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English
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Part 32 of Bright Star 'verse
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Published:
2022-02-12
Completed:
2022-02-26
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1,983
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2/2
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235
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Exploding Pen

Summary:

“Were you expecting an exploding pen? We don’t really go in for that sort of thing anymore.” Q and the exploding pen, in 2016 (Chapter 1) and 1993 (Chapter 2). Bright Star ‘verse.

Chapter 1

Notes:

February 11th is National Inventors’ Day in the US. Apparently the UK doesn’t have a set day for it yet, but that’s okay. Q can borrow ours; we are, after all, borrowing him.

Bright Star ‘verse notes: New Q is the son of the 007 from the 1980s, Damien Drake (I renamed Timothy Dalton’s James Bond). Pierce Brosnan’s 007 is named Sam Carmichael. He’s the one who was given an exploding pen by the old Q, the one played by Desmond Llewelyn, who is new Q’s godfather. New Q (Danny Drake in this ‘verse) was a child prodigy who liked to invent things even as a toddler.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

2016

“Ah, and 007,” Q said after he had finished handing over Bond’s equipment for his next mission, stopping him in his tracks, “One more thing.”

Looking rather smug, he pulled a plain black box out of one of his drawers. It was oblong, and small enough to hold…

“Is that a pen?”

Q’s amusement was not at all well-hidden as he observed Bond’s enthusiasm for the long-coveted exploding pen. He (Q, that is) looked like a doting cat parent watching a beloved feline (Bond) discovering a new toy.

“Three clicks to arm, three to disarm. Class four grenade. Four-second fuse.”

Bond eagerly slid the box over and opened it with reverence and barely-contained (for him) glee. “Didn’t you say that Q-Branch doesn’t go in for these anymore?”

The pen was a rather nice one, albeit a little plain. A matte silver body accented by a polished clicker, pocket clip, and tip. It was metal, so the weight of it (and the explosives it contained) was expected. 

“Oh, that one’s vintage, actually,” Q said offhandedly, feigning a small amount of condescension (because that’s what he did, the little shit), “My father was reorganizing the furniture in his sitting room and found it. It’s still in working order, don’t worry.”

Bond raised his brow. “Your father. Why would he have one? Wasn’t the exploding pen invented during the Carmichael era, after your father’s time?” 

Sam Carmichael had been 007 during the 1990s and early 2000s, until Bond had taken up the mantle in 2003. 

Bond had learned only some months ago that Q’s father had been 007 in the 1980s, the legendary Damien Drake. Really, it explained quite a lot about Q, in retrospect. 

(The way he held zero fear of the highly-trained assassins he regularly scolded for losing and mangling his equipment, for example. He was probably babysat by double-ohs as a child, in addition to being raised by one. That much exposure to world-class killers from a young age had to warp a person’s sense of danger.)

Q shrugged. “He had one because I invented it. That’s the only one that didn’t get detonated, for some reason. My godfather liked the idea so much that he purchased the design plans from me. My first sale, actually. The idea and mechanism for the remote-operated car were mine, too. Bit childish, but then again, I was a child.” 

A nostalgic expression flitted across his face for a moment before he snapped back to his usual clinical air as he returned to his work.

Bond, despite his training, had to keep himself from staring. “You were, what, five years old?”

Q shrugged, still tapping away as he spoke. “I was three when I made my first exploding pen. Anyway, I invented a variety of things that eventually made it into the field, like the x-ray sunglasses. I believe Sam really enjoyed those. I didn’t understand at the time why Q kept muttering about appropriate use.” He rolled his eyes. “The credit card lockpick was one of mine, too. The original one for manual locks, I mean. I later developed one for electronic locks. One must keep up with the times.”

“Christ.”

“You needn’t look so scandalized,” Q said defensively, and apparently taking the wrong meaning. “I had the designs and they did generate a nice bit of pocket money. MI6 had first dibs, of course, then MI5 and the military. If they didn’t want them, I applied for patents. I’ve got a couple thousand of those, here and there.”

Bond digested that information with a slow blink, then shook it off. “That’s not what I meant.”

Q had to think for a moment before he realized how Bond had interpreted his words. “Oh, the explosives. Yes, my father had a time of it when I was growing up. He used to joke that I’d blow up the house one day, but I never did. The house was blast-proof, anyway.”

Bond recalled Drake Sr.’s resignation (and pride) when talking about his son’s youthful exploits. “I seem to recall mention of a toaster bomb and an exploding colander?”

Q snorted, apparently having heard this many times before. “The toaster bomb was successful. Both of the toaster bombs I made, actually, though my father disarmed them before they could really go off. The colander...not so much of a success, since it wasn’t my intention to make it explode.”

“Right.” Bond said, still regaining his mental equilibrium over the fact that Q as a small child was probably about as destructive as he himself was in his forties. 

“Anyway, thank you for this,” he said, putting the pen in his pocket gingerly. “Are you certain…?” 

Q glanced up, looking a little indignant. “It’s safe. I personally looked it over. I wouldn’t give you anything that hasn’t been examined and declared safe in the lab.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Bond really was beginning to find Q’s interpretation of his words quite amusing. Apparently, explosives were literally child’s play to him. 

Again, it took Q a moment to understand. “Oh. No, I’m not sentimental about it. I’d rather it be put to good use than gather dust behind the bookshelf.”

“It was behind a bookshelf?” Because of course it was.

Q smiled sheepishly. “I had a raven growing up. That is, it was wild, but I used to feed it and it would come in through the window for pets and treats if it felt like it. It liked to take things and hide them. Every once in a while, my father will find another one of its hiding places and call me up for the sole purpose of complaining about it, even though it’s been dead for years.”

“A raven?” Interesting choice for a pet.

“Its name was Quoth. Quoth the raven. It’s not that weird...Is it?” Q asked, looking self-conscious, which was an odd look on him, as he was rarely out of his element here in Q-Branch. 

Bond felt a sudden urge to reassure his friend -- and they were friends, no denying it. “I caught a squirrel once when I was a boy and kept it in my room without telling anyone. My parents made me get rid of it when they found out. It made a frightful mess of things.”

“Mm,” Q agreed, quirking his lips into a smile that might have been a tad more knowing than one would normally have. “They do that. Did you have other pets growing up?”

“Dogs.”

“Hunting?”

Bond nodded. “You?”

Q brightened and he beamed. “Dogs, cats, ducks, the raven. I had some aunts and uncles who would bring home exotic animals like a python and a tiger cub. And then there were the baby alligators--” Here, Bond’s eyebrows shot up. “--But my father made me give them all up. And I used to feed the birds outside, whatever was around, really. I fancied myself a bit of a naturalist. Dad likes to joke about my strays.”

“He calls us agents your strays, doesn’t he?” 

“Is he wrong?”

Bond laughed. “I suppose not,” he admitted. 

Q grinned. “According to him, I’ve been collecting them since I was born. I suppose he would know. In this scenario, he’d be my first.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way.”

“Mm, true,” Q mused, “He quit Six for me, you know. Maybe I’m his stray instead. I had to get it from somewhere. He’s the reason I had so many deadly family members growing up, after all.”

So Bond’s assessment of Q’s family life was probably not too far off. 

“I get the feeling that while he’s the reason they showed up, you’re the reason they stayed.”

Q considered that with a thoughtful tilt of his bird's nest head. “Possibly.”

“Definitely,” Bond told him. “People like us don’t often get attached to others. And when we do…” He trailed off, letting Q fill in the blank. 

Bond breathed charm and practically bled compliments, but they were mostly empty flattering words. This, however, was the sort of compliment that was truly heartfelt, yet he could (and would) never say it out loud. 

Q’s smile softened. Message received. And this time correctly, for he immediately hid his smile behind a sniff and said, lifting his chin up, “There’s only one pen in it for you, Bond, no matter how much you tell me I’m special. I’m far too busy and important to make anything so juvenile as another exploding pen just for you. Use it wisely, because that’s the only one you’re ever going to get.”

Bond laughed. “Maybe I’ll test it out on Vauxhall Bridge,” he threw over his shoulder as he left.

“Don’t you dare!”

. . . . .

Notes:

Quoth the Raven is totally an Edgar Allan Poe reference (see my username). Also may be a Discworld (Terry Pratchett) reference.

I have this mental image of baby ducks following toddler Q around with baby alligators mixed amongst them because they all imprinted on him.

Chapter 2

Summary:

Boothroyd!Q, Danny Drake (who grows up to be Q), and his ex-007 dad.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

1993

Major Geoffrey Boothroyd (aka Q) stood with his trusty apprentice at his side over the papers laid out across the Drake kitchen table and tapped his chin. 

“Well, Danny,” he said thoughtfully, “It’s not easy or cheap getting a hold of this stuff refined enough to justify the expense. Maybe we can tweak the numbers a little to see if we can calculate for various levels of impurities. Would be cheaper. M’s always going on about the budget,” he muttered, and reached for a pen on the end of the table.

Danny Drake, three years old and already a genius (forget the word ‘budding’ -- he had outgrown that ages ago), started to rattle off the calculations, but was cut off by his father’s shout.

“Q! Stop!” 

The old man’s thumb froze over the pen’s clicker, which he was about to fiddle with (the clicking of a pen was such a satisfying movement). He was familiar with that commanding tone of voice. It was the voice of 007 the agent, rather than that of Damien Drake the doting father. It had served Q well over his many years at MI6 to pay heed when an agent -- or in this case, ex-agent -- used that voice.

“Danny,” Damien said tightly, bristling with tension, “isn’t that one of your exploding pens?”

Three pairs of eyes bore into the innocuous-looking perfectly-everyday cheap plastic biro.

“Oh yeah!” Danny exclaimed, oblivious to his father’s ‘pay attention or you will die’ voice. He grabbed it out of Q’s hand and began chattering at him about how he had inserted the ‘improvements’ into the pen, unscrewing the end to show him the insides.

Meanwhile, the old man watched with some amusement as the boy’s father exasperatedly scrubbed his hands across his face, obviously silently cursing up a storm.

“Danny,” Damien said presently, resignation coloring his voice, “what did I tell you about leaving explosives lying around?” ‘For the thousandth time this month,’ went unsaid.

Danny paused in spewing his torrent of numbers and chemical formulas. “Sorry, Daddy, I forgot.” His green eyes blinked innocently up at his father. 

Damien dropped into his chair with a sigh. “You’ll blow up the house one of these days,” he observed tiredly. It was a statement of certainty, not a mere prediction.

The little boy rolled his eyes. “No, I won’t. The house is blast proof.” ‘Silly Daddy,’ said his tone and expression.

Ah, yes, when their cozy home had been rebuilt after the event known to Damien Drake as ‘The Time Stuart Bloody Thomas and Sam Bloody Carmichael Brought Hostiles to My Front Door and My Disaster Spawn Made Yet Another Toaster Bomb,’ Damien had asked Q to make it as fire- and explosion-proof as possible. 

Damien fixed his incorrigible son with a patented Drake Look. “The people inside it are not. Do not forget.”

Danny shrugged and returned his attention to his blueprints. “Okay, Daddy.”

This time, Q laughed out loud when Damien Drake, formerly the bane of Q-Branch’s equipment inventory, let loose a frustrated groan into his hands and clutched at his slowly-thinning hair. 

“You deserve this, Damien Drake,” Q chuckled. “You know you do.”

Damien groaned again...but didn’t deny it.

. . . . .

Notes:

Headcanon that Damien Drake was Q’s favorite 007 because they’re both Welsh (at least by birth in Damien’s case). I based this on Desmond Llewelyn and Timothy Dalton. Also, Q never risked his life for any of the other 007s like he did for Dalton’s 007 in License to Kill that I can remember.

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