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Technically Q's name and personal details are classified and beyond the purview of field agents, but he's worked for Q branch for ten years and had gone by his actual name for eight of them. His identity is as much of a "secret" as his ineptitude at filing financial reports.
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Bookmark Notes:
“Anyway, enough about my sous chef,” Margarethe says. “How did you two meet? Are you at the LSE, too, James? No offense, but you don’t look like you’re in IT.”
Bond says, “I’m not offended,” and Q says, “Well, I think I am,” although he doesn’t really mean it; his sisters are always making fun of him for his work and he’s inured to it by now.
“I’m not at the LSE, no,” Bond says mildly. He flicks a look at Q, face turned away from Margarethe for a moment, and his eyes glint with mischief. “We were introduced by friends.”
Margarethe makes a little moue of disappointment that their grand love story is so boring. “Oh,” she says. “Well, that happens, I suppose.” She stops in front of an extremely posh-looking restaurant and Bond opens the door for her immediately. She gives him a bright smile and then calls, “Mum! Dad!” as she disappears inside.
“Quartermaster,” Bond says as Q makes to follow her.
“Yes?” Q says, pausing.
“I think,” Bond says, “that I would prefer to hear your name from you. Before I hear it tonight.”
Baffled, Q says, “But you know it already, don’t you?”
“Perhaps,” Bond allows. “All the same?” He looks so criminally attractive in his black sort-of tuxedo that the mind fairly boggles that Q is going to take him home after supper and unwrap him from his expensive bespoke trappings; he has always seemed to Q to be more of a mirage than a person. Q has only just begun to realize that Bond has struggled recently with feeling the same way--trapped, somehow, inside of the two-dimensional picture of himself.
Q says, slowly, “Bond, are you a romantic?” He can’t believe it’s never occurred to him before. He had assumed that Bond’s assiduous attendance of the opera was a facet of being wealthy and posh; he hadn’t thought that perhaps the opera itself was a draw, speaking to some internal aspect of Bond’s character. “Oh my god, you are ,” Q says, the longer that Bond says nothing. “I can’t believe I missed that. Were you wooing me?”
“I was indulging my curiosity,” Bond says, but then he smiles a little wryly.
Q knows that some stupid expression has come over his face; he can feel it, even if he can’t tell what it looks like. “Bond,” he says, and then Bond urges, in that velvet murmur, “All I want is for you to give me your name.”
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Bookmark Notes:
Ah fuck, this is so good. So
Soft. The characterizations are lovely