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Bond wasn’t really sure when he decided to walk toward Q Branch.
He didn’t think about it. Didn’t weigh the idea, or consider the hour, or check whether he was expected elsewhere. He just passed the secure elevators, turned left at the intersection by Internal Security, and let his feet carry him like they always did — down the corridor lined with reinforced glass and coded doors, toward the soft hum of circuitry and sarcasm.
The op had been long. Not difficult, but long. Rain-soaked, frost-bitten, full of half-sincere negotiations in bone-dull hotel lobbies and back-alley asset swaps with people who didn't believe in deodorant. He was tired. Not injured, for once. Just worn at the edges.
And apparently, in that state, this was where he went.
The door to Q Branch hissed open.
Bond stepped inside, expecting — something. Q bent over a console. A clipped insult. Tea gone lukewarm.
But Q Branch was quiet.
Dimly lit. A few monitors still glowing in standby. One junior analyst at a terminal in the far corner, half-asleep with a half-eaten protein bar beside her keyboard. Q’s desk was empty, his chair pushed back at a lazy angle. His mug — the proper one — rested upside down on a drying cloth near the sink.
Bond stood for a moment, taking it in.
“You just missed him,” said the analyst without turning around. “He’s in a briefing with M and Logistics. Been gone about thirty minutes.”
Bond nodded once. “I’ll come back.”
He didn’t move.
The analyst glanced over her shoulder. “Want me to let him know you stopped by, or…?”
She paused, then smiled — not unkindly.
“…or are you staying like usual?”
Bond didn’t answer.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Just because he hadn’t realized there was a usual.
Bond didn’t sit immediately.
He wandered instead — slowly, without purpose, as if he were just stretching his legs. His hand brushed the edge of a cluttered workbench. He glanced at a prototype drone left mid-disassembly. A coil of fibre wire. A half-unfolded schematic labeled in Q’s exacting print.
None of it needed his attention. But he moved through the space like he belonged there — not as an agent demanding tech, but as someone waiting to be let in.
The junior analyst had gone back to her screen. No one else looked up.
At some point, Bond circled back to Q’s desk and took the seat.
The one he always ended up in.
There was a cup of tea waiting.
Assam, if the scent was any indication. Still warm.
Tucked beneath the cup, almost hidden, was a note — a single line on folded paper.
If you show up again, it’s yours. – Q
Bond didn’t smile.
But he sat. Took the cup.
His usual now. Or Q’s, really. Bond hadn’t bothered to change it.
It was easier — and comforting, in its way — to drink what was already understood.
He drank, and let the silence settle.
After a minute, he stood again. Crossed to the supply cupboard near the diagnostics rack — not the obvious one. The drawer second from the bottom stuck slightly when pulled.
Inside: cables, a spare tablet stylus, and — at the back — a half-full tin of shortbread.
Bond took one. Closed the drawer like he hadn’t.
Sat back down.
The tea and biscuit weren’t ceremonial.
Just expected.
He hadn’t asked. But then, Q hadn’t said no either.
He should have been in the gym. Or halfway home by now. But there was something about this room — the hum of machines, the faint buzz of power, the cooling plastic of idle terminals — that made him feel... still.
Not calm, exactly. But present.
He looked around and noticed, not for the first time, the small details:
- Q’s spare glasses on the desk, folded neatly beside a cloth — the same way they always were.
- The data tablet, plugged in but idle, screen tilted just-so, like Q had stepped out mid-task.
- The second chair — his chair now, apparently — already pulled slightly away from the desk.
The tea had been waiting.
So had everything else.
He hadn’t asked for a place here.
But someone had made room anyway.
And for no reason at all, Bond thought:
I think this is the fifth time.
He didn’t count things like that. Not usually. But it felt true.
Five times. Five visits. Five moments when he had nowhere better to be.
The door opened behind him with a soft hiss.
Bond didn’t turn right away. Just sipped his tea.
Q’s voice came, dry as ever. “Well. If I’d known I had standing appointments, I’d have put you on the roster.”
Bond didn’t smirk. Not yet.
“I think this is the fifth time,” he said instead.
Q paused mid-step. “Fifth what?”
Bond looked over at him.
“Visit. Sitting here. Waiting.”
Q said nothing. But he didn’t look away either.
Bond held his gaze for a second longer than was strictly necessary.
Then, softly: “That makes it a pattern.”
Q didn’t answer right away.
He moved past Bond and set a file down on the far side of the desk, fingers a little slower than usual. Bond could tell he’d come from a long meeting — the faint crease on his shirt sleeve, the slight delay between motion and thought. The sharpness hadn’t dulled, but it was less pointed now. Blunted by hours of managing other people’s chaos.
Still, when he finally looked back at Bond, something flickered behind the usual expression. Not annoyance. Not even curiosity.
Something more like understanding.
“So you got the note,” Q said, nodding once toward the now-empty cup.
Bond inclined his head. “Still warm.”
“Then I timed it right.”
Bond said nothing, but the look he gave Q was not unreadable.
Q sat, angled his chair just slightly toward Bond’s without looking like he meant to. The distance between them had narrowed over time — not by design, but by repetition.
He glanced briefly toward the diagnostics cupboard. Then at Bond’s empty saucer.
“You found the tin,” he said.
Bond didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Bond didn’t need a task, but Q gave him one anyway — reviewing an equipment roster for the next field team, checking a few redundancy calculations. Bond obliged, without sarcasm.
The silence wasn’t awkward. Just companionable.
When Bond stood to leave, Q didn’t say anything.
But as Bond passed the kettle, he paused. Filled it. Switched it on. Reached for Q’s mug without comment and poured the last of the hot water over the waiting teabag. Set it back on the desk — right where Q’s hand would reach.
Then turned for the door.
He was nearly through it when Q spoke, voice even.
“If you come back again…”
Bond looked over his shoulder.
Q didn’t meet his eyes. Just lifted the mug slightly in thanks.
“…I won’t count.”
Bond didn’t smile.
But the door hissed shut behind him like punctuation.