An extended chapter this time, from Bond's POV, taking us back to some of their previous interactions through the stages of Bond's realisation of his feelings for Q.

Bond fingered the cover of the book he had obtained for Q. It had cost an arm and a leg, procured from an underground art dealer who owed him a favour or two. He looked at it like it was a viper. A complete impulse. No idea why the urge had seized him, literally by the proverbial throat, to do it. He was a slave to his instincts, that much he knew, but those instincts didn't normally involve treating a work colleague, much less a superior, to something so extravagant.

Bond tore his eyes away from DaVinci's diary and focussed on the little breather hole in the window next to his seat. He frowned to himself, not even the rather attractive female cabin crew who placed his vodka martini on the tray in front of him could offer sufficient enough distraction from his thoughts.

This wouldn't do at all. Q had gotten into his head as he stood atop that disused Venetian apartment block. No one got into James Bond's head and got out alive to tell the tale.

There was nothing else for it. Bond had to regain control.

Return the book. And seduce the clever little bastard to within an inch of his life.

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 hadn't made an error in judgement had he? No. Not a chance, he thought firmly to himself. He'd had enough experience in the field to recognise the signs in the opposite sex for what they were and they were not so different when it came to the same sex and where their proclivities lay. Sometimes, Bond's charms were potent enough to give even those who confidently traipsed the straight and narrow line of heterosexuality pause for thought. No. Q was definitely gay. Of that he was certain.

Bond smiled to himself as the cab dodged the pedestrians and traffic lights that lined London streets towards his apartment. Oh well. He'd just have to amend his strategy. After all, James Bond wouldn't be the man he was if wasn't as good thinking on his back as he was on his feet. It was only a matter of time and patience before he got Q on his.

It always amused Bond. The way the minions would just naturally fall by the wayside as he strolled through Q Division. Occasionally, he considered that if the walls preventing them from stepping further to the side than they already could were permeable, they would sink into them and disappear. Not that his ego would ever allow him to admit the fact, but he had a deep-seated and grudging admiration for the people that kept him and the other Double-Os safe. But it wouldn't do to betray that knowledge. The lion needed to wield some dominance while in their lair, otherwise they may gang together and take him down. Geeks, like agents, had difficulty working together, so precious were each about their contribution to the machinations of the SIS. Bond though, hadn't failed to notice in the preceding weeks during their occasional and infrequent moments spent in the same space, a certain maestro quality to their new Q that bled into Division. It was a brave new world with younger, fresher faces becoming more frequent amongst the sea of faces. And down here, Q was the conductor of the most important orchestra in the intelligence service.

He walked up to the boy, while reaching into his inside jacket pocket to extract a small, plain wrapped package and handed it to Q.

The gift. His impulse. A thank you.

"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."

From the look on his face, Bond knew he didn't need to elaborate further.

"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.

He threw a parting jibe to the minions and smiled to himself. Well, if that gesture didn't get him one step closer to resuming where they had left off in Q's office several weeks ago, Bond would join a monastery.

"Thank you for doing this, Bond. I appreciate these few days are your downtime but I would feel better knowing Q had a pair of watchful eyes. You never know in our line of work."

"Absolutely, Ma'am. I'm glad you felt confident enough to request me."

"I'm sure Q is made of sterner stuff than I give him credit for, but just be aware of the emotional sensitivity of the circumstances, Bond. I understand the need for Double-Os to bury their own for the sake of the job, but… well… just dial down the Double-O status if you can. Just for the next couple of days," M advised.

"Of course, M," replied Bond. It wasn't often she betrayed her maternal side while in the confines of MI6. Bond's suspicions that there was more to this particular Quartermaster than met the eye were tentatively roused.

"Thank you, Bond. I'll let Q know. Dismissed."

Bond departed with a nod and set off home to pack an overnight bag. As he drove, he felt a slight pang in his chest but ignored it. It wouldn't do to be thinking about the loss Q had suffered, the emotional pain he must be enduring that could possibly so closely reflect his own.

No. That wouldn't do at all. The mission was to protect the Quartermaster from possible threats while out in the open. There was nothing else to consider past that.

Bond knew it was a slightly irrational response to the knowledge that Q had been so lax about his own personal protection as to forge his time on the shooting range, citing more important priorities and the need for his attention on other key projects as the main reason. It was only much later, as he headed to Division to no doubt drag Q kicking and screaming to the practice range to fulfil his promise that he realised he was angry with himself. Angry that he had accepted the responsibility that had afforded him time spent in the company of the boy outside of their necessary and wholly professional interactions required in Six. Angry that he had seen him drunk and vulnerable on what was probably the most distressing day of his relatively short life. Angry that he hadn't had the balls to just take what he'd wanted that night and get the boy out of his system. Downright livid that he had seen the photo of Q and his partner and read the words that had made his brain spin with memories of his own emotional pain.

Damn the boy….

I shouldn't have insisted on this, Bond thought to himself. What the hell was I thinking?

He stood close behind Q, adjusting his stance, lining up the barrel of his weapon with his arm, tweaking his body position until it resembled something decent, muttering instructions in his ear, while all the time trying to keep his mind focussed on the task and not the boy himself.

The facade of banter held true, years of practice hiding behind the mask of normality that hid a far from normal existence. Focus, Bond, he instructed his brain, let's just get this over with.

And as he closed his eyes and whispered "Issha Zetsumei" softly into his ear, Bond felt the stillness that came over Q, the connection accepted between them for the briefest of moments as he pulled the trigger.

Bond took a step back and waited for the target as it fluttered towards them, a pleased look on his features as he turned to Q to congratulate him on his perfect hit. But it was the concentrated, contemplative look with which he was met that pulled Bond up short for the briefest of instances, as though Q was seeing him for the first time in a new light.

Bond turned away to stow the weapons and equipment, his mouth a thin line, eyes resigned.

He would not fall again. Absolutely not.

They are in Q's office.

"Frankly, Bond, I don't know WHY the SIS puts up with you. You're a bloody menace. I'm certain you cost the British taxpayer more than offshore bloodsucking corporations cost our economy!"

"Q. It's not as though I deliberately set out to damage—"

"Damage, 007, can be repaired. Damage, is a salvageable state of existence. You," said Q, jabbing a finger in his direction, "destroy. You are a blight on the otherwise flawless laws of thermodynamics!"

"What can I do to make it up to you?"

"Just stop destroying my things," mumbled Q resignedly.

"I might be persuaded to let you take me out to dinner…"

Q spluttered. "Me? Take YOU out? If anything, you—" Q cut short his own sentence.

"Yes, Q?"

"Never mind," said Q, making a show of straightening some files on his desk.

Bond walked around the desk and stood close beside him. Q didn't flinch, carrying on with his task.

"Remind me what you said to me as I stood on that rooftop in Venice." Not that Bond would or could ever forget.

Q's spluttering suddenly stopped. The memory was as good as any bucket of cold water doing its job to bring him back to Earth with a jolt. The moment he'd almost lost their possibly finest Double-O to grief.

"I said, don't let the dead consume you while you can still break bread with the living," he whispered quietly.

"And I want to break bread with you, Q. Don't deny a not-yet-dead man his living wish."

God I hate you, Bond.