"Fine. Dinner. I suppose I owe you that much. Message me the details, I'll meet you there. No. I don't want you picking me up, Bond. That would be a date. I don't want you thinking this is a date. It's two colleagues having dinner."
"Marry me, Charles."
"I'd be a fool to say no now, wouldn't I?"
"Mmmm. I may have to rethink my proposal. I wasn't counting on your being quite so easy."
Charles laugh rang light and genuine. "If you want me to put up a fight, Arthur…"
"Maybe later. Just… thank you for putting up with me…"
He looked every inch a man. Not such a boy then, thought Bond as he watched Q approach, led by the host towards their window table.
"You discovered London has tailors I see." Q was wearing a dark green suit, complemented with a dark blue silk shirt, tailored perfectly to his physique. Q being Q, of course, would never completely conform to the petty demands of London societal fashion, shirking a nice pair of Oxfords to round off the ensemble in favour of a pair of dark sneakers. Expensive sneakers, but sneakers nonetheless. You can take the geek out of his lab coat…
He took his seat, calm and casual, but didn't look at Bond while he scanned the menu. "Yes, well, when you told me the venue I thought I'd better up my game from parkas and hoodies. Just for this evening."
Q lifted his eyes then to meet Bond's gaze. He knew that look. Charles used to look at him like that too. "You know, I have an overwhelming urge to skip the main course and go straight for the man course..." Q couldn't restrain a small smile at the memory.
"Nice smile too. When you're not thinking about it."
Q cleared his throat as the waiter materialised next to him. "Tanqueray and tonic over ice please." Q rolled his fingers over the tablecloth, looking at the view that laid out before them, London in all its glory, the sparkle concealing the grime beneath. Bond remained silent as a church. Watching, waiting, permitting them both the space to allow the evening's events to take shape of their own accord. Choose their own course. This was not a situation to be forced. It would either evolve or die, and Bond was ready to accept either outcome, as long as they both benefited from said outcome.
Q's drink appeared and he drew a long, slow draft from the glass before putting it down and training his jade green eyes, curious and questioning, on Bond. They faced each other, two men trying not to buckle under the weight of the world they had sworn to protect, neither wishing to buckle under the intensity of the other's gaze, both secretly hoping that when they did, the other will be there to catch them.
"You do realise this is a spectacularly bad idea. I mean in the history of ideas this has to be the worst."
"I don't see how having dinner with a colleague is the worst idea in the world, Q," he replied, gesturing for attention in his demand for another drink. Bond continued, "And there is no such thing as a bad idea, Q. As a scientist, you of all people should know that an idea needs to be given form, then it needs to be tested, then and only then can one conclude whether or not the original idea was indeed bad, or often enough to surprise the most hardcore of sceptics, good. I myself have had worse ideas than this. And some of those have yielded very promising results."
Q took up his glass again before muttering, almost to himself but loud enough for Bond to hear. "You are such an insufferable smartarse."
Bond leaned forward. "You don't know me nearly well enough to appreciate how much of a smartarse I can be, Q."
"I've seen enough of your gameplay in the field to know just how smart your arse is, Mr Bond."
Bond couldn't suppress a laugh at that. Sharp, witty, mutually enjoyable banter with a counterpart was rare in his world. He appreciated it immensely when it happened along.
"Why are we here, Bond? I have a strong suspicion that you don't go in for fraternising with colleagues," Q said pointedly, as their starter course was placed before them.
"Have you dined at The Shard before, Q?"
"Hardly. I live alone, own two cats and am a slave to technology and geekdom. This is as far from my scene as a night slumming it in Camden Town is from yours," he said, looking around the place, assessing the pretentiousness, then returning his gaze to Bond, adjusting it to suggest that his dinner companion was the only real aspect of this entire situation, anchoring him firm in this floating piece of glass nearly 300 metres above solid ground.
"Well, isn't that reason enough?" asked Bond, downing his second vodka Martini. "Maybe I thought you needed a decent meal to put some meat on that willowy frame of yours. Frankly, I don't know where you get the energy required that I imagine your brain needs to undertake the tasks you do. Do you bathe in the blood of children or something?"
The evening wore on with much the same idle, easy exchange, each man giving as good as he gets. Q feels his posture relax as the minutes tick by, as much to do with the company as the gin and tonics, with which Bond kept plying him.
Bond gently guided the conversation, not pushing or pulling, but dropping anecdotes here and there that he hoped would get him to his desired destination.
On a particularly amusing story about escorting M to a diplomatic function in Grosvenor Square the previous year and watching her get hit on by the Indonesian attache, Bond sat back and raised his glass of wine.
"To breaking bread," he said.
Barely pausing to think of the words before they slipped from his slightly inebriated mind, Q replied, "And toasting it for breakfast!"
Bond paused in mid-sip and watches as Q blushed noticeably for the first time. Of course, Bond couldn't resist. "Why, Quartermaster. Are you offering to cook me breakfast?" he asked with a slanted smile.
A slight look of horror at the realisation of what he had said, was immediately followed by a look of sadness and a mumbled apology as he excused himself to go to the bathroom.
Bond sat back and mused. He didn't go after him. Merely waited.
Five minutes passed before Q returned to his seat. Their plates have been cleared. There was a cloud over Q. No mistaking its darkening presence. "Can we just get the bill? I'm quite tired. Early start," he mumbled.
"Of course," said Bond. "Would you mind very much indulging me a few minutes more? I rarely come here myself and like to take in the view from the platform above. Clears the head too."
Q nodded with a small smile. "Of course, Bond. You are buying after all…"
The view was indeed spectacular. Even Q, who felt much more at home by the sea, could appreciate the scattered metropolis that was England's capital city.
"I hate this bloody city, don't you?" Bond sighed, gazing out at the sprawl.
Q couldn't help but laugh at the irony of their situation. Neither man completely happy, but trying to fill the void by throwing themselves at the mercy of Queen and Country.
"Bloody awful," agreed Q.
"I'm sorry if something I said…"
"Not to worry," said Q.
"I see her sometimes you know," said Bond. "Walking ahead of me in the street, sitting in a coffee shop, buying a paper. Bitch is haunting me."
Q was certain this wasn't a good idea, but Bond had a way of making a person want to share. Him and his "methods of extracting information." Bastard.
"Asked her to marry me as well." He looked over at Q then. "Forget extracting information. MI6 needs to work on tools for extracting emotions before sending idiots into the field, don't you agree, Quartermaster?"
"Charles and I were married."
That, Bond did not know. He stayed silent, hoping Q would find his own pace to continue. If he wanted to do so.
"I proposed. During a break on The Cliffs of Dover. Shortly after his diagnosis."
Q had been married. Q had lost the love of his life to an assassin far more ruthless than any Bond had ever faced. Brutal because of its invisibility. Because no weapon exists yet than can take it down and save the people we love…
Bond gripped the railing hard. Q notices. "Are you alright, Bond?"
Of course he's not alright. Nothing will ever be alright. But maybe… maybe…
He stepped towards Q, a determined look on his face, hoped that he wouldn't be turned away, a clear desire written there to help Q as much as he needed to help himself. They are adrift, both know it, but neither know if anchoring themselves to each other is the most prudent course of action.
He reads the same in Q too, that mutual feeling they have shared from their first encounter, manifesting in a way neither expected.
"This is a spectacularly bad idea," Q said as he moved closer to Bond. Bond didn't move a muscle. "I am your Quartermaster."
"And there's no one I trust more with my life. You always get me home."
"I'm a little bit broken," whispered Q.
"You're in good company then," said Bond.
"There are no guarantees this will work."
"None whatsoever," said Bond, "but I see no reason why we can't be a bit broken together."
"None whatsoever," Q shook his head in quiet agreement.
"And frankly Q, I can't think of anyone more capable of putting me back together. You're so good with your hands…"
Q laughed into the kiss. A kiss that was soft, easy, familiar. It shouldn't have felt like home, but it did. And it was so much more than a kiss… until… Q felt that familiar clench in his chest that he had only ever experienced with Charles.
He pulled back. "I'm sorry…" he started. But Bond held him firm. "I know," Bond whispered against his lips. "She's always with me too. So there is nothing to feel sorry for."
Q stood his ground as Bond moved his whole body forward to wrap an arm around his waist and bring him closer still, suspended between the sea of lights far below and the untouchable stars above. "I know where you go and it's perfectly fine to still love him. I'd be rather disappointed if you didn't love him for some time, if not for the rest of your life."
"Arthur..."