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“Just get away from me, you idiot!”
The boy took the chunk of useless metal and tripped over his feet to get away from the irate Quartermaster. The man straightened his cardigan (the one that he spilled tea on this morning) and sighed, closing his eyes for just a moment, just enough time to count to ten and not kill anyone. Through the comm unit in his ear, he could hear 007 at a grand gala in Ibiza, milling with the rich, famous and infamous alike. The murmurs of the polite chit chat he engaged in lulled Q into calmness in the way only that man’s voice could do. He smiled and picked up his Scrabble mug, taking a sip of thankfully hot tea (someone must have filled it while he wasn’t looking) while he watched a map of the convention centre unfold before him.
“I love your voice,” he whispered, too quiet for Bond to hear -
“What was that?” Q could tell the agent was addressing him, not the women surrounding him; his voice had taken on a different tone. Something truer, kinder. Warmer.
“Nothing, 007.” Q could feel the heat rising in his face.
“No, really.” Bond laughed at an insipid joke, not paying attention to it. “What did you say?”
Q took a breath. “Your voice. It’s...beautiful.”