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It's a nice night.
The only reason he knows so is because of Moneypenny, who had persisted day after day with the idea that he put some activity into his routine. He supposed it was the most polite way to tell him that he's a scrawny little shit who better not get kidnapped again and make the lot of them worried.
"London streets lose their friendliness after dark," he told her, counting exact fare for the cab as he headed towards the exit. He maintained that Hong Kong dollars were much better designed; he'll never understand England's obsession with old hags.
"You're safer out there than you are in here, anyhow."
She had a point. Still, Q didn't like being mothered by anyone, though he begrudgingly acquiesced, just this once, to get her off his back. She smiled brightly and pinched his cheek, and strode off quickly before he could protest. Damn these agents and their reflexes; he was certain he'd hear the clack of her heels in his nightmares.
So, it's a nice night out, he has his hands in his pockets and he hopes it won't rain. Futile, maybe, but there it is. And every time someone knocks their shoulders against his he imagines all the different ways he can ruin their lives through their browsing history to console himself. It sort of works.
Two hundred fifty-four steps later and his feet are killing him. And on the three hundredth and thirteenth, he notices he's being followed. It takes only twenty-one more steps to realise who it is. Really, he's slacking. It should have been sooner.
He had planned on taking the back alley, a shortcut to his flat, and usual route involved at least eight more blocks that he, frankly, had no time and patience for at the moment. If he were a cat with nine lives he'd be down to six or five, and, to hell with it. He can afford losing one more, if only so that he might catch a rerun of QI on the telly.
Alley it is. He steadies his hand around the switchblade he keeps with him, in case it's not who he thinks and someone marginally more normal instead. Someone he might actually be able to subdue. It's a long shot, admittedly.
When he reaches the fence at the end of the stretch, he pushed at the door to find out - with some slight resignation, maybe - that someone had already locked it. Pressing against it with his side and hoisting his weight on it barely even rattled the thing. He lets go of the switchblade, and out comes a little huff of irritation.
"Stop following me, double-oh six."
A beat, and there goes Alec Trevelyan's blasted laughter, emerging from the shadows before he does. This is why Q does not walk home. Ever.
"So, so cold, Benjamin. Haven't they replaced me yet? No one would mind if we were... a bit more personal." Alec's voice was coming closer; Q sighs and turns around. Might as well get this over with.
"Would you prefer 'traitor'?"
Alec was quick, Q will give him that. Somehow he'd crossed several yards to stand right in front of him before he could even get the whole sentence out. He looks haggard, smug as always. His choice to go rogue isn't being kind to his complexion.
Good, Q thinks.
"Try again," Alec says, in that sultry way he probably hopes would cause bone-deep shivers but actually just makes Q roll his eyes. "You know my name."
"Cocksucker," Q says without pausing. Alec's smirk takes on a predatory edge, raising a hand to pull at the zip of his parka, teasingly slow.
"Well, if you insist..."
Q bats the hand away, checking his watch. It was a relic from the previous Q branch and is of absolutely no use on the field, but he had taken to wearing a reminder of his predecessor's failures.
Gives him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.
And if by any chance Alec had forgotten that it also doubled as a canister for teargas, that was all well and good too.
"If we're done here, I..."
"Have a cactus to water?" Alec supplies, toying with Q's sleeve. Q's lips thin. He doesn't like interruptions. "Am late for a date with Facebook's servers?"
Alec flashes a grin at Q's narrowed eyes, and taps his nose for good measure. Q scowls.
"Your eyes look mousy when you do that," Alec says, and the genuine fondness in his voice is increasingly more hair-raising than his disturbing acquaintance with Q's daily habits. Q slaps at him again, catching him on the cheek; he doesn't even flinch. If anything, the smirk grows wider, fueled by any response no matter how disparaging. He's like a goddamn dog.
Q will need to borrow a punching bag from Bond. He'll do it first thing tomorrow.
"If we're done here," he repeats, like he's talking to a child - one that's capable of snapping his neck, but there's the bigger danger of Alec's erection hitting him in the face. No pun intended. "I have a nuclear strike to issue on your head. Just a small one. Excuse me."
He turns and produces the miniature lock pick he carries with him now ever since the attack, crouching in front of the fence. He misses out on Alec pouting at him, but he can hear it anyway.
"It's all in the past, moia lubov. Forgive and forget, let bygones be bygones..."
"Members of my team are dead." He staunchly does not think of John and Sam. Doesn't even let the pictures enter his head. "And you're next, as soon as I'm able."
"Pity." For a moment Alec sounded remorseful, but it passed swiftly. "Well. We'll make it work."
Suddenly he's lifted off the ground and pinned to the fence, kissed within an inch of his life. Alec made him drop the lock pick too, and now it will be impossible to retrieve in the pitch dark. Just brilliant, really.
Also, 'Cocksucker' is in dire need of a shave.
He lets Alec go at it for several seconds, at least until the grip on his wrists loosen, then he bites the bastard as hard as he can. Alec jerks back, but he's grinning, filthy and peculiar with blood glistening on his torn lip.
"Is that what James and our new Mummy do when they think nobody's looking?"
Q grimaces, and then Alec mirrors his revulsion, as if realising that he had ruined the mood.
"Ah," he says. Alec has the uncanny ability to look even more frighteningly boyish than Q on his best days. "I'll try this again tomorrow."
Q holds his hand out wordlessly. Alec hands him the key, almost sheepish. He unlocks the door - while valiantly resisting the urge to carve out Alec's eyeball with the key - and steps out, slamming it behind him. It feels good to have a barrier between them again, and he does up his zipper too for good measure.
"You like the roses," Alec calls out, disgustingly self-assured, but making no move to follow him. Small victories and all that.
"They go straight to the bin," he says as he starts walking again.
"Not the red ones." That much was true, but he doesn't look back. His glasses had fogged up. "You like the red ones!"
Well. Everyone has their weaknesses.