Chapter Text
Epilogue
"And who are you?" He says, tilting her chin up with one finger. He reeks heavily of cigars and decay. It's not a good look. Vile, honestly, but it's not like she has a say in the matter.
"James Smith, sir." The giggle that splutters out of her is as fake as her brown hair. "It's such a delight to finally meet you."
"James is too manly a name for a beauty such as yourself." He says, and furrows his brow. "You know, I think I'll call you Sally. That sounds much more appropriate."
"Of course, sir." She bites her tongue to keep from throwing a punch. Bloody men. All the bloody time.
"You're here for a reason, James." Q warns in her ear, and it's like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over her head. "Do leave the maiming until later, dear."
So, she smiles, lets him wind his hands threw her hair, and just manages to suppress her gag reflex as he bends down to kiss her. Disgusting. Truly, truly vile. Fortunately, she's spent years learning to kiss without having to consciously focus on it, so she spends the brief moment trying to figure out her next move. Get in. Free the targets. Get out again - and fuck up the General on the way out. (That last point wasn't actually in her mission briefing, but he's a reprehensible character, not just in stature, and he'll deserve it.)
"Lovely." He pulls back, and clasps her hand. "Come along, my dear. My bedroom's just upstairs."
Fantastic. Dragging her AWAY from the place that she wants to go. That just makes things harder.
"James, there's more armed guards up there. I wouldn't recommend it." Q says, "Keep him down on this level."
“Aw, but this office is so fancy!” She chirps, and runs a hand over the leather of one of the chairs. “We could always… stay here, you know? I bet you’ve never christened this desk, have you?”
His eyes light up at the thought.
Honestly. Men.
Hook, line, and sinker.
“Why, no.” He tries (and fails) to purr. “Does that excite you, Sally?”
His meaty hands grip her around the waist and push her back against the cool wood of the desk. She struggles, just a bit - it’s instinct, after all - but pushes the repulsion back to reach into the pocket of her slacks. He paws at her pants but doesn’t seem to notice the movement.
Thank God (or rather, thank Q) for the buttons on her pants, because they don’t open for just anyone.
“I might need a little help here, Sally.” He says, and looks up at her.
“It’s James.” She says, and stabs him in the neck with a hypodermic needle.
The poison takes a few moments to work, but it’s almost satisfying to see the light fade from his eyes as he dies.
“Great.” Q complains. “Now I’m going to have to deal with the cleanup now. You couldn’t have waited until you saved the hostages, could you?”
“He was a reprehensible bastard, Q, are you really trying to say that I should have let him feel me up? Get out of here.” She straightens her clothing and fetches her Glock from where she’d stashed it earlier.
“I know, I know.” Q replies, typing madly. “Utter bastard, but the cleaning men charge by the hour.”
“You’re just going to have to live with that, sweetheart.”
“Only ‘cause it’s you.” Q huffs. “Now go. Go and save the world. I’ll just be here. Typing. Cleaning up your messes.”
“Your life would be dull if you weren’t doing that, Q.”
“That’s not true.”
But it is, and it will always be.
James and Q, a near-perfect partnership, about ready to take on the world. It’s almost poetic - or it would be, if James ever subscribed to that line of thinking.
James doesn’t get a lot of ‘good’ in her life, but this - this is good.