Chapter Text
Thus you must behave when you’re faced with the way I operate
Be brave, when I’m facing away from you and I don’t want to cooperate
‘Cause you may be the cause of this
Yes you may be the cause of this low grade happiness
Low Grade Happiness, Rufus Wainwright
MI6 was in a state of high alert. The corridors hummed with employees as they buzzed between departments, sharing crucial intel and complex theories. All internal systems were overflowing with messages, the tone of which ranged from panicked to urgent to downright nosy. Updates were coming through to departmental channels almost every minute. All day-to-day tasks lay abandoned at the wayside in favour of the far more important situation that was developing by the second. It was action stations, all hands on deck, defcon zero.
But Queen and country weren’t in danger. In fact, on a professional level, things at MI6 were relatively (whisper it, don’t tempt fate) quiet. So what was it that had sent the organisation into such a tizz?
Someone had turned up to work after Christmas with a new piece of jewellery. And that someone was Q, and that jewellery was a ring. A very classy, very subtly expensive titanium ring. Worn on that particular finger on his left hand.
Yeah, you get the picture.
(EVIDENCE - Extract from the Q Branch underling chat stream [underlings referred to by number for reasons of national security]:
5: OH MY GOD
11: Did we run out of proper coffee again? Bc I will strike if we’re on decaf again.
2: oh hell no
5: Q JUST GOT HERE
9: … and?
14: @5 y u shout @us :( ?
2: @14 please type like an adult, you’re embarrassing the rest of us
5: FOLKS, FOCUS
9: … I repeat, and?
5: Q HAS NEW JEWELLERY
8: ummm he’s been wearing an earring for ages (LOVE that for him, we stan a glamorous queer quartermaster)
11: @8 Especially that pearl one, iconic
5: FOR FUCK’S SAKE, YOU LOT
5: HE’S WEARING A RING
5: AN ENGAGEMENT RING
14: *squeeeeeeeee*
9: Are we sure?
2: yeah, pics or it didn’t happen
@5 sent checkoutthatringfinger.jpeg to the chat
8: ok babes, i’m buying a hat. a big one.
11: Yeah, I’ll concede, that’s an engagement ring
2: especially in combination with that face. q is fucking GLOWING.
8: girl, q is FUCKING. someone had a very merry christmas…
14: *winky face*
2: @14 you’re making me question if you did get that phd from MIT
14: *middle finger*
5: CAN WE FOCUS???
9: Are we sure it’s from 007?
11: Well, I’ve not walked in on the quartermaster snogging any other agents…
2: they make me feel so single
8: did we manage to get hold of that security footage? asking for a friend.
9: @8!
8: like you wouldn’t watch
5: FOCUS, PEOPLE
5: WHAT IF Q LEAVES US FOR MARRIED LIFE?
11: @5, sweetheart, Q isn’t a 1950s housewife
14: idk, @5 may b on2 something… i wouldnt be able 2 watch my hubby doing all *that*
9: I hate to say this, but @14 might be right.
8: fuckkkk
2: fml
5: FUCK
8: (we’re still having an engagement party, right?)
[END OF EXTRACT])
————————————————————————————————————————————
In general, Q had been on some version of Cloud Nine since Bond had popped the question. He had practically floated home after the riverside proposal, feeling more giddy and loved and alive than ever before. He then promptly discovered that newly-engaged sex was even better than all the other kinds of sex he’d had with James - and let’s be honest, they’d had a lot - and for the sake of science, he’d decided they had to have that freshly-betrothed sex multiple times to test his hypothesis. (As with most other hypotheses he’d ever had, Q was proven correct.)
And that had been followed by video-calling his mum, his wonderful mum, and she had screamed in delight and had far too much fun making a mafia boss-style ‘welcome to the family’ speech. Quite frankly, it couldn’t have been more joyous. Then they’d phoned Moneypenny, who’d been exceedingly happy for them, once she’d got past her initial ‘I knew it’ reaction. And after that, there’d been nothing else to do but fall back into bed and deeper into love, and it had all been perfect, perfect, perfect.
So, as the Q wisdom goes, things simply couldn’t stay this good. That’s not how our fucked-up little universe works, is it?
It all started when he went back to the office a few days after Christmas. The second he entered Six, the pleasant weight of the ring on his finger seemingly started to exert a strange force field. As he passed through the building, an ungodly silence fell. People stopped. People stared. People pulled out their phones and started tapping away wildly. Colleagues who normally would greet Q or stop to chat with him simply gaped wordlessly, before scurrying away. Even Tanner, good old Tanner, dropped his file, did an impression of a goldfish, and spun on his heel to go in the other direction.
It was weird. It was uncomfortable. And Q, normally one to embrace the awkward, did not like it one bit.
He hadn’t been expecting a ticker tape parade or showers of balloons on his arrival. He had, perhaps, been expecting a few words of congratulations, some claps on the back, maybe a hug or two. But for whatever reason, gaining an engagement ring seemed to have turned Q into a pariah, and he couldn’t make head nor tail of it. And as we well know, Q isn’t one to tolerate not understanding something.
Having crossed through an unnervingly quiet Branch, Q shut his office door behind him with unexpected relief. He collapsed into his office chair, mindlessly fiddling with the ring on his finger, and set his considerable mind to the task of working out what the fuck was going on. But, potentially for the first time, that immense intellect yielded no results.
Q attempted to call R into his office in the vain hope that she would be able to explain. However, when he yelled her name, she merely squeaked ‘tea’, then scuttled off in the opposite direction of the kettle. And so, Q was left with no other resort than to go to the (socially) nuclear option.
He’d have to call Moneypenny. And she was going to be unbearably smug about it.
She was going to be smug because she had, for once, outdone Q. Eve liked to brag that her gossip (and blackmail) networks were more effective at keeping track of MI6 than any technology his Branch could create. Q and his tech usually outsmarted her, easy peasy lemon squeezy. But apparently, this was an occasion when human intelligence did, in fact, have to come from humans
Ugh.
With a deep inhale and a pinch to the bridge of his nose, Q dialed through to Moneypenny’s extension.
“And what can I do for my favourite betrothed tech geek?” She already sounded smug. How was that possible?
“I don’t know what gave you the idea that I’m calling with a request. I might just be phoning for a chat with my best friend.”
Dear reader, we’re not going to say that Eve snorted in response, because she would never do anything as inelegant as that, but she did make some kind of noise of disbelief.
(She absolutely snorted.)
“Q, you’ve never called me for a chat. Either you want something from me or you’ve accidentally given yourself a lobotomy. So what is it?”
(Yogic breathing, Q. Do some of that yogic breathing.)
“Fine.” He took off his glasses, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s just - it’s just that everyone’s being weird.”
“Now now, we’ve had this conversation before. Sometimes it’s that you’re the weird one and everyone else is normal. The rest of us didn’t break the IQ test with our scores.”
Now Q snorted. “Fuck off. I mean they’re being particularly odd today. Now that I’m wearing the ring. It’s like I’m bloody Frodo or something. Everyone scatters in my path, and even R is avoiding me. Did I do something wrong?”
Q could almost feel Eve soften, [redacted number of] floors above him. “Oh Q, sweetheart, your anxiety is showing. You didn’t do anything wrong. Quite the opposite, in fact. If my little birdies are telling the truth, it’s more that everyone is rather in awe of you for taming the legendary 007. And as we know, my little birdies never lie. Everyone’s staring because you’ve achieved the impossible.” Q attempted to protest, but was shut down immediately. “I know your work achieves that on a daily basis, but getting Bond to settle down? That truly is a miracle.”
He searched for a reply, and found: “Oh.”
(What was that about beyond-genius-level IQ?)
“Oh indeed. What’s going on is that you, currently, are the hottest gossip that Six has ever known. Before long it’ll wear off and 004 will do something ridiculously stupid and everyone will be talking about him again. You just need to wait it out. So unlock yourself from your office, go out there and act like nothing’s happened. The fuss won’t last.”
Q frowned. “How did you know I’d locked the door?”
“Remember, I know everything. And Q?”
“Yes?”
“Mallory wants to see you and Bond in an hour. See you later!”
She hung up.
Q’s head hit the desk.
“Fuck.”
————————————————————————————————————————————
When Q entered M’s office, Bond was already there. If Q had been worried that Moneypenny was smug today, the agent was off the charts in his self-satisfaction. The jammy bastard was also already sipping from a tumbler of M’s ridiculously expensive brandy. Q stared at James in mild disbelief that the same event could have such wildly different effects on him and his partner.
“Ah, Q, can I get you a drink? I hear congratulations are in order.” M’s tone was warmer than ever before. Q was instantly suspicious.
“I’ll pass, thank you. Work to be done, and all that.” Q came to sit in the chair next to Bond’s. “May I ask why we’re here? I’ve lots to catch up on in my Branch post-Christmas.”
M sat down, looking between the other two men with an almost fatherly air. “I’d have thought it was rather obvious. We need to discuss your engagement.”
Q didn’t need to look over at James to know that the man had sat up straight in his chair, poised and ready to attack.
“I’m not sure what there is to discuss. M.” Bond’s words cut like bullets.
(Q probably wasn’t meant to find all this rather arousing, but apparently nigh on a year dating an assassin had done funny things to what counted as aphrodisiac for him.)
In response, M relaxed in his chair. Q was suddenly reminded of an Attenborough documentary he’d watched, in which a pair of baboons had squared up to fight for dominance, baring their teeth (and their arses, if we’re being accurate). (Interesting how the latter seemed particularly apropos.)
“I’d rather thought it was obvious. I know you filed paperwork regarding your relationship months ago, but this latest development does present somewhat of a conflict of interest in terms of you two working together.”
Now it was Q’s turn to bristle. “I have to admit that I’m also confused. I’m not sure how, professionally, anything has changed. In all honesty, nothing has changed in our working practices since before our relationship began. I think you’ll find there’s plentiful evidence to prove that the standard of our work has been more than maintained. If anything, it’s improved.” Q narrowed his eyes. “Sir.”
M was, disappointingly, entirely immune to both Bond and Q’s attempts. “Be that as it may, the fact remains that you are to be married. Admittedly, we’ve never had a situation like this, but you must be able to see the obvious ethical conflict. 007, can we expect you to do whatever is required of the brief, even if it means upsetting, even betraying, your partner? And Q - would you truly put a mission’s success above your husband’s survival?”
Bond’s muscles tensed further. Q, on the other hand, just wanted to be sick. He regretted not accepting that drink.
For a painful minute, there was a stalemate. Bond and M stared at each other, neither daring to blink. Despite wishing the floor would swallow him alive, Q spoke: “I’m sorry, sir, but I still don’t understand the issue. Yes, Bond and I are getting married, but marriage is, in effect, just a piece of paper. We’ve both demonstrated our dedication to the job over the past year. There’s no reason for a change in our legal status as a couple to affect that.”
Unwillingly, M dragged his eyes away from Bond’s glacial gaze. “I see that we’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one, for the time being. I shan’t retract permission for you to handle 007, Q, but you both should be aware that your missions and conduct will be under the tightest scrutiny.” M stood, apparently bringing the meeting to a close. “We can’t have the service brought into disrepute, nor can we allow national security to suffer simply because you two refuse to be separated.”
Bond got to his feet. “Of course, M. God forbid.” He didn’t move to leave.
Q, on the other hand, was booking it towards the door. “Thanks, M. Food for thought, and all that.”
M sat back down at his desk, purposefully shuffling papers. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He looked up momentarily. “And my congratulations, again.”
Opening the door, Q breathed a sigh of sort-of relief. But the sense of reprieve was short-lived. Before he was barely a step or two out of M’s office, Bond was storming past him. The agent didn’t look back at the younger man as he passed through Moneypenny’s antechamber, before disappearing down a corridor. By the time Q got to Eve’s door, Bond was nowhere to be seen.
“What the hell is going on?” Eve asked, rounding her desk to stand next to Q.
“Not a fucking clue,” he murmured. For the second time that day, the genius was utterly perplexed, and he didn’t like the sensation one bit. And he particularly didn’t like the fact that his partner, the man who had done unspeakably filthy things to him in bed only hours previously, who had breathed the tenderest words in his ear while doing so, who had stroked over the ring on Q’s finger in his sleep, had stormed off as a result.
Was this the shortest engagement-honeymoon period ever?
————————————————————————————————————————————
In an ideal world, Q would have activated Bond’s trackers and followed him straight to wherever the hell he was going so that they could have whatever discussion (read: argument) needed to be had. But, in case you hadn’t noticed, MI6 operated in a far from ideal world. So instead of figuring things out with his fiancé, he was sprinting down to his Branch to handle 004’s mission which was, quite literally, blowing up. Said shitshow kept Q tied to his monitors for the next ten hours, fuelled by increasingly strong cups of tea and a packet of digestive biscuits, with barely the time to check his mobile to see the complete absence of messages from James.
By the time he emerged, blinking and stiff-jointed, from Six, it was dark, cold, and pissing it down with rain. This was the point when Q would usually summon his friendly neighbourhood assassin/boyfriend to pick him up in the comfort of the Aston. But, thanks to whatever the fuck drama had gone down in M’s meeting, he was left at the mercy of the Tube. And Sod’s law being what it is, service was reduced due to an incident at Cockfosters (even in his increasingly grim mood, Q did manage a snigger at that one).
The net result of the above was that Q was extra tired, extra late, extra pissed-off, and extra not in the mood for a fight when he opened the door to the flat. Hanging up his sopping wet coat and toeing off his sodden shoes, he padded into the lounge, expecting to find either a drunk Bond or no-one at all. Safe to say, he wasn’t expecting what he encountered.
James was in the middle of making what can only be described as a mood board.
On a large piece of blueprint paper, apparently stolen from Q’s office, he was affixing an enormous range of images. The pictures had clearly been cut out of the wide array of magazines that covered the coffee table. And these magazines weren’t the usual collection of science, tech and current affairs periodicals that Q kept around the house, nor were they the sports and fashion monthlies that the agent occasionally picked up during his travels.
They were wedding magazines. Lots of them.
Once he’d recovered from his initial shock, Q came to sit cross-legged on the floor next to his partner, who was yet to look at him. For a while, the pair sat together without speaking, as Bond continued his craft project. But eventually, recognising that he wasn’t going to win this stand-off, Q broke the silence.
“So… James… what the hell are you doing?”
The older man took his time to finish sticking down a picture (of a highly tasteful navy and white table setting, in case you were wondering), before sitting back to lean against the sofa behind them.
“Thought it was obvious. I’m wedding planning.”
Q opened his mouth to speak, but was cut-off before he could make a sound.
“Not sure why I’m bothering though. Since you evidently don’t care about our marriage.”
For the third time that day, Q was totally fucking confused. And for the third time that day, he really didn’t like it. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, hoping for some kind of mental clarity. He found none.
“I’m sorry, what? Where did you get that idea?”
“I believe your exact words were ‘just a piece of paper’.” Bond was still yet to look at the younger man.
With a sinking feeling in his stomach fit for the Titanic, Q understood. “Oh. That.” He angled his body sideways to look directly at James. “I didn’t mean that. I was just trying to get M off our backs.”
Finally, Bond cast half a cold gaze at his partner. ‘Really? You’re a better actor than I thought.”
Q narrowly restrained an eye roll. “Of course I didn’t mean it. You know I want to marry you.”
“For the legal benefits, apparently, but- ”
It was Q’s turn to interrupt. “No. Don’t be ridiculous. I want to marry you because I love you. I want to marry you because I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I mean, the legal benefits won’t hurt, as our most recent stays in Medical demonstrated, but that’s not it. I want to marry you because… because I do.” He snorted lightly. “There we are, look, I’m already practising the key words.”
Bond’s body still hadn’t relaxed, a pout still fixed on his lips. Q had no choice but to do what he did best in these situations: he kept talking. “You know how I panic when it comes to my professionalism being under attack. It’s probably the whole ‘Six’s youngest quartermaster’ thing. Or the threat of my old hacking charges resurfacing, I don’t know. That’s for therapy to deal with. So I did what I’m doing right now, and I started wittering on, and apparently in the process I’ve given you the idea that I’m marrying you for the money or some such shit.”
There was the most minute quirk at the corner of James’s mouth. One eyebrow raised slightly as he turned towards Q, just a little. “Are you not here for my fortune?”
“Oh honey, if anyone’s a golddigger here, it’s you. I’ve a few lucrative patents.”
(Dear reader, never has there been more of an understatement.)
“So you should be able to understand that I said yes, that I’m wearing your ring, because I love you completely and utterly. Totally. Entirely. Far far too much, though it’ll never be enough for how perfect you are.”
Bond huffed a laugh. “Don’t exaggerate.”
“I’m not exaggerating. I mean, yes, you might not be perfect in the conventional sense. Well, your appearance is. And your arse, that’s scientifically perfect. But all the rest? All the rest that makes you who you are? Well, I’ve never been interested in conventional. Far too dull. I’ll take you any day, a thousand times, with all your moods and borderline alcoholism and your baseless bias against the cats and terrible taste in music. That’s perfect for me, thank you very much.”
At last, the latent adrenaline seeped from the agent’s body. He looked properly at Q, his gaze devoid of its previous ice. “You’re not so bad either.”
Q smiled wryly. James was taken back to the first time he’d seen that expression, when he’d first been introduced to his new quartermaster on a gallery bench. It felt like a lifetime ago. How had anything existed before then?
“Why, thank you, James. I’m flattered.”
“Maybe more than not bad. Much more bloody perfect than I deserve. Even in those cardigans.” Bond nudged the younger man gently.
“Another word like that and I’ll wear one for the wedding.”
James reached up one hand to cup Q’s chin. “You wouldn’t dare.” He pressed the softest kiss to those ridiculously red lips, hoping to wipe away the pointless conflict of the day.
He succeeded.
When they broke apart, Q turned to examine the fruit of Bond’s labours.
“So, what’s your vision for the wedding of the year, Mr Bond?”
James’s brow furrowed in mock affront. “Of the century, dear, surely. Potentially the millenium.”
And with that, the agent started a detailed explanation of the surprising number of pictures that he’d collected.
We’d better leave them to it. Spoilers, you know?