Work Text:
Bond hated paperwork.
He hated enforced idleness even more.
The steel doors of MI6 HQ whispered shut behind him, swallowing the distant hum of London. He adjusted his coat over one shoulder, ignoring the dull, familiar ache in his side. A hairline fracture, they’d said. Clean, manageable — but enough to warrant caution. Enough to bench him.
"Three days, 007," M had said crisply across her desk that morning. "Rest. Reports. No fieldwork."
Then, with that pointed look of hers:
“Don’t make me regret letting Medical clear you.”
So here he was. Cleared, but clipped. Trapped in London with nowhere to go, nothing to shoot, and a steadily rising resentment for ergonomic office chairs.
He filled out his debrief. Read the mission report. Stared at the body cam footage until the rooftops blurred into meaningless geometry. By mid-afternoon, he was prowling HQ like a wolf in a bespoke suit.
Which is how he ended up in Q Branch.
The lab was quieter than usual — a hum of low voices, the soft clatter of keyboards, the occasional bzzt of a drone calibrator. The fluorescent lights washed the room in a sterile haze. Bond stepped through the threshold like it was familiar ground.
"Can I help you?" came a dry voice from behind a monitor stack.
Q didn’t look up.
Bond smirked. “Just thought I’d pop in. See what shiny death traps you’ve been cooking up.”
Q emerged from a nest of circuitry and wires, brow lifted like a weapon. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed a working knowledge of quantum mesh arrays, I sincerely doubt you’ll be helpful.”
Bond wandered further in, hands in pockets. “They’ve grounded me. Thought I’d come keep you company.” He didn’t have an office — not the kind analysts did. 00s were meant to be mobile, briefed and deployed, not benched. Which meant nowhere in HQ felt particularly his — except, maybe, here.
“That’s not a favour. That’s a threat.”
His gaze flicked to a disassembled drone on a nearby bench. “Is that the one from Cairo?”
“No, that’s the one meant for Cairo,” Q said flatly. “The one you ‘liberated’ ended up in four pieces. One of which, somehow, turned up in a chicken coop in Giza.”
Bond made a neutral sound and leaned against the workbench — immediately regretting it. A sharp pull lit up his side, and he winced.
Q noticed. Folded his arms. “That the rib?”
“Hairline,” Bond said through a thin breath. “Barely counts.”
“You’re leaking blood on my floor.”
“Character-building.”
Q sighed, exasperated but not surprised. “There’s a perfectly functional sofa in the break room.”
“Uncomfortable.”
“Much like your presence.”
Bond gave him a sidelong look. “Touching.”
Q returned it without blinking. “Try not to touch anything.”
Bond smiled, just a little. “No promises.”
Q didn’t respond to the smirk — just turned back to his monitors like Bond was an irritating echo in the room.
Bond stayed.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe twenty. He wandered, touched a few things just to see if Q would flinch. He didn’t — not visibly — though once he muttered “This is why we can't have nice things.” Another ten minutes. The silence settled, low and constant, broken only by the hum of machines and the clack of Q’s rapid typing.
Eventually, Q sighed.
Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just the kind of sigh that meant his patience was down to the last molecule.
“You do realise this is an active workspace,” he said, not looking up.
“Didn’t see a sign,” Bond replied, lounging now near the far bench, studying a collection of half-dissected surveillance glasses.
Q typed another line of code. The terminal chirped in protest.
“You’re in the way.”
“Technically, I’m not in your line of sight. That’s generous, considering your people skills.”
Q’s fingers froze on the keyboard. “Fine,” he said, turning. “If you’re going to loiter, make yourself marginally useful.”
He pulled a faded manila folder from a stack, tossed it onto the workbench near Bond. “Legacy decrypt. Analog file. No viable automation — at least not without corrupting the metadata. Needs human input.”
Bond flipped it open. Handwritten notes in slanted Cyrillic, half-faded, with redacted MI6 translation notes beneath. “KGB,” he murmured. “Kursk station intercepts.”
Q’s brows lifted a hair. “You recognize it?”
“I recognize the dialect,” Bond said, already pulling the file toward him. “Field briefings used to drill us on this stuff. Back when we still bothered with paper.”
He sat down. Not across from Q — that would’ve made it formal. He took the side bench. Close, but not confrontational. He started reading.
For a while, there was only the sound of movement. Pages shifting. Keys tapping. Machines whirring softly in the background. Outside, rain began ticking gently against the high windows.
Q broke the silence first. “You’re better at this than I expected.”
“Don’t look so surprised. I did pass the entrance exams.”
“I assumed they gave you a knife and pointed you at a training dummy.”
Bond didn’t look up. “That was day two.”
A beat.
Then Q said, “...Your transliteration’s accurate. Clean structure, minimal drift.”
Bond glanced over, deadpan. “Was that a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Half an hour later, Q handed him a second folder.
Bond arched a brow. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m enjoying the silence. You’re surprisingly tolerable when focused.”
Bond smirked but didn’t argue.
By the time the main room lights dimmed — motion-sensor timers kicking in for evening hours — Q realised he hadn’t kicked Bond out.
Bond hadn’t left, either.
There was still a low ache in his side, but it had receded into background noise. He rubbed at it absentmindedly as he skimmed the last page.
“You should sit somewhere with a backrest,” Q said without looking over.
Bond stretched slightly, rolling his shoulder. “You sound like Medical.”
“Because I have a functional brain.”
“Debatable.”
A flicker of a smile from Q. Almost.
Bond stood, finally, folder closed. “Finished.”
Q took it, scanned the notes, then nodded — just once. “Efficient.”
Bond paused at the door. Looked back. “Same time tomorrow?”
Q didn’t answer right away. Then:
“Only if you bring tea.”
Bond cocked his head. “Builder’s or Earl Grey?”
“Assam. Strong. Splash of milk. No sugar.”
Bond raised an eyebrow. “High-maintenance.”
Q didn’t look up. “You’d know.”
And then Bond left — with a strange lightness to his step that had nothing to do with healing ribs.
The lab was still.
It always was, after hours. The motion-sensor lights had dimmed to low, casting long shadows across the benches. Most of the techs had gone home. The air had that faint ozone tang of recently powered-down machines.
Q was alone, perched on a stool with one leg tucked under him, sipping from the last dregs of lukewarm tea. Assam, strong. Just as he liked it. Always brewed too early and finished too late.
He looked up from the terminal. The lab was quieter now than it had been all afternoon.
On the bench across from him, two things sat out of place: a half-folded translation sheet in Bond’s handwriting — angled, efficient, neat — and an empty ceramic mug. Not Q’s. One of the few spares he kept tucked behind the equipment rack for visiting analysts or stubborn interns.
He didn’t remember offering it.
He didn’t remember Bond asking.
But it had been used — rinsed, even — and placed back in its spot like it belonged.
Q reached over, ran his fingers along the smooth rim. Thought, for a moment, about putting it away.
Didn’t.
Instead, he reopened the file, found a clean corner in the margin of Bond’s page, and scribbled something there. A correction. Or a note. Possibly both.
Then he closed the folder, dimmed the lights, and slipped the pen back into its drawer.
The mug stayed.