A lull.

No one appreciated a lull more than Q. Time for a little Norman Greenbaum, thought Q to himself, plugging himself into his favourite playlist and sitting back, resting his hands behind his head, keeping an eye on his kingdom laid out on the screens before him.

All operatives safe and sound, some tucked up, others doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing. Smooth runnings. No genius required to figure out that Bond wasn't on mission at the moment. Q sighed contentedly. Nights like this made the pain of those other days when things didn't quite go according to plan bearable. He glanced up at the row of clocks. Tokyo, Paris, London GMT. Less than an hour until the end of his shift. Home to the cats and few hours rest before the whole cycle began again. Routine. Habit. The smooth click of the clockwork clogs as they slot perf—

Ping. Of course, if Bond wasn't on mission, he was likely to be in London. In MI6. In Q's vicinity.

A message on his screen. There goes the quiet of the neighbourhood. Ready to clock some time on the shooting range?

Q sat forward, humming to himself in perfect pitch along to "Spirit in the Sky" and typed a quick reply. Sorry Bond. Bit busy at the moment.

Ping. Another message. You wouldn't be trying to dodge the bullet now, would you?

Q rolled his eyes before running his fingers over his keyboard again. Of course not. M. Reports. Very busy. Rain check?

Ping. The next message made him cringe. Sing me a new tune, Q. Though I quite like that Norman Greenbaum number you're tapping your foot to right now.

Q looked up to see a smug looking agent eyeballing him from the platform above. Busted.

He removed his headphones. "Armoury. One hour. The cats can wait," said Bond, while Q exhaled a resigned sigh at his retreating back.

"Now pay attention, Q. This," Bond said, as he handed him a Walther P22 "is a gun. And that," he said pointing down the lane towards the back wall, "is your target."

Q tossed him a bored look. Patronising git.

"So," he continued, crossing his arms and stepping back. "Show me what you've got."

Q put on the mufflers and googles and removed the safety catch, reminding himself to keep his eyes open this time. He'd suffered enough ridicule from Bond on the last occasion.

Planting his feet firm and square, he squeezed the trigger five times in relatively smooth succession. Bond stepped forward and pressed the button to retrieve the target.

"Not bad," he said. Q tried not to look pleased with himself before Bond continued, "if you want to give the enemy a nice little holiday in a recuperation spa."

"I hit it, didn't I?"

"You did. Though perhaps you'd have had more luck taking him out if you'd just thrown the gun at him…"

Q frowned and put his hands on his hips. "I don't have to stand here and take this abuse. May I remind you, I'm your—"

"Superior, yes. So you keep saying. But not so superior when handling your own inventions. And I'm afraid you do have to stand here and take it, Q," Bond said with a knowing smile, as he clipped a fresh target to the pulley. "Unless, of course, you want M to know you've been doctoring your personal files."

Q gave an impatient huff. "Blackmail. Low, Bond," he said as he put on his googles again. "Don't know why I let that slip."

"Not your fault, Q. You're not the first to succumb to my irresistible charms when it comes to my talent for extracting information."

"Can we just get this over with?" Q said, cocking the weapon again, "or my finger might just slip while pointing this thing in your direction."

Bond smiled. "Petulance suits you, Q. Quite adorable." He didn't give him time to form a retort, grabbing him by his upper arms and spinning him around to face the target, pressing his back lightly into his own chest.

"Let's start with your stance," he said, placing a foot between Q's and pushing his right leg over until it was roughly far enough for his feet to be shoulder width apart. If Q was bothered by the physical proximity he was doing a very good job of keeping it to himself.

"Now. Take the time to think about what you are doing. Get comfortable. Make the gun part of and an extension of yourself. Create a machine rest with your stance, grip and breath control. Every element of your being needs to synchronise for you to make a perfect shot."

Throughout the instruction, Q felt his stomach start to clench within, not helped by the fact that Bond had one hand resting on his hip while the other took to arranging his non-trigger hand in a comfortable position beneath the handle of the gun.

Traitorous, hormonal bastard, Q inwardly chastised his brain.

Q closed his eyes and zoned out. Levelled his breathing. Allowed the rhythm of his heart to guide him. "Issha Zetsumei," he heard whispered softly by his ear. He opened his eyes and took the shot.

He lowered the gun, the aftershock of the experience eliciting a slight tremor in his hands. Adrenaline, that's all. If Bond noticed he didn't draw attention to it, focussing on the target travelling up the pulley towards them.

His normally smug look gave way to a genuine smile. "Head shot. Dead centre."

He looked at Q, who for once was quite speechless. "We'll make a marksman of you yet, Quartermaster."

"Same time next week?" Q could only nod. He couldn't deny Bond was a decent instructor.

He silently watched his back as he stowed the weapons and equipment and pondered.

Note: "Issha Zetsumei" means literally "one shot and expire."