Summary:

MI6 looks for certain qualities in their employees. They hire the best in their field, of course, but talent is not enough. They must be the kind of person who will go to extreme lengths to get the job done. Above all, MI6 is an intelligence agency; their employees must be nosey and have no qualms about meddling with people's lives.

Everyone can see Bond and Q are going to shag, the million-dollar question is when. It's a harmless question, asked in the kind of environment where a betting pool could get somewhat out of hand. But what's a hijacked elevator or a spot of kidnapping for a good cause? The problem, really, is keeping men of Q and Bond's calibre stuck in those situations for any length of time. Particularly when many co-workers are betting on next month and have a vested interest in sabotaging the liaison.

For the most part Mallory doesn't care what his staff get up to on their lunch breaks. Keeping the double-o's occupied is a bonus. But when the entire IT department goes on strike, Mallory realises he might need to put his foot down.

"That isn't a radio, 007, that is an antenna. Where is the rest of it?"

"Amsterdam, I imagine."

"You were in Belgium."

"The radio didn't make it to Belgium. I needed a distraction."

"A distraction. That's why you threw my state-of-the-art beacon down an alleyway."

"I'll use the earpiece next time, since that's cheaper."

"You'll use a rattle, next time. If you can't take care of the grown-up toys, you'll be relegated to my niece's castoffs."

"I'm always careful with grown-up toys."

Sean turns red to the tips of his ears. "Oh my god. He said– to the Quartermaster–"

"You'll get used to it," Nilam says. Unlike Sean, she doesn't bother lowering her voice.

Sean shoots a terrified glance at their boss, but Q doesn't look at them. It's a blessing, and Sean isn't one to push his luck. He busies himself for a minute looking for his pen before he realises that he's chewing on it.

"And where is your Walther?"

"Well, that's not a gun in my pocket."

"If you say a Komodo dragon ate this one, I swear I am going to transfer your salary to the Alzheimer's Research Foundation."

"It wasn't a Komodo dragon this time."

"Bond!"

Sean is staring with single-minded focus at his keyboard. Debra isn't. Leaning around her monitor, head propped up on one hand, Debra is one innuendo away from falling out of her chair.

"Someday, Q is going to snap and give him a real tongue lashing," Debra says.

Sean almost swallows his pen.

"Told you that's a bad habit," Nilam says absently. But she is working on a taser disguised as a sleek fountain pen, so she's got a point.

007 and Q don't appear to notice the new employee hacking up a lung.

"That was the third Walther this month. Tell me, are you trying to equip every criminal organisation as well as I equip you?"

"You have to admit, it is monumentally unfair. You take such good care of me."

Sean catches his breath and catches onto the fact that they're not about to get called out for snooping. Or, if they are, his is the lesser offence. His colleagues are outright gawking.

Tentatively, he asks, "Is 007 always like this?"

"With Q? Every time," Debra says.

"Not just with Q. Bond would flirt with his own shadow. All the double-o's are like that," Nilam says. "But 007 is the worst, yes."

"It's different. Look. Listen. You can see how much they mean to each other."

"Q is furious."

"Because he's worried."

"Furious and worried, then. It's his job."

Debra looks incredulous. "You and I have a very different understanding of professional concern."

"You're reading too much into it. They're just friends."

"But the chemistry! Back me up, Sean. That there is the look of man who wants to get a leg over."

"Er," Sean reluctantly nods. He doesn't know which man she's referring to, but it doesn't change his answer. 007's hand is on Q's back and the Quartermaster doesn't appear to mind.

007 ducks his head. "Is Finance breathing down your neck again? I'll have a word with them."

"It isn't about the cost, Bond! Your life and the success of the mission is worth far more than any gadget."

Debra turns away, briefly, to give Nilam a smug look.

"My job is to give you an edge. I can't do that if you keep handing out my secrets. What good is a universal lockpick in a cufflink when you're captured if they know to take it off you?"

"Well–"

"And they'll develop countermeasures. Those earpieces you so love to lose – if they crack the code, they could develop jammers or trace your location or tap our mission calls. I have to update security every time you come back without one, Bond!"

They're nose to nose. Q is too professional to yell, but he's not above poking 007's chest for emphasis. "A gun that only fires for one person is much more dangerous in enemy hands."

"The palm scan is genius, Q. It's not as if they'll get much use out of it."

The Quartermaster's voice is serious. Sean has to strain to hear his reply.

"It takes a lot less genius to reverse engineer something than to invent it. You use enemy firearms in 83% of your missions. You fire twelve times as many bullets out of stolen guns as your own. Enemy guns were instrumental in 97% of your previous successful escape attempts. I did not spend two months developing that technology for a half-rate engineer to produce a shoddy imitation that will refuse to fire for you in a critical moment."

Silence.

Sean peaks over his screen to see 007 grab the hand jabbing his sternum. For a moment, Sean is worried he's going to break Q's fingers, but the agent is gentle. He doesn't let go.

"I understand. I promise I'll be more careful."

Nilam snorts coffee out her nose, all over the delicate innards of 004's taser pen. Debra and Sean scrambled to help clean it up. There's no damage, but it's a delicate operation. When the situation is under control, they look up and 007 is gone.

Q is staring at the door, rubbing red marks on his nose where his glasses sit. He's lost the tension he's been carrying since 007's mission went off the rails. He looks tired but pleased.

Sean flicks his eyes between his colleagues and his boss. They're looking at Q like he's turned water into wine.

Q sighs, flexes his shoulders, and turns. He pauses when he meets their eyes, a little disarmed. "Did you need something?"

"No, sir," they chorus.

"Alright then," Q accepts easily. "I'll be in my office."

Nilam and Debra's faces track him like sunflowers. Then he's gone, and it's quiet. Even their exceptional brains take a few moments to process the magnitude of what they've seen.

"Christ on a bike. You're right," Nilam says faintly. "They're in love."

"I bet you fifty quid they'll be shagging by Christmas," Debra says.

"007 has never displayed that level of restraint. He won't make it till October."

And that's how it begins.