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You know, for once, I would like to come home to someone waiting for me. Bond pulls into the designated parking stall in the underground car park beneath his newest flat. He says ‘newest’ because the last one suffered an...accident. The accident’s name was Alec Trevelyan. I’d rather that person not be Alec, because he has an unhealthy and admittedly terrifying obsession with fire. Keys in hand, Jaguar locked and armed, Bond hops through the service door to the emergency stairwell to jog the ten storeys to his ridiculously expensive and equally ridiculously decorated flat. I’m certain he could set fire to an ice cube if given the basic materials. In no time, he reaches his door: 3-J.
How quaint. Didn't notice that before... Bond makes a side note to probably just get a whole new door, sod replacing the numbers. He looks down at the handle and groans, dropping his head against the solid oak, and curses his abysmal luck. “I never even gave you a key, you son of a bitch. Yet somehow, you always manage to find your way in.” He scowls at the keycard entry, trying to associate his friend with something that technical without outside assistance, and couldn't quite do it. But the doorway is ajar. Nothing felt off, just...odd. Just in case, Bond draws the Walther out of his shoulder holster and nudges the door open with his shoulder and hip, leading with the weapon, eyes open and scanning, waiting for something to pop out at him. He has no qualms about this; if the intruder is definitely Alec, the agent can disarm Bond before he gets a shot off anyway. And if it isn’t... their day is about to get much worse.
Foyer and small guest bathroom are clear. He moves quickly and silently, his torso swiveling to bring him in line with the sitting area, replete with a giant high-definition flat screen television that he hasn’t turned on since the damn thing was set up three months ago and the top of the line surround sound system that has only played heavy metal when he was pissed or classical when he wanted to sleep.
The system that is now playing Rob Zombie on the lowest setting that can be picked up by human hearing.
Alec doesn’t like Rob Zombie. In fact, I only know one person who does, and what the hell is he doing in my flat? He lowers the gun in his hands, just a bit, and is completely caught off-guard by the change in music - and the volume. Suddenly, the walls are reverberating with Lady Gaga, and what the literal fuck? A voice drifts over the terrifyingly loud music, from the direction of the...kitchen.
“Bloody buggering hell. Ow. Loud! Fucking useless remote...”
The volume immediately lowers by at least half, leaving Bond’s ears ringing and the comforting sound of a familiar, if rather unexpected, voice instead of an assassin or burglar. But the next song comes on, and that voice squeaks in excitement. “Oooh, I love this song.” The volume goes right back up, and Bond advances, tucking his gun back into its holster. He rounds the corner of the kitchen and freezes, caught between shock, the beginning stages of early arousal, and insane laughter; because in his bloody fucking kitchen stands - no, dances - one of the youngest executives of MI6 - his Quartermaster. The wrangler of all things electronic and weaponised holds a screwdriver and a small motherboard in his hands, and his hips bounce back and forth to the beat of the song. He’s even more excited as the song segues into another dance tune, judging by the addition of what almost looks like choreographed moves.
Bond shakes his head and smiles, watching the young man dance and twist and shake that delectable rear...then his eyes fall to the mess on the floor that used to be a toaster. His toaster. His four slot toaster with automatic settings and more fancy dials and buttons and bits than he knows what to do with. His very expensive toaster - and is that Marilyn Manson now? Not only does Q have a rather eclectic taste in music and apparently has a habit of breaking into mentally unstable Double Os’ flats to tear apart toasters - seriously, has he seen my results on my so called anger management issues? - he also looks absolutely adorable when he dances. Deciding to focus on the dancing instead of getting upset over something he could easily replace, he brings his eyes back up to...
Oh, fucking Lord.
The music had changed again to something he definitely recognised - Alec loves Bjork - and now Q’s body moves in a sinuous display that made Bond think twice about his recent vow not to fuck his co-workers. But this is Q. Q, in my flat, ruining my appliances and playing with my electronics and dancing in my kitchen and -
The music comes to a halt. “Oh, God. Bond. 007. Fuck...I can.” Bond jerks his head back up and looks at Q. The man is rooted to his spot in the middle of the toaster carnage, green eyes wide and bright and terrified. “Well, I can try to explain, but you probably won’t listen, and this is just going to end badly and I’m just going to go before it becomes awkward, which it already has, I’m afraid, and I’m sorry about the toaster, I was only trying to make it a little faster for you because you like to eat on the run, judging by your collection of takeaway menus and I’m rambling so I’m going to shut up now, how does that sound?”
Bond chuckles. “Sounds good.” Except I like the sound of your voice. “Except I like the sound of your voice.” You did, didn’t you? You just have to say it. Idiot.
“Um, thank you?” Q’s nose wiggles back and forth, reminding Bond of a scared rabbit. If rabbits could talk, they would possibly sound like Q does right now. “Um...” He gestures at the floor with his screwdriver. “Sorry.”
Bond steps forward, onto the linoleum proper, and folds his arms over his chest. “So?”
“What?” Q blinks.
“What’s the explanation? You wanted to make it faster. How? Why?”
Q looks down at the gutted shell of the toaster. “To make life easier for you, I suppose? More streamlined? I was thinking of making a Rube Goldberg machine to make you breakfast in the mornings or at least coffee, but the track record that you seem to have with your flats led me to set that idea aside for the R and D lounge. I...uh, well, I...” He trails off, staring at his feet. “I got distracted. I’d planned on having it done by the time you made it back from Colorado. But then I discovered you had a 360 and a couple of games that Alec must have made you buy, and I sat down to play one of them, and then I took a nap because I haven’t actually slept since...um...Thursday, I think. Then I used the rest of your milk, which I’ll buy you more, I promise -”
Bond holds up his hand. “It’s fine. Really, perfectly fine.”
Q looks up. “Really?”
“Yes. Alec would have found his way over here anyway, and used it up himself.”
“Uh, alright. I’ll just -” Q bends down and starts poking at pieces of toaster on the floor. “Pick this mess up and leave -”
“No.” Bond smirks.
“No?”
“No. You can stay.” Bond waves his hand at the entertainment centre. “I’m going to play my music though, and you can finish doing...whatever you are doing to my poor toaster while I decided what to make for dinner; now that Psych is certain I have post traumatic stress, I’m off for a while. Then we are going to the shops, getting food, making it, eating it, and then you are taking another nap because you have the sleep cycle of a college student during finals week. Only all the time. How do you even function?”
“They love me at the cafes. They hate my coffee order, but they never get it wrong.” The small smile that pulls at the corners of Q’s lips is tentative and shy. “Um, are you certain...”
“Yes. Now, as you were. I’d like a toaster that is in one piece and actually works. Preferably without flames.” Bond moves to the fridge, stepping over wires and something that looks suspiciously like a laser from - “Tell me you didn’t cannibalise my DVD player for this?”
Q blinks. “Oh, no, no, I brought extra supplies.”
“Oh.” Bond nods, wondering if this is going to be part of his life now. Strange hipster technophiles with frankly amazing hair and killer hips taking toasters apart in his kitchen sure wasn't the norm, even more so because Q'd broken in to do this.
The front door swings open further and Alec’s voice booms through the flat before he comes into view. “James! Fucking drinking, fucking women, and fucking steak, let’s go!” The other agent halts in his tracks as he takes in the sight of Q and Bond in the kitchen. “Or...we could...not? Or something?" The look on Alec's face made Bond laugh loudly and happily. "I don’t even know what to - I’m not sure how to respond to this situation, actually. This feels odd.”
Bond grinned. “Yeah, pretty odd to me too.”
“I mean...” Alec points at the Quartermaster. “He’s here. Looks like he’s been here for a while.” Alec looks down at the kitchen floor, and his brows reached up towards his hairline. “Um...was that a toaster?”
“Yes. And it will be a toaster again,” Bond says with all confidence in his Quartermaster. And why wouldn’t he trust the genius? If he could make all the things he makes for the agents every bloody day, then what’s one toaster?