguished in a dark room.
"Of course," Q said, and moved away from Bond. He went to the window, keeping his back to Bond as he continued: "I apologise again for my lapse of judgment." His voice didn't waver, but Bond could see the tension in the line of his shoulders as clear as day, as clearly as he did in the strained smile that Q aimed at him when he turned around. "I hope this doesn't affect our working relationship."
"No, not at all," Bond said.
"Good," Q replied, and cleared his throat as he made himself look busy with some of the paperwork on his desk. "Anything else you'd like to discuss?"
"No…" Bond said, wishing he wasn't such a good judge of character, because then he wouldn't see all the cracks that Q was trying to hide from him; the fissures that Bond had made with his cruelty, however well-intentioned. "I'll be on my way."
Q didn't say anything, just nodded once in Bond's general direction, which he took as his cue and left.
Bond made it all the way down the hallway before something made him stop to glance back. He saw Q through the crack of the door, still standing, but with his hands on his desk, head down as if defeated. Bond felt a rush of protectiveness-of guilt-weigh heavily in his chest, because he was the one who had caused it. The only thing that helped was knowing that it was better this way; there was no sense in getting that close, not when things like life and death were so uncertain, when the possibility of hurting Q like that was so likely.
So Bond went away and tried to kill his thoughts with exercise, then with drink at home, but nothing helped. He knew he had done the right thing, but the image of Q standing there looking so lost made the doubts rise up tenfold in his mind. He had no idea how to salvage the situation, to gain back the relationship that they once had. But even if he did know, how on Earth could they go back now? Now that both of them knew there was a mutual attraction neither of them could act upon?
Close to midnight, Bond heard 507 come home. For the first time in days, he heard footsteps from above, but they were not the same light tread with which he was familiar. The gait was clumsy and loud they moved from door through living room, but it was not quite as startling as the angry crash of mashed keys on the piano. Something fell over, and then there was the sound of a body slumping onto the floor, knees and shoulders and elbows knocking against the wood. Bond strained his ears, wondering if everything was alright, if they were hurt or crying or just drunk.
He was overwhelmed with the want to go to them, but he refrained, because he couldn't even take someone in his arms who wanted him, let alone someone who had never met him. There were all these boundaries between him and the things that he wanted, between him and Q, between him and this person who made the most beautiful music. There were unbreachable walls and barriers separating them, perpetuating their isolation until there was nothing but unfulfilled desire and bitterness. And there was nothing they could do except live and want and never have, never touch.
So Bond poured himself another drink, and then another, and then another, wishing he could wash away the taste of Q that he couldn't forget.
Bond had a hangover the next day, but he didn't get to sleep it off, because he had a call first thing from Moneypenny, telling him to come in immediately. Head pounding, he made himself as presentable as possible and was just about to walk out the door when he heard 507 begin stirring from upstairs. Quickly, Bond wrote out a note and took the stairwell up to the fifth floor so that he could post it onto 507's door. It read:
Everything alright?
-407
He pressed it onto the door and paused, just a moment, debating on knocking instead of walking away. But his mobile buzzed insistently from his pocket, and Bond dashed off before he could think too hard on it.
There was a mission lined up for him in Montenegro. He had the afternoon to become acquainted with the parameters and the intel they had on the target before he would be shipped out on a red eye to arrive under the cover of darkness. Q-Branch was bustling with activity when he arrived, but Q was nowhere in sight, for which he was grateful. Bond received his kit from a Korean woman with a no-nonsense expression, who went only by the letter R. She explained how to use a new gadget-a tie pin that could unlock any door, even ones with ID swipe scanners-and then sent him on his way with firm instructions to check in upon landing.
When he arrived back at the flat, there was a folded note on his door, and Bond had to juggle the things he had been carrying in order to remove it. He dropped everything on the table in the foyer so that he could open the note and read it.
Just a bad day.
Don't worry about me
Sorry if I kept you up.
Always,
-507
The slanted writing looked shaky, not the usual neat script, and Bond worried even though 507 said not to. Above him, the quiet footsteps alerted Bond that his neighbour was home, but there was no music that night. As Bond packed and pored over pages and pages of confidential files, it was oppressively silent. He thought that maybe 507 would pick up the violin closer to midnight, but they did not.
So it was with a heavy heart that Bond picked up his bag and made for the door. He jotted a note quickly, one which read:
I know what it's like
That's why I'll worry about you even if you don't want me to
I look forward to hearing your music again,
whenever that will be
Take care,
407
He climbed the short flight of stairs and slipped the note under 507's door, before turning to catch the lift.
The sound of the piano followed him, something slow and quiet and sad, but the notes stopped abruptly, and the hallway fell into silence again. Bond waited, one foot in the lift, one out, but the music did not start again, and soon the doors were beeping at him irritably, and Bond had no choice but to go.
He leant against the rail inside the lift, beneath the burnt amber light, and felt his heart heavy and aching in his chest. It was the same sort of ache he felt when he saw Q standing at his desk with his head down and shoulders slumped, looking for all the world like he had lost something important. But he didn't have time to think about that; he had a job to do.
Queen and Country first and foremost, always.
The mission started out well.
The weather was gorgeous in Tivat, the hotel stupendous, and the food and beverage of the highest quality. Bond lounged at the pool during the day and played tables at night. By the second night, he was also playing the hotel owner's wife, Anya: a sporty thing with a love for men who held her by the throat when they fucked her. Although it was definitely not a kink that Bond shared, he gave her what she wanted in hopes of receiving something in return. Unfortunately, Anya wasn't the most useful for divulging information, even in the throes of passion. Bond could tell that she engaged in this sort of behaviour often, so it would take a lot more than a few satisfying shags to get her to open up about her husband's under the table arms dealing ring.
Over a week into the venture, Bond had little to go on and MI6 was getting impatient. Both M and R had been on the line, pressing him for details and names that Bond could not provide. The fact that he wasn't getting anywhere fast was troublesome, because there was only so much business a fake businessman could do before he stayed too long in a hotel and became suspicious. He had one more night before he had to think of another angle, and Bond was making use of it half-buried between Anya's legs when his comm came to life.
007, Q said, and Bond stopped everything because it was the first time he had heard Q's voice since he'd left. He didn't sound different than any other time, professional as always, as if what had transpired between them never happened. There were so many things he wanted to say in that moment, but then Anya made an impatient sound, and Bond went right back to it, cringing inwardly with the knowledge that Q was listening in.
I know you're rather engaged at the moment, but you may want to cut things short tonight. I've got two armed men in a lift headed to your floor, Q continued, as if there was nothing odd about speaking to Bond when he had his tongue lapping at a woman's clit. I'm going to cut the power, but I can only give you about a ten minute head start.
Bond immediately withdrew from the bed and began getting dressed, ignoring the indignant protests he received for stopping halfway through.
The two in the elevator are out of commission for the next fifteen minutes, but reinforcements are now taking the stairs. I'd say maybe eight to ten of them, each with an assault weapon of some sort, military grade. There's not much I can do aside from turning out the lights.
"Get me an escape route," Bond told him, as he shrugged into his jacket and removed his Walther from the hidden inside pocket.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Bond stopped at the door, turning round to Anya, who stood behind him. She was completely naked and held a Beretta Tomcat in her palms so naturally, it was as if she had been born with the weapon in her hand.
Three minutes, 007, Q said in his ear.
"You didn't think I would let you go, did you?" she asked, making a motion with her gun for Bond to disarm.
"So you're a part of it, then?" Bond asked, removing his finger from the safety, but not relinquishing his weapon.
"Of course. From the start. It was all about getting you here. Trapped. The infamous James Bond," she said.
"Oh, so you've heard of me?" Bond asked.
"Don't get cocky," she said. "Now drop the gun."
You have two minutes, 007.
"I don't think so," Bond said.
Bond-
He raised his gun and pulled the trigger just as she did, but whereas her shot veered off and clipped his ear, Bond's hit home. The bullet planted itself directly in her forehead and her naked form slumped to the carpet.
Bond? 007 report, Q said, and if Bond didn't know better, he'd say Q sounded concerned.
"Escape route?" Bond replied, picking up Anya's gun. His ear stung and bled heavily, dripping down the side of his neck where it soaked into his collar.
There's a private lift for employees. It's down the hall to your right. Use the tie pin to give you access. I'll see what I can do to divert them in the meantime.
Bond followed the instructions that Q gave in his clear, emotionless voice. Q got him out into the parking lot through a back stairwell, where his car was parked some distance away. Bond made the dash for it, avoiding the shots that rang out from open hotel windows. By the time he reached his vehicle, all the lights were on and Bond heard sirens in the distance.
So much for subtlety.
"You act like it's my fault," Bond grunted, and pulled on the door handle. It was locked.
You did start it.
"She shot first"
So did Han.
"This isn't really the time for Star Wars references, Q."
Bond had no way of getting inside short of breaking the glass, so Bond fired two rounds from the Tomcat at the window. The glass shattered, but didn't fall, and Bond had to kick it out with his foot. He unlocked the door, hurriedly swept aside the glass and then slid inside. Immediately, he pulled down the console beneath the steering wheel of the BMW to expose the ignition wires. Behind him, he could hear the sound of running footsteps on the gravel path.
Well congratulations on completely blowing your cover, Q said dryly. It's the yellow cable, by the way.
"I know what I'm doing," Bond said, stripping the yellow cable, and not about to ask how Q could see him.
You've got six incoming targets from your four o'clock.
The engine turned over with a roar, just as a rain of gunfire fell on him, putting cracks in the windscreen. Bond put the car in gear and sped off away from the hotel toward town. Three black vehicles followed him in pursuit. Men with M16s shot at his back tyres.
Take the motorway, Q instructed, and Bond pointedly did not take the appropriate exit. 007.
"Not now, Q," Bond said, swerving through a traffic circle.
I'm not talking for my health.
"Then stop talking."
Don't be a prat. Listen to me. I'm here to help, Q said, in a voice that commanded Bond to obey.
"Fine," Bond replied, and listened to the rapid clicking of a keyboard. Q guided him through the streets, turning traffic lights green for him and moving trains to other tracks so that he could continue uninhibited. Q managed to trap one of the vehicles at a rail crossing, leaving Bond with only an entourage of two.
With the motorway no longer a possibility, Q instructed Bond to take a winding, waterfront road outside of the city. He was pursued for fifteen minutes by the two remaining vehicles, one which he caused to roll over into a ditch; the other wrapped itself round a tree.
But the mission was not over. Q sent him to one of their contacts in Podogorica, who got him cleaned up and outfitted with new clothes and papers. It took about a week to find the right pressure point, who gave them the information they needed. But because Bond had shown his face and was a known enemy, they called in 004 to finish the job via covert infiltration.
The entire time, Bond worked side-by-side and round the clock with Q without any awkwardness. They fell back into their routine-their banter-naturally, and by the end, Bond had all but forgotten what had happened between them. It was only after, when Bond was sitting on his hotel balcony the night before his flight back to London, that he knew what he wanted to say.
"Q," Bond said, and his comm came to life.
007, Q replied.
"I'm sorry."
You'd better not have lost that tie pin-
"No, I'm sorry for the other day."
Bond heard the distinct click of the recording device disengaging.
This isn't the best time.
"Says the man who makes nod to Star Wars when I'm getting shot at."
Silence on Q's end.
"So now's not the best time. When is a good time?" Bond asked, then continued: "You know, you still haven't cashed in that rain check for me to take you to dinner."
Don't be cruel.
"I'm not."
Yes you are.
Bond realised then, in that moment, he was.
"I'm sorry."
Stop apologising. You're right, what you said. Let's try to move past it.
"Q…"
No. We're not having this conversation again. I am your Quartermaster.
"That's all?" Bond asked.
The silence seemed to stretch forever, a string of seconds that had Bond balanced on a precipice as narrow as a knifepoint. Q's answer would be the tipping point, the catalyst, the words that would dictate their behaviour from this point onward. A selfish part of Bond hoped that Q would reconsider, that they could return to those days of easy companionship at shared mealtimes. But realistically, Bond knew that such a thing was beyond their reach. There was no going back, not after Bond knew the enigmatic beauty of Q's cheekbones and eyelashes, the seductive softness of his curls, sweet press of his mouth and tongue.
Q must have understood that too, because his words were clear, but his voice wavered slightly when he said:
Good night, 007.
Bond swallowed back the things he knew he couldn't say, and the words lodged themselves sharp and painful in his throat. He had done this to himself, to them; the boundaries between them had never been clearer, more precise. With as much stoicism as he could manage, Bond swallowed back his guilt and regret and replied:
"Good night, Quartermaster."