Work Text:
It’s dancing, of a sort, this slow, sweet slide across the TARDIS’s grated metal platform. They’re moving together, certainly, hips pressed intimately and arms around each other. He takes a step back and she floats into a spin that leaves Bond clapping dryly; the magic shattered, she pulls away, laughing awkwardly.
“You see? I told you I could do it,” Q says, already idly tugging at things on the console, though there’s a smile on his face. ”That was fun. I haven’t danced like that since I last saw Diane de Poitier. Henri was a bit miffed at that.” Q’s offhand tone is belied by the little smile’s wicked turn—he’d enjoyed dancing with the king’s mistress in front of him. It’s a very Q thing to do, taunting someone he’s not interested in in order to get a reaction he’s looking for. She’s used to it.
She’s not used to it. Eve’s own mouth is strained as she backs down the stairs; she has roughly thirty seconds to sob or scream, and she’ll need privacy to do either. ”I’m going to go change. Can’t go out into 1920s America dressed as I am, can I?” She doesn’t listen to them as she walks away, and in the dressing room she buries her face in the lining of a thick fur coat, screaming until her throat feels as raw and achy as her eyes do. The sound is muffled; no one will know.
“And what did that poor skinned bunny rabbit ever do to you?” Bond asks behind her. When she turns, his eyes are opaque, hard to read, his stance distant. She points at him.
“You’re an arse. An absolute bastard is what you are,” she snaps.
Bond freezes, eyes coming unguarded for a flash. ”I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Eve.”
“Of course you didn’t. You just thought you’d applaud us like we’re on Strictly Come Dancing because, what? You thought you’d remind me that I’d been touching him too long?” Frustration wells in her chest, sticky and clinging. ”You can’t bear the thought of his hands on me.”
“You’re right,” Bond admits tersely. ”I can’t. And I’m an arsehole to you because the flat of his palm fits in the small of your back like it’s meant to be there.”
“Christ, we’re a pair,” Eve mutters, and already Bond’s infatuation is talking her down. She just feels tired and a little upset with herself for giving in. ”He hasn’t got a bloody clue, has he?”
“God willing,” Bond mutters. Eve gives a broken little laugh. ”I am sorry,” he says softly. ”It was unkind.”
“All’s fair in love and war,” she tells him, and he laughs, wrapping his arms around her.
“Come along, then! We’re wasting valuable—” Q freezes in the door, and at this moment, Eve would give up the world to know what he’s thinking as his eyes cycle between Bond’s arms around her waist and her palms flat on his chest.
“James was showing me a few moves,” she says, and instantly regrets it. It’s the wrong thing to say and Q shuts down, face going distantly cheerful and friendly.
“Well hurry up. Those speakeasies aren’t going to drink at themselves!” he declares, then stops, frowning. ”That sounded more clever in my head. Well, never you mind; just get dressed so we can go. I love this time!” He walks out of the room, and Eve could cry to see the tight line of his shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps the moment he’s gone. She and Bond snap apart like teenagers caught in a clinch; Bond tugs his cuffs and straightens his shoulders.
“That’s alright. Turnabout is fair play,” he says. The chill in his voice is nearly painful.
As usual, they’ve missed the time period Q was aiming for. They’re close, at least, this time: they’ve hit the 1950s with remarkable aplomb. In his neatly pressed suit from home, Bond is perfectly dressed, but Eve finds herself more than a decade out of fashion, sparkling and glittering as a visceral reminder of the things the people have lost in just a few short years of devastating war. She can feel their eyes on her, burning, and the boys form ranks around her, the soft touch of Q’s jumper soothing on her arm as Bond snarls at anyone who gets too close. The speakeasies are gone, and so are the jazz clubs, but Bond knows the time and the place and can find the hidden, out of the way places for them to celebrate their first month together. The place he takes them—one of few in the city who’ll take a colored girl on the arms of two men who stare at each other with heat in their eyes—is shady, out of the way, and secret. Eve can taste danger in the air, like chips of ice that crackle and ping against the backs of her teeth. Bond orders a Vesper and the bartender nods solemnly, once.
And Eve has always wondered what Bond did back in his own time period; she’d been a secretary with a penchant for action films for a boss who didn’t understand that women’s lib didn’t mean she took off her bra in the office and smiled when he goosed her. The 1970s had been so exciting, so new, but compared to the rest of time and space there’d been no comparison. But here in the 50s, there’s a missing element of Bond that’s slotted in, He’s a shark in water now, more dangerous for having found his element. He’s sleek here, glossed and sharp like a switchblade. Q leans in close to speak to him, and she needs a cigarette.
At the bar, the barkeep flicks a zippo at the end of her cigarette, nodding over at Q and Bond. ”He’s always like that,” the man says, easily pouring something that smells like juniper and lemons between two glasses. ”Business first, then pleasure. Don’t worry.”
Eve smiles a little, taking the drink when it’s offered. ”Thank you.”
“On the house. God only knows how many times the double-oh has saved my bacon. His gal can have whatever she wants.” He’s back to polishing the bar before Eve can ask; Bond and Q are enthusiastically chatting about something, and for once she doesn’t think she’ll interrupt. That’s Bond’s tactic, anyway, and it’ll look desperate. There’s another girl at the bar by herself, and Eve sidles over.
The girl lets out a cloud of smoke before glancing over at Eve. ”Are you being stood up, too?” the girl asks, and Eve can’t help the sideways glance back at her boys.
“Not quite,” she says wryly, and the girl gives her a half-smile.
“You needn’t worry. Bond’s a consummate ladies’ man,” she says.
“So they keep telling me,” Eve says, watching the way Bond’s eyes linger on Q’s hands. She can see it plain as day, but these people who apparently know can’t seem to, blinded by the mores of their society, she supposes. ”Eve Moneypenny,” she offers, extending her hand.
“Vesper Lynd,” the girl replies.
“Like the drink?” Eve asks her, and Vesper looks confused.
“I’ve never heard of a drink called a Lynd before, but I suppose it’s the same.”
“Bond orders it all the time,” Eve says blithely, glancing back at the table where Bond is staring at her. Q looks confused. ”Speak of the Devil.”
“So you’re out with a tramp like him,” Vesper says. ”He’s got a reputation.”
“Must have, if you call him a tramp,” Eve comments coolly, protectively annoyed. ”What about your fellow, then, who’s standing you up?”
“Yusef’s a busy man,” Vesper says.
“Sorry, please excuse me,” Eve says, backing away. At the table, Bond glares at her. ”She’s something,” Eve tells him, frowning. ”Called you a tramp.” Q laughs, falling silent at Bond’s quelling look.
“I’ve a bit of a reputation at work,” Bond admits.
“You?” Q asks, still grinning. ”Who’ve slept through alien ladies like you’re James Tiberius Kirk? You’ve a bit of a reputation?”
Bond looks at him, wounded. Eve smooths her hand over his and his eyes dart to hers, apologetic and sad. ”Can we just—? It was a mistake to bring you here; this place is too many of the reasons I left to begin with.”
Back at the TARDIS, Bond follows her back to the dressing room while Q chatters excitedly about where they’re going next. It’s a ruse; they’re each of them stretched thin, nearly to breaking, and Q’s fingers fist around the controls when Bond touches her shoulder. ”You shouldn’t tease him like this,” she says as she peels off the shining dress that smells like smoke, and it’s a surprise that her voice is still calm. She’s lost—never truly had a chance, but now it’s clear she’s lost, utterly. ”He’s going to think we’re sleeping together.”
“He already does,” Bond tells her, and shock washes over her.
“He can’t. He’s brilliant; surely he knows better.”
“Vesper Lynd and I were together once,” Bond says instead, turning to get Eve’s blouse from the rack. ”For a few months, actually.”
“She seemed bitter enough.” Eve is noncommittal.
“This must have been 1952,” Bond continues. ”She’ll be dead within a year; we haven’t met yet.”
“Time travel can be confusing,” Eve tells him, smiling through the racks of clothes.
“She kills herself, because the alternative is staying with me,” Bond says. His tone says the conversation is over.
“James,” Eve tries anyway, staring helplessly as he pushes his way through the racks to the door.
In the control room, Q is struggling with the controls; his face lights up when he sees her. ”Moneypenny! Take the wheel. Bond is off pouting and won’t help.”
“Q,” she says reproachfully, and he has the good grace to look abashed before bouncing back. They manipulate the TARDIS together until one of the sensors stops caterwauling and Q steps back, stroking his hand reverently along the machine’s flank.
“I find I don’t take happy people, Moneypenny,” he says finally. His voice is quiet. ”Happy people don’t come with me; it’s better for everyone involved if I don’t even offer.
“Was it so bad for you, where you were?” he asks, and when he looks at her, really looks, she can feel his eyes inside of her.
“I was bored. I was never going to be anything where I was, and it was killing me a little bit every day. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Q.”
“No, I’m not.” He says it firmly, believes it. ”This doesn’t end well, Moneypenny. It never does. Everyone always leaves me.”
“I won’t. I won’t ever,” she swears, and he smiles, bemused.
“You always do, Moneypenny.”
“Eve. Call me Eve.” Suddenly it’s important for him to say her name. He looks at her, eyes stark and solitary behind his glasses.
“Moneypenny. If you couldn’t stay, where would you want me to take you?”
Ice washes over her. ”Are you leaving me behind, then?” she asks. Her lips tremble. ”Are you leaving me behind you, just somebody else you’ve made a promise to? Another abandoned heap of rubbish on the side of the road?”
“Don’t be daft, Eve,” he snaps back. ”I just. When they go. Nobody ever gets to end this gracefully. There were times…I thought it might be different, could have ended well, but. It’s me, you see: I never let go when I’m supposed to. I always hold on just a bit past too late, and you all leave anyway, only then it hurts.”
Eve is silent. Q is pacing now, a caged animal, as he tweaks and twirls the dials on the console. ”I’m sorry, Q. We’re not going to leave you.”
Q goes still at that. They both know what she means. A sigh shakes its way through his frame. ”Thank you.”
“You’re stuck with us,” she continues, forcing cheer into her voice.
“Don’t do that to me, Eve. Don’t lie to me. I couldn’t bear it.”
“Don’t you even see how unfair this is to me?” she demands. ”I. Love you, Q, I do, and I’m not going to leave, I’m not going to take him away, but you can’t expect me to be happy about it. You’re my best friend. I’m tired of hurting you.”
“I don’t mean to be cruel,” he replies. ”I’m just not—”
“Human,” Bond supplies helpfully from the door.
“I’m not,” Q says. It’s a breathy confession, and Eve feels it more than hears it, feels the way the air escapes his chest and sees his pulse throbbing in his throat. ”I can’t be.”
“We don’t want you to be,” Eve says, though the look Bond shoots her says that’s not the right answer. Q lifts his gaze and it’s Bond he looks at, and Eve’s heart breaks just a bit more. Bond offers his hand and Q takes it, and the flat of his palm fits in the small of Q’s back like it’s meant to be there.