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Q is certain that their newest 005 will not last long. The man is too young for the position, too army-green for single-man missions that require initiative on par with violence. His record is spotless. His marks are above average in all physical and mental tests M16 had thrown at him. On paper, Mark Bennett checks all the boxes and then some and yet Q cannot see the man having a future in the department.
Mostly because Q is likely to staple his tongue to the wall and fly him for parchment before the month is through.
"This conversation is over, 005." Q very consciously does not look at the agent looming over his desk.
"Aw, come on, don't be like that," Bennett murmurs. Q makes a mental note to avoid assigning 005 any honeypot missions. The man flirts like shit. "Let me take you out. There's this nice Thai place in Pimlico. And then..." Bennett places a hand on Q's desk, near where Q's own arm lies beside the keyboard.
Q's right hand begins to inch its way beneath the desk, where the release for a certain compartment filled with sharp things calls like a siren.
"Agent 005," Q begins.
005 leans closer. Q lists sideways in his chair, the armrest digging into his bony hip. "Call me Mark."
Q grits his teeth. "Agent 005. I do not know what gave you this highly inappropriate idea, but I am not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship-"
005 lets out a bark of laughter. "Relationship? Who the fuck said anything about that? I'm talking about having some fun." Smug green eyes trail over Q's rapidly tensing body. "You know, the kind you have with the other agents."
Q blinks slowly.
"I see."
The desk rattles.
Molly, who has been politely feigning invisibility up to this point, drops her phone and vaults over her own desk to grab at 005's shoulders. "Out," she says, short and sweet, and proceeds to bat a man three times her size and many more her weight across the room.
"What-" Bennett protests. He moves in lurches and stops, a drunken march. Molly hounds him like a particularly pretty drill sergeant, not allowing an inch of give.
"Who changed the lock?" Q's voice demands behind them. Molly hisses for Bennett to walk faster.
"Who do you think you're-" Bennett protests, at the door now.
"Fuck this." Q kicks away from the desk and grabs a pen. The click of its tip pushing out rings ominously.
"Don't come back!" Molly jabs the toes of her very nice, very pointy shoes at the back of Bennett's right knee. The man staggers. Molly pushes him over the threshold and slams the door shut behind him, pressing a palm against the reader mounted beside it and locking the room.
Bennett pounds at the door twice.
Q slams the pen viciously into the desk. Its tip breaks off.
Molly sighs.
"Have you told Bond?" Molly asks much, much later. Late enough for Moneypenny to have made it up to Q for changing the lock to his ("Unauthorized, Quartermaster!") dagger arsenal with expensive tea and pastries.
"It's none of his business." Q licks flakes of chocolate from his lips. Molly snorts and tries to steal a cookie. Q bares his teeth.
"None of that," Molly chides and bites at her loot. Q pulls the plate further away and glares from beneath messy curls. The dark circles under his eyes are pronounced. In the poor light, it looks as if his eyes are bleeding shadows. "How long has he been gone?" Molly asks quietly.
"Two months." Bond has been in blackout for one of them. They had just made contact with the man last week. Q had started eating again at some point after that.
"I'm sure he'll be happy to fight for your virtue once he comes back." Molly offers. Q lets out a huff of something too small and soft to be called laughter.
"You're not getting another cookie," he tells her. His arms make a cage of flesh around the chocolate treasure.
"Selfish."
Q is sleeping.
He had not meant to fall asleep, not in his office, not like this. Seventy-three hours without rest and too much stress later, and Q had not had much of a choice. His body had shut down out of pure self-preservation, overriding the panicked demands of Q's mind.
James Bond does not know any of this. He does, however, know Q well enough to head for Q-branch rather than Q's apartment after a (lengthy, fucking boring) debrief. He had managed to escape before Medical got him into its clutches. The shower in the on-base facilities had done a good enough job of flushing the dirt from his wounds. Bond had taped some gauze on the worst of them. Nothing that won't heal.
It is late enough to be early, yet M16 works on as busily as it always does. Q-branch in particular buzzes - with machines and whispers and the clacking of keys. Bond walks down an aisle between twin rows of white desks, somewhat surprised when he does not find Q on the main floor. The Quartermaster usually prefers to be physically near his team. Silva had shaved off some of the man's arrogant boldness when it came to his work at M16.
Bond's eyes flicker to the back wall. The door to Q's impromptu office - once a supplies closet, before their cushier accommodations got blown to bits - is closed. Bond sets for it. He nods at a few people in passing. They nod back, barely lifting their eyes from their work. Bond finds this mildly disturbing. He makes a note to talk to Q about the dangers of growing too comfortable with Agents walking in and out at all times.
A thought Bond promptly forgets once he walks into Q's office.
Q makes for a strange sight. Head pillowed on his arms, curls in a twisted nest atop his head, glasses dangling from limp fingers. The computer screen in front of him has long given up on beeping questioningly. A soft, blank blue bathes his body, lending it a thin, transparent feel.
Bond closes the door and thumbs on the lock, not taking his eyes off the man before him. A tightness he had not known he had carried is unraveling in his throat, his chest. His breathing elevates ever so slightly as he makes his way to the sleeping Quartermaster.
Bond comes to a sudden stop at the man's side. He takes a moment to examine Q. What he finds is far from pleasing. The man's already pale skin has grown waxy, the jut of his naked wrists even more pronounced than it had been two months ago. Bond frowns. He reaches forward, an instinctual action without any real goal beyond establishing a connection through touch.
Strong fingers wrap around his wrist and slam it down against the desk, quick and brutal. Bone grinds into wood. At the same time, a thin arm pushes under Bond's chin and presses, hard enough to make swallowing difficult and breathing a fight. Q's eyes are open, lips curled back to reveal his teeth. Bond holds very, very still.
"Q," he tries. His voice emerges as a rasp.
Q bears down harder for a moment before recognition slackens his grip. "Bond - what-" Q shakes his head once. His hands lie on either side of Bond's body, Q braced above him. "Oh my God."
"It's alright." Q shakes his head again and tries to push away. Bond reaches up and carefully but determinedly pulls the man down, until he is flush against Bond's chest as Bond lays on the desk. "Turnabout is only fair," he mutters against the man's temple. Q laughs.
They stay like that for several long moments. Long enough for Bond's back to protest, tender from recent abuse.
"Want to talk about it?"
Q sighs. Soft lips brush against Bond's throat, a whisper of a kiss, and then the Quartermaster is pulling away. Bond lets him, eyes on shadowed brown. "Q."
Q takes a breath. "How - how was the mission."
"I'm alive." Bond pushes away from the desk and straightens. He thinks about pressing, thinks about how strange it is that he wants to press. Bond has not done anything of the kind since -
Q speaks before Bond can dig too deep into the graveyard of his mind. "It's nothing. But we - we can. Talk. If you want."
Bond is not certain he does. He nods anyway. Q takes a breath.
"I'll get us some tea," Bond offers and retreats before he has the opportunity to find out what Q had been preparing to say.
So far, this sharing thing is not going so well.
Bond passes 005 on his way to the kitchen. The man seems to be on his way out on a mission, too stiff and fresh-looking either for a social call or the post-mission mess most Agents are reduced to. 005 pauses slightly and gives Bond a smile the older man is not certain he likes. Then he stalks away, deeper into Q-branch.
Bond shrugs it off. He doesn't much care for whatever beef the wet-eared pup thinks he has with him. Preoccupied with looking for Q's favorite tea in the disaster area of a cabinet, Bond even manages to put the entire thing out of mind.
That is, until he walks into Q's office several minutes later and sees Bennett wrapping a large, meaty hand around Q's upper arm and tugging.
Bond's mind goes quiet. A soft whistling rises within it, like the wind over the Scottish moors or the kiss of a bullet as it exits the barrel of a gun. Tea spills to soak into the carpet. Bond steps over the mess, hand grasping metal in the stead of porcelain. Raise, aim, shoot. Easy as breathing. Easy as dying, as Bond has no doubt 005 will do, in just a moment, just a second yet.
Then Q moves, and Bond is forced to reconsider.
005 grunts as a fist slams into his throat, right at the juncture of shoulder and neck. A glancing blow, meant to stun rather than injure. It will not inconvenience someone of 005's stature for long. Q does not need it to - he has the man's chest flat on his desk, pinned beneath the full weight of his body, in the span of a heartbeat. Bond blinks, trying to place the sight of Q balancing his entire weight on one hand and flipping to mount 005's back, knees slamming unapologetically into the Agent's upper shoulders, with the bad-tempered man in fuzzy bunny slippers who had sent him off two months ago.
"Call M," Q orders. To 005, he snaps, "Oh, do shut up, Mark. I haven't even broken anything yet."
Bond has his phone pressed to his ear before he quite realizes he has taken the device out. Bennett's growled threats cut off with a whimper.
"What." M snaps. It's his usual greeting.
"Q's gone homicidal," Bond says.
M sighs. "Right. Sending people now." The line clicks hollow. Bond takes the phone away from his ear and stares at it for a bit, willing the conversation to make sense.
"You're not an ordinary Quartermaster, are you," Bond says finally. He aims for sarcasm but the words come out impressed. The sight of the hard, wry line of Q's body curved over his prey has Bond's breath hitching.
Q throws Bond a sly look over one shoulder. "Let's just say M16 wasn't the first secret organization to try and recruit me."
Blue eyes glow hot in the dim light. "Let's say more."
Q laughs and bears down harder. Something cracks. Bennett whines in pain. "Wish I could. You'd get a kick out of it."
Bond leans against a nearby chair. "Not even a clue?"
Q considers. M's men are making their way through Q-branch, judging by the sudden rise of voices outside.
Q speaks just before the office's door is dramatically kicked in.
"The glasses are a memento."
Half a dozen men and women rush in then. Bond watches Q surrender Bennett to a thin-lipped woman with zero expression on her face. Blue eyes slip from Q's darkly satisfied face to the bulky, thick-framed glasses sitting on Q's desk. A memory nags at him. He had seen their kind, seen glasses just like these on a man who did not fit in the world around him.
A proper gentleman.
Q catches Bond's eyes and winks. Some of the darkness has bled from his expression.
Bond smirks back.
Game on.