Chapter Text
While Bond waited to hear back from Alec, his life continued on as it had been: drinking too much, sleeping too little, and spending too much time staring at his laptop in an effort to write a few hundred words about the British Figure Skating Championships.
But while he worked (or pretended to) and when he closed his eyes to sleep (or tried to), he imagined a twenty-one year old Q with a look in his eye that bordered on haunted. Worse yet, when he tried to drown out the image with alcohol or when he went out with Ronson and Camille and her girlfriend and half the office to the bar to celebrate their new assignments, Bond still had that image of Q in the back of his mind the entire time, no matter how much he had to drink in order to forget.
So it was a relief when, after two days of waiting, Bond received a text from Alec with an address and a time. It was followed immediately by another message which read:
and don’t be late
Which is how Bond found himself at the Streatham Ice and Leisure Centre the next day, forty-five minutes before his intended meeting time.
A person behind the desk allowed him entry with a visitor pass when they saw his press badge, then gave him directions when he told them who he was meeting. Despite following these instructions, Bond became lost when he encountered a corridor closed for maintenance. There were no clear detour instructions and no one to ask except for a group of seven year olds that passed him on their way to a skating lesson.
Not wanting to look like an idiot, Bond began aimlessly walking about. He didn’t venture anywhere near the rink or seating areas, but poked his head into random doors that he came across. He found the pool, two exercise rooms, a gym, and a few admin offices, but no door with Madeleine Swann’s name on it.
He was just about to give it up as a bad job and go back to the front desk, when he turned and ran directly into someone.
Someone who just happened to be Quentin Sterling.
He wore casual gym clothing: trainers, a black track jacket, and a pair of skintight yoga pants that did things to his legs that definitely gave Bond some inappropriate thoughts. It was also the first time that Bond had seen him in glasses. Their previous interactions and the videos on the internet never had Q wearing them, but the dark frames did little to detract from Q's attractiveness, actually accentuating his cheekbones and framing his face to look much more mature than he did while on the ice.
"We've got to stop meeting like this," Bond said.
It took Q a moment to place him--his eyes going from Bond’s face to his press badge and then back again--but when he did, Q’s entire demeanour changed from apologetic to defensive. But the words that came out of Q’s mouth were not what Bond expected:
“Are you following me?”
“Why...would I be following you?” Bond asked.
“You’re the press, isn’t that what you lot do?”
Q crossed his arms over his chest, looking somewhere between wanting to fight and wanting to flee, but unsure of which would be the better option. Bond held up his hands in a non-threatening gesture.
“I’m not following you,” Bond said, and when Q did not look convinced, he added, “Alec called me over. I’m supposed to meet with Madeleine Swann at 3.”
Some of the tension left Q’s body, less flight and more fight, as he asked:
“So what are you doing skulking around up here.”
“I’m not skulking.”
Q’s eyebrow went up, and even hostile and unamused, his eyes were alight with fire, and Bond found him absolutely lovely.
“Press isn’t allowed to be up here. This is a private floor.”
“I got lost.”
“A likely story. Should I show you the exit?”
“Want me gone already?” Bond asked, trying for charming.
Q deadpanned.
“Yes.”
Bond winced at Q's cool tone.
“Hostile.”
“For good reason,” Q reminded him.
Bond knew he was right, so he tried a different route.
“Maybe I came to apologise?”
Q did something with his mouth that made his lips look kissable instead of intimidating.
“No, you came for an article. I’m not an idiot.”
Bond thought about retorting, but Q held up a hand before the words could come.
“I really don’t care about anything you have to say,” Q told him, “but I’ll bring you to Madeleine, because maybe she will.”
With that, he turned and began to walk away. It was then that Bond noticed he wore a brace on his right knee, something that gave him a bit of an awkward limp with each step.
“I don’t have all day,” Q said, over his shoulder, and it prompted Bond to follow him obediently.
In trying not to stare at Q's very nice arse, Bond focused his eyes elsewhere.
“What happened to your leg?” Bond asked.
“That’s none of your business.”
“You didn’t get hurt at the exhibition. I saw your programme. You skated beautifully.”
The back of Q’s neck went red at the compliment, as did the tips of his ears, and Bond thought it had to be one of the most endearing things he’d ever seen. Especially because Q was trying so desperately hard not to like him.
“You’re cute,” Bond said, and the sliver of skin between Q’s nape and collar went redder. “I like you.”
“Well, I don’t like you!”
“Would you give me a second chance if I apologised?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Bond asked.
They made it to the bottom floor, and Q took off to the right, hobbling along on his bad knee with Bond trailing behind him.
“Because you just want your story. You’ll say anything, won’t you? That’s what journalists do.”
“You’re right,” Bond replied, “but I actually did want to apologise.”
Q stopped and turned round to face Bond, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Look, I was an arse,” Bond began, and Q interrupted him.
“How much of an arse?”
Cheeky shit Bond thought, biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.
“A complete arse.”
Q nodded, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth at the admission.
“Go on.”
“I was a complete arse,” Bond began again, “all because I got frustrated that I got shafted with this job at the last minute and lost all the work I’d done over the past ten years to some intern with a Master’s degree--”
“Somehow this is becoming less of an apology and more of an excuse…”
“What I mean to say is, despite what was going on with myself that day, I had no right to say what I did, and I am sorry for that. If anything, I realised my mistake after I saw you perform.”
The flush came back to Q, starting at the hollow of his throat and moving upward to his cheeks.
“You’re just saying all of this--”
“I’m not. I mean it,” Bond said, and then offered a smile. “I was wrong to say figure skating was nothing but twirling about. What you did was art.”
Q hurriedly turned around and began walking again.
“Stop trying to be charming,” Q said.
“You think I’m charming?” Bond asked, and the colour of Q’s ears confirmed it.
“No, you’re obnoxious.”
“You like it, though.”
“Don’t be daft.”
“You do. You like me.”
“I’d like to never see you again.”
“Wow, James, what did you do now?”
It was Alec, leaning against a closed office door with Madeleine Swann’s name on it.
“I was trying to be charming,” Bond answered.
“Aren’t you always charming?” Alec asked.
"That's what I was saying."
Q audibly groaned as Alec and Bond shared a grin.
“Since you are both the best of friends, please take him,” Q said, and, without waiting for Alec’s reply, kept walking.
“Where’re you going Q?” Alec asked.
“Somewhere far away from you two,” Q answered, as he disappeared round the corner.
“Wow, what’d you say?” Alec asked.
“That he was cute and I liked him,” Bond said.
Alec laughed.
“No wonder.”
“What?”
“He probably thinks you’re teasing him,” Alec said.
“Well, I admit I might have just said it to see him blush,” Bond answered.
“Play nice with him. I don’t want you breaking his heart,” Alec said, and his tone was less teasing and more serious than Bond expected.
Before Bond could answer, a woman appeared at the opposite end of the hall and came walking towards them with an air of no-nonsense. She was about the same height as Q and had the same sort of delicate bone structure, but where Q had colour, she had none. Her skin, hair, and eyes were all pale white, blonde, grey, with only a bit of peach highlighting her cheek and lips. Bond would have been an idiot to not think her beautiful, but there was something about the way she held herself that told Bond she broke men's hearts on a daily basis and liked it.
She stopped in front of Bond and Alec, where she looked Bond up and down. She looked unimpressed, and perhaps even a bit disappointed. Bond wasn’t sure how, but her tiny stature actually made him feel small.
“James Bond, I assume,” she said, not asked.
“Yes,” Bond answered, and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Swann.”
She looked at his hand, but didn’t take it, instead pulling a key from her trackbottom pocket to open the door of her office.
“You’re the one who doesn’t think figure skating is a real sport,” she said, and Bond winced.
“I was mistaken,” Bond said, glancing at Alec for help. “I--”
“You’ll find, Mr. Bond, that our skaters are as well trained as any other athletes,” Madeleine continued, as she went into her office and sat down at the desk.
She didn’t invite them in, turning round to tend to an electric kettle at her desk. Bond awkwardly hovered in the doorway, but Alec just went right in and made himself at home in one of the guest chairs. He was about to put his foot up on Madeleine’s desk but she, without even turning around, said icily:
“Put your foot on my desk and I’ll cut it off.”
Alec quickly diverted his foot to the ground, giving Bond an I told you so look. Ball buster, that was certain.
“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to take a seat, Mr. Bond?” Madeleine asked.
Bond hurried to take the remaining seat, feeling all at once like he was about to be reprimanded by the headmistress. But instead, Madeleine poured them all a cup of tea and acted perfectly civil. Her hands were pale white, her fingers long and graceful. On her left ring finger, she wore a silver wedding band. Whoever the man (or woman) was in her life, they were a brave soul.
“Now, Alec tells me you’re interested in Eve Moneypenny,” she said, drawing Bond’s attention back to her.
“Yes,” Bond answered, pulling out his notepad and a pen.
“And what’s your angle?”
“Angle?” Bond repeated, looking between her and Alec. “I...don’t have an angle?”
“Of course you do. Journalists always have an angle,” Madeline replied. "If you don't, you're an idiot."
Bond did, but he wasn’t about to reveal his true intentions. Besides, Alec had been right. Even if everything didn’t go as planned to interview Q, he’d at least have one article to hand over to Mallory before they threw him into AA.
“My only angle is to tell her story,” Bond answered. “When doing my research, I noticed that she’s only given a few interviews in the past, so she’s had very little publicity.”
“Yes,” Madeleine replied, “and?”
“I’d like to change that. She’s a remarkable skater and could serve as inspiration to other young girls, especially non-white minorities in the UK,” Bond replied.
Something he said made Madeleine’s expression soften slightly.
“Are you aware that, despite all the mandates and rules put in place by the ISU, figure skating competitions have been rife with racism for years?” Madeleine asked.
“Yes, though while doing research, I saw that there’s not been a lot of coverage on the issue,” Bond answered.
“They keep it all hush-hush usually. Same with the rampant homophobia,” Madeline said, leaning back in her seat. “They want to keep it all the same: all the same colour, build, height, and sexual orientation. It’s a hostile environment for those who do meet those requirements, but even worse for those who don’t fit the mould.”
Madeleine then nodded her head, as if she’d come to a decision.
“You seem like you’re coming from a decent place, and Bill vouched for you, so I’ll allow the interview so long as Eve agrees to it,” she said.
“Thank you,” Bond answered.
“I’ve already asked her to come in today, so let’s go meet her in the studio.”
She and Alec lead Bond upstairs and into a room that looked like a ballet studio: the floors were glossy wood and the far walls were mirrored, cut in half by a balance bar. There were no students present, save for a lithe male dancer who was stretching on the far wall. He held the bar for balance as he lifted his leg far higher than Bond imagined men could, and Bond couldn’t help but stare at his figure. That was when Bond noticed that he wore a brace on his right knee.
“I believe you’ve already met Q,” Madeleine said.
Q turned his head and met Bond’s eyes in the mirror.
“Unfortunately so,” Q said, as he brought his leg down and then lifted the other to stretch it in the same way, a literal vertical split. Bond was so impressed by the motion that he couldn’t find it in himself to be offended.
“Try to be polite,” Madeleine chided.
“I am polite. To people who deserve it,” Q answered indifferently.
Madeleine didn’t reprimand him.
“Have you seen Eve?” she asked.
“She texted. She’s on her way up now.”
As Q spoke, he turned on his foot, then reached back and pulled his upright leg higher over his head. Bond tilted his head to watch the motion, fixated until Alec nudged him in the ribs. He didn’t say anything, just sort of raised an eyebrow, and it was incredible how they hadn’t seen each other in so long, but Bond still knew what the expression meant. Some things never changed.
“You dog,” Alec said under his breath, once Madeleine was out of earshot, and Bond had to smother a grin.
They were saved from Madeleine’s inquisitive stare when the door to the studio opened. A tall, curvaceous silhouette appeared, dressed in grey and magenta workout gear.
“This is Eve Moneypenny,” Madeleine said. “Eve, this is James Bond. He writes for Sport.”
A glance at Eve Moneypenny gave you only a glimpse of her true beauty. Focused and up close, Eve was absolutely stunning, her beauty only enhanced by a physique that told Bond she could crush him with her little finger if she found him offensive. When she shook Bond’s hand, she had a grip that felt like a challenge, and he wasn’t quite sure why until she said:
“You’re the guy that doesn’t like figure skating.”
“Eve, we’ve already read him the riot act,” Alec said.
“But I didn’t get the chance yet. So it was you, right? You’re the one who got Q all flustered last weekend? Saying figure skating wasn’t a real sport?”
“I didn’t get flustered--!” Q shouted from the far wall.
“Yeah you did, came in all in a strop and everything,” Eve said back to him.
“Him, stroppy? No,” Bond said, and it looked like Eve was fighting a grin at his sarcasm.
“Remind me again why I’m supposed to like you?” Q asked Bond.
“Charming?” Bond offered.
“Not even slightly,” Q countered.
Eve cleared her throat.
“So what do you want, Mr. Bond?”
She looked expectant, as did Madeleine, and Bond knew that this was his opportunity to set the record straight.
“I wanted to apologise,” Bond began, “I made an assumption about a sport I knew nothing about. It was wrong to say what I said, but, I did say it.”
Bond met Q’s eyes in the mirror and held his gaze.
“I think people make assumptions because they don’t understand, so I’d like to help them do that. Let me write about what it’s like to be a figure skater. And, if you’d let me, I’d like to start with you, Miss Moneypenny.”
Alec, he had won over completely, Bond could tell. Eve and Madeleine seemed lukewarm at best. Q, though. Q was an enigma. Bond couldn’t tell if he approved or would like to see him thrown out in traffic. Still, not the worst odds he’d ever faced.
But then, Eve surprised him:
“Okay,” she said, “you can shadow me for one week.”
“But, Mr. Bond,” Madeleine warned, “if you get in the way, you’re gone.”
Bond nodded in understanding.
“Six a.m. tomorrow,” Madeline told him, and then, with a threatening undertone:
“Don’t be late.”