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“You've still got spots!”
That's how it all started. One throw way comment from Bond, and four years down the line people were still taking the piss; okay yes, he was the youngest quartermaster MI6 had ever had, and okay he still looked like he was in college (he was in his thirties thank you very much) but Q was still a grown man.
A grown man who was quickly reaching the end of his tether.
“Sir, M left a message while you were briefing double oh six – something about how you have a very important meeting with the PM about budgeting this afternoon?” R was at Q's side the second he walked into the room, nattering away and informing him of anything vital: how Q could miss so much in five minutes, he really had no clue.
“Oh! And Nigel asked me to tell you that Synthia told him that Ellis told her than double oh nine crashed his new car. Into the French embassy. Totalled the whole thing and lost that prototype he stole in the back that you wanted to tinker with too.” Q gave a small noise of frustration, making a hand gesture to dismiss the other and rubbing at his temple before he said something to R he would regret.
“Something wrong kiddo?” Q looked up to see Bond leaning against the side of his desk, hands in his lap and a Cheshire grin on that smug face of his. Great.
“Bond, I'm not in the mood today.” Even more so. His head was already killing him, his tea was long since cold and his cat was ill, long story short it really wasn't the young quartermasters day. Bond just stood there quietly, not moving or even giving any indication he was planning on doing so any time soon.
Q ignored him as best he could, breezing past the agent and going to his laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as he started working on hacking into the embassy to try and trick some systems, wanting to get Double oh nine out of there and on the next flight back to London.
“Bad day at school?” Bond pressed, making Q draw his mouth into a thin line, shoulders tensing slightly under his mint green cardigan. His fingers didn't falter in their typing, but he did spare the older agent a split second glance, annoyance written across his face.
“I told you to stop it.”
Bond fell silent again, but it was clear he was just waiting for the right moment to make his next comment.
“Are you even old enough vote for the government you work for?” One of Q's hands stilled for a moment, the line clearly touching a nerve for the man – everyone in the office knew he was actually firmly a labour supporter, Bond included.
In a second, he was reaching for the gun on the side, clicking the safety off with his thumb and levelling it with the barrel inches away from Bond's forehead. Everyone in the branch stopped what they were doing, the usual hum dying down as everyone watched with baited breath, wondering what on earth was going to happen. Q, to give him credit, wasn't even looking at the agent as he continued to type. Similarly, Bond just looked amused at the scrawny boffin who was currently levelling a gun at his head, in no way seeming nervous or offended.
“Seriously?” Bond reached out with one hand and wrapped his fingers around Q's wrist, yanking the gun away and forcing the quartermaster to spin with the sheer force of the action. Q moved his it, switching his weight to his heel and grabbing the closest thing at hand, driving it straight into Bond's forearm with no mercy.
The gun clattered to the floor. Almost simultaneously, several minions gasped, watching the screwdriver embed itself in the agents arm so hard it stood out on its own accord. After a few moments blood began to drip rather freely onto the floor, at first in drops, then gushing far more steadily.
“That, Bond, is what happens on a good day.” Q said with a almost eerie calmness, pulling it back out with a sickening little squish sound and setting in on his desk, making sure the blood only fell on a piece of paper so it didn't damage his work. “Now kindly vacate Q-branch or I will be forced – not so sadly man I add – to use physical force once more.”
Bond glanced around at the minions, all still looking shaken by the event. Most where rooted to the spot, a few turning a little green around the gills – one met Bond's eye, both exchanging a worried little glance before Bond turned is attention back to Q.
“Quartermaster.”
With that, he clasped a hand around his arm to stem the bleeding and left quickly, minions all but darting out of his way and left staring at their quartermaster in awe and fear as he went. Once the door shut behind him, Q waved a dismissive hand, ignoring the blood still coating his fingers.
“Well, get back to work.”
Q knew he'd have to make it up to Bond later – he actually quite liked the other, maybe more so than he was willing to admit to himself just yet – and he didn't want Bond to be pissed at him for that. Well, not for too long.