Work Text:
WITH COMMAND COMES RANK
Meretseger
Q turned the corner into the quiet side street and stopped at the short flight of steps to the painted front door of the building whose address he had been give. A rather faded black and white notice next to the door advised the caller that this was the business premises of, “Yoeville and Thomas, Military Outfitters’. Q hesitated, took a deep breath and climbed the steps and knocked on the door.
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” the man who answered the door didn’t seem all that welcoming to a potential customer.
“Major Boothroyd,” Q answered. “The appointment was made for me by a Miss Moneypenny?” He wasn’t sure what the reaction would be as he felt he looked nothing like an officer in the Corps of Engineers. Nor did he really want to.
“Ah, yes, sir, of course.” The man seemed more friendly as he stepped back and opened the door further. “We were expecting you.”
Q relaxed a little; it was obvious that the man knew who he was, which was a relief as the Quartermaster did not like claiming a distinction that wasn’t his. Orders or not, history or not.
The door opened into the shop area and Q looked around, fascinated by the things of display. Two walls were covered in rolls of material standing on wall racks; there was every colour that a person needing a ‘military outfitter’ could wear: there was navy blue and air force blue, khaki for the army next to white for mess uniforms and red and blue and green for dress uniforms and tartans for Scottish regiments. Counters with glass tops held regimental ties, gloves and rank badges, embroidered or in gold or silver. There were even swagger sticks and neatly laid out caps, hats and berets in various colours as well as smartly collared shirts on racks and polished boots and shoes.
The doorman left Q when a man approached and introduce himself as Matthew, his tailor. “If you will come this way, please, sir. I’ll take all your measurements.”
The fitting room was more like a small sitting room than just a place to use a tape measure. The Victorian style wallpaper and comfortable looking padded chairs did nothing to make Q feel comfortable but he stripped obediently to his underwear and stood patiently while he was measured; he had to remind himself that he was not Harry Potter being measured for his Hogwart’s robes but the thought did relax him a little.
When the measuring was done another man, younger than the tailor, but wearing an equally beautifully tailored suit entered the room and asked about shoe sizes and whether he liked his socks knitted from wool or synthetic. When Q didn’t know his hat size the tape was put around his head and a note added to the Ipad’s data base. Somehow that simple electronic device re-assured Q that he had not slipped through a time warp or accidently stepped into the TARDIS.
When Q was dressed again the tailor made an appointment for the first fitting and Q was able to leave and go back to his computers. He was watching as one of his minions carefully fitted a laser into a lipstick tube when he heard a familiar footstep behind him. The steps stopped and a voice said, “Good morning, Quartermaster.”
Q appreciated that the double o’s always made sure their steps could be heard when they approached him or one of his minions while they were working on something that could potentially blow up or in. Normally one of MI6’s superspies could sneak up on a rabbit, of course, but in the labs a surprise was not a good idea.
“How did your visit to the tailor’s go?” Bond asked as he moved closer, one finger reaching out to touch the shining gold of the case.
“Fitting next week,” Q answered. “Unless something properly important comes up.” One could always hope …
“I’m looking forward to seeing you in uniform,” Bond said. “It will be different look to ugly cardigans.”
Q just shook his head at that comment – it didn’t make him feel any better about stolen honours. “What did you want, 007?” Bond wasn’t due for another mission as he was on leave. Even James Bond needed time to recover from a bullet graze to his right arm.
But Bond had noticed something and he was very well trained to notice anomalous behaviour and find out what it meant. And he had noticed the way the Quartermaster who was normally a calm oasis in all the bustle of Q Branch was looking rather put out – as if one of his gadgets had dared to not act as expected. He watched the younger man for a moment and then, “what about wearing a uniform worries you so much?” He’d worn uniforms of various types for most of his life and felt quite as comfortable in Navy blue as he did in one of his tailored suits. “Have you worn one before? Scouts? Church Army?”
Amused, Q shook his head. “I have always been a geek, Bond.” He was proud of that designation – he had worked hard to obtain it. “So, no Scouts.” And definitely no Church Army; his parents had been atheists and proud of it. He decided to explain. “I’m not being disrespectful to those who wear the King’s uniform. It’s just that I feeling that wearing one without earning it is cheating.”
“Ah!” Bond got it now. “’Major Boothroyd’ and all that goes with it?”
Q nodded. “I knew that the rank and name were now my new persona but when I accepted the position as Quartermaster of MI6 I was not told that I would have to wear the uniform that went with the job. Or the medals!”
“You do know that the uniform and rank, the medals, are just something that goes with the job? Like M always has names that start with M when he takes up the job.”
“Like suits and James Bond go with being oo7?”
“Like that,” Bond agreed. His real name was hidden somewhere in the section of MI6 archives where everything was hand written. You can’t hack into a paper file like you could an electronic one. Something Q knew as well as he did since part of his job and that of the Q Branch Minions remit was getting into data bases it shouldn’t be able to get into.
“I just never expected to actually have to wear stolen honours,” Q admitted. “I’m no warrior.”
“But you are,” Bond disagreed. “You may not carry a gun but you make beautiful ones for us that do. Taking down an enemy’s computers can do more damage than a bomb. Read history; the smiths who made the swords were considered some sort of magician when they turned stone into bronze or iron.”
That made Q feel a little better but, “the medals, Bond?”
“The original Major Boothroyd earned them when he and his technicians invented gadgets and guns. How many airmen did he save when he worked out how to print maps of France and Germany onto silk squares that folded up into barely nothing? How many spies did he save by building radios that survived – valves undamaged – being dropped by parachutes? Or radar that warned cities of incoming bombs or told pilots where fighter planes and bombers were? Your gadgets, the information you have gathered, you and your staffs’ ability to get into surveillance systems to get us out of impossible situations? You’ve earned medals enough to make wearing the ones the first Quartermaster earned yours by right.”
Relieved, Q nodded. “I’m relieved that you feel that way.” And he had a reward for the support. “I’ve got a new rifle to test?”
“Gimme!” Bond made gimme gestures.
Bond took the offered rifle, the special bullets, the instructions on what it was capable of doing and went happily off to the rifle range.