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Q Branch MI6 Vauxhall Cross Tuesday, 14:23
Q sipped his Earl Grey from the platform with the quiet satisfaction of a man whose universe was, for once, properly ordered.
008's mission was wrapping up nicely in Prague. 002 was en route to Lisbon. And his quarterly budget had just been approved. All line items, no queries, no tedious back-and-forth with Finance about whether an exploding pen constituted a capital expense.
All was well in the land of the Overlord and his Minions.
So naturally, the Destruction Duo walked in.
006 looked rather good in combat fatigues, which Q found deeply unfair given that he'd just stepped off a plane from Minsk. Nasty business. Human trafficking of British nationals, three warehouses, and what the after-action report described with characteristic understatement as significant structural damage to the surrounding area. The soot had apparently been dealt with before boarding. Q's gaze traveled down. The boots were not clean.
He decided to let it go.
007 was immaculate in a tan Tom Ford, which meant the Bosnia situation had resolved itself in the usual fashion. A week of wining and dining culminating in a car chase, because James Bond was, at his core, a man of deeply consistent brand. Q had already checked. The car had not been one of his. He allowed himself one small moment of relief and filed the berating away for later.
He set down his mug.
"Good afternoon, 006, 007." Q regarded them over his glasses with the expression of a man who had learned to brace for impact. "Do you happen to have any equipment to return? Perhaps shards of steel? Something I can melt down, fashion into a blade, and use against you at a time of my choosing?"
Alec laughed. Warm, genuine, the laugh of a man who found Q genuinely funny, which was both gratifying and suspicious. "You would, druzhok. I brought back my knife, my gun, and a flash drive."
James smiled, slow and satisfied. "Knife, gun, flash drive, and earpiece." He tilted his head slightly. "I win."
Q stared at them.
The silence stretched for four full seconds.
"Did either of you sustain head injuries in the field that were not reported to Medical?" he said finally. "Because I want that on record. I usually receive a laugh at best. The occasional shard of something that was formerly a BMW. I have spreadsheets dedicated to the pair of you. My budget has a 006/007 line item. It has sub-categories." He could hear his own voice going slightly tight. "007, you have never — not once, not in the entirety of your tenure — returned your complete kit. Why are you both being reasonable at me?"
The blondes glanced at each other with the synchronized smugness of men who had known each other for years and knew exactly what they were doing.
"New leaf," Alec said pleasantly. "New M, new era. Seemed like time."
"With the Queen gone and Mallory in charge," James added, a picture of innocence, "we thought perhaps it was time to be better."
"You," Q said flatly, "are plotting something."
Neither of them denied it.
"Drop your kit at the tray. Then leave my domain. Whatever you are scheming, I want no part of it today, and I want it clearly understood that my goodwill is not available for purchase or manipulation."
"Of course, darling," James said warmly.
"Anything you need," Alec agreed, grinning.
They deposited their kit with remarkable neatness and walked out of Q Branch without breaking anything.
Q stood very still for a moment.
"I need more tea," he said. "And intelligence on what they're planning."
R materialized at his elbow with the quiet efficiency that made her genuinely invaluable. "I believe they may actually be attempting good behavior, sir. I caught part of their conversation on the way in. Something about not wanting another bollocking from Mallory."
"I don't trust it," Q said. "Log every visit. Every interaction. Note the mood, note the equipment, note if anything seems off."
"Of course, sir."
Q went to get a fresh mug.
The break room smelled extraordinary. On the table, arranged beside an assortment of teas and a small pot of jam, sat a plate of pastries — medovik, golden and layered. Vatrushka, soft and pillowy. Jabukovača, full of apples. Baklava, the good kind, still faintly warm.
Q stood in the doorway of the break room for a moment.
Russian. Bosnian.
He picked up a plate and chose one of each.
Back at his station, he bit into the medovik and considered the situation with the detached analytical clarity that had made him the finest Quartermaster MI6 had seen in a generation. He decided he would not, at this time, be actively hunting 006 and 007.
Perhaps he'd mention it over drinks with Moneypenny tonight.
Fresh pastries, properly sourced, from two separate culinary traditions, delivered without fanfare or request for anything in return.
It was, Q supposed, a gesture.
He took another bite and pulled up his spreadsheets.
The 006/007 line item remained. But he added a note in the margin, small and begrudging.
Returned full kit. Brought pastries. Monitoring.