Well that could have gone slightly better, thought Bond, as he walked in measured steps from the confines of MI6 to catch a cab back to his London nest for the night.
He touched the outside of his jacket pocket and felt the solid mass of the gift he had made a special trip en route from Venice to Rome to pick up for Q. A book. A limited edition diary from a genius not of this time, but one whom Bond instinctively knew Q would revere and admire. There would be another occasion to say thank you for getting him through the mission in one piece. Without actually having to utter those words of course. Without admitting to having succumbed to the human weaknesses of fear, of loss, of despair. Bond was not that man. Not one to believe it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
What a load of bollocks.
He sat back with a resigned sigh. He needed to get laid. But it wouldn't be tonight. He was tired and Q was playing hard to get. Stubborn little shit, Bond thought with a smile to himself. A personal challenge was just what he needed to focus his head. He'd never before backed down once he'd determined the outcome of a mission, personal or otherwise. He wasn't about to allow this maddening boy to force him into breaking well-established habits now.
The next three weeks were cool, professional and uneventful, or as uneventful as a life immersed in subterfuge and espionage can be. Polite nods were exchanged in passing while roaming the bowels of MI6 between missions in search of tea and minions hiding in corners trying to seek reprieve from a taskmastering Quartermaster. It was evident to all and sundry that M was cracking her proverbial whip and Q was some kind of sadomasochist to apparently be enjoying the attention.
"Do Quartermasters even have birthdays?"
Tanner gave Russell a blank look.
"I mean aren't they forged in the fires of Mordor or something like that? They're not actually born are they?"
"For pity's sake, Russell," said Tanner, rolling his eyes as he shoved him the direction of his office door, "just get it done, will you?"
"Cake, beer and a bottle of Talisker? Right away, Sir."
"Mr Tanner?"
Oh Lord. He's used Mister. And in that voice. This could be either very good, or very bad. Tanner looked up from his station to see Q, his eyes still trained on the screen in front of him with a small smile on his face. Good then. What a relief.
"Yes, Q?"
He beckoned him over and pointed at his screen. "What do you think that is?"
Tanner studied the data output. "It's 005, Sir." Q raised an eyebrow. "Ten minutes ago," Tanner amended after a second glance at the output.
"Indeed. His last known position. And ten minutes ago, he abandoned his tracker. Picking up some bad habits from 007 no doubt."
"I do have a few good habits you know, Q."
Q looked up to see Bond gazing down from the upper platform above his station. He trained a blank, closed expression on the agent. "007. What brings you amongst The Great Unwashed of Q Division? Come to see what toys I have left for you to br—?"
"I heard it was your birthday. I was curious to observe the manner in which you people let your hair down. Much the same as every other day, or so it would seem," he said, casting a gaze around the room.
You people. Lovely.
"Believe it or not, 007, the employees of Q Division do have lives that exist outside the necessity of keeping Double-Os backsides out of the sling and on this side of the equation of life. We're just not so obvious about flaunting it about."
Q was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, keeping careful eyes trained on Bond as he mounted the steps. It was like the parting of the Red Sea as his colleagues drifted a few feet back from his chosen path, as though his aura was pushing them aside.
Tsk, thought Q. No resolve. Pillars of salt in the wake of an Atlantic wave would stand firmer.
They had seen each other a grand total of four times since Bond's completely inappropriate attempt at seduction; twice in passing in the corridors and twice at mission briefings. Not that Q was counting. Most of their exchanges had been across the ether while Bond was on mission and only when Q's oversight was completely necessary. And on those particular missions, Bond had been surprisingly well behaved, for all intents and purposes. Extra curricular activities, it seemed, were temporarily on hold. Q was wondering what he was trying to prove. Or rather, he was firmly choosing to wholeheartedly ignore the possibilities. Though his body had other ideas, seemingly begging to ignore his resolve.
Damn the man. He practically assaulted me in my own office and I'm getting goosebumps like a teenage girl at the mere memory.
He walked up to Q, while reaching into his inside jacket pocket to extract a small, plain wrapped package and handed it to Q.
A gift.
"You know I can't accept this, Bond," Q said, making to hand it back.
"Well that's too bad because I don't have a receipt." He lowered his voice before continuing, though no-one was close enough to hear in that moment. "This one's got a steel spine. With any luck, the next time you clock me over the head, it'll take me out good and proper. Harder still, maybe some of the genius within will penetrate my own thick skull."
Was that… an apology?
Q somehow managed to keep his face impassive. Bond was impressed. He opened his mouth again to speak, a frown on his face and Bond knew what was coming.
"I don't want to hear it, Q. Ramblings about accepting gifts while in government service being inappropriate and all that PC rubbish."
"Why?"
"You know why, Q."
He did. Venice had been a close call, to understate the fact. And had it not been for Q…
"It's your birthday," Bond said, turning to beat a retreat, like a cat leaving the pigeons to regroup and play having enjoyed enough for one day the act of scattering them from their gathering. "Open it. If you don't want it, I'll understand. Maybe M might like it," Bond said as he light-footed it down the steps before Q could say more.
"And keep the revelry down, you lot, or M will be down here with the anti-fun police…"
And he was gone.
Q woke the next morning, slightly worse for wear but nothing six cups of green tea wouldn't sort out by 10am. He rose from the sofa bed, grabbed his glasses and remembered. He looked at his desk and focussed on the unwrapped gift still waiting his attention.
He picked it up and tore it open. Maybe it was a piece of reinforced wood so Q could indeed fend him off if he made a future move in his direction.
It wasn't.
The dedication in the book, which Bond had had the good sense to scribble on a separate piece of plain paper, read:
For all the inventions created and those yet to come. To Leonardo and Q, Brothers out of time. 007.
It was one of only 22 known copies recording some of DaVinci's earliest inventions, inventions that would come to shape the future of humanity.
Q closed his eyes and held the book reverently to his chest.
He rarely indulged in expletives either silently in his mind or aloud. He considered this occasion worthy of an exception.
What an absolute fucking bastard, he thought with a laugh.