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The bar is a nice one; a fine assortment of liquors, classy interior design and good music seeping at just the right volume from the speakers strategically placed in several spots around the room. Bond is sitting at the bar, calmly downing his first scotch of the night, keen on relaxing after the last mission and, if he he’s lucky, letting off some steam with a willing partner. His eyes roam the gathering of people scattered around the place, lingering on one or another woman, but without much interest yet.
Time passes lazily as he places another order and shifts on his stool, turning his gaze in the other direction to observe people sat in the booths lining the wall. A petite waitress smiles at him on her way to the counter; he follows her with his eyes until she disappears behind staff door in the corner.
It is then that he notices the woman sitting there in solitude, a thin cigarette held in slender fingers, smoke swirling its slow dance around her head. Her lips part and she exhales, stirring the cloud around her, and her eyes outlined with dark makeup meet Bond’s. There is something odd to her beauty, and James catches on it, something about her nagging at him. She catches the way he stares, and smirks. The agent nearly startles when she gets up, breaking him out of his reverie, and walks over to him. Her figure isn’t exactly to Bond’s tastes, with rather bony structure in place of curves, but she still looks good in a classic little black dress. Her pace is slow and measured, not entirely graceless, but marginally wobbly, and that is what gives her away even before she speaks.
‘Care to buy me a drink?’ she purrs, and yes, the voice is changed, but Bond has been hearing it in his ear long and often enough to bitch about its incessant presence (even if he doesn’t mean it), and he would recognize that accent anywhere.
‘With pleasure,’ he eyes the other appreciatively, taking in the lush, dark wavy hair falling over one shoulder, the eyeliner, the dark red lipstick and nail polish; with an undercurrent of amusement he notes that the skin was smoothed with makeup to cover the occasional spot he knew he would otherwise find there. ‘Cute.’
The responding smirk is outright devilish and Bond finds himself returning it. ‘You look quite dashing tonight. Where did you get that outfit, anyways?’
‘Oh, you know,’ answers Q, sitting on a bar stool cross-legged, and James notices the pale skin beneath his tights is shaved. ‘it is the Q-Branch that is responsible for undercover equipment. I merely took advantage of what is at my disposal.’
‘Curious,’ mutters Bond, more or less willingly picturing what else is the Q-branch capable of procuring, and throws back his scotch. ‘Shall I take you home?’
‘You promised me a drink,’ protests the other indignantly, but he clearly doesn’t mean it if the slightly widened smile and a rather mischievous glint in the eye are anything to go by.
‘My personal stash is more satisfying than the offer here,’ counters Bond and stands up to extend his hand in invitation. ‘Please.’
Q accepts the offered support, clearly not certain of his footing in the killer heels he has on. ‘Such a gentleman. A lady should call herself lucky to meet a man of your manners, indeed,’ he teases as they approach the exit. Bond suppresses a smirk.
‘Ladies first.’ He lets go of his companion and opens the door to the winding staircase leading up to the ground level, enjoying the half-hearted huff of irritation Q lets out at the sight. Still, he – a bit shakily - walks up a few steps and turns, doing an Audrey Hepburn, bracing one elbow on the wall and playing with his wig, and Bond’s mind short-circuits at the sight.
‘Take those shoes off, I’m not waiting for you to stagger up and to my place.’
‘Why, I was beginning to think you enjoyed them.’
‘Don’t make me carry you over my shoulder.’
‘So much for the gentleman,’ sighs Q theatrically and turns again to place his foot one step up to take it off, giving Bond a rather glorious eyeful.
‘You do look sumptuous in that dress, cute,’ he says, walking up to him, and leans to whisper into Q’s ear. ‘It will be my genuine pleasure to take it off you tonight.’
The Quartermaster visibly shivers.