Chapter Text
Q watches Bond walk away. It's the usual swagger, the agent with his hands in his pockets, smug smile firmly in place.
But he's still walking away.
Q turns back to his laptop, smile from their shared banter gone. His fingers drifted over the keyboard. He doesn't know why he does this to himself.
Moneypenny was approaching now, pausing to talk to Bond at the door. They're both smiling, flirting, and Q pushes down the sting. He doesn't know why Moneypenny chose this. He was trapped here, weighed down by wires and metal and data. His mind too big for his body. He thought he'd be satisfied, here.
Bond finally leaves, and Moneypenny walks up to him, smiling warmly, folder in her hands. He tries to smile back, but when her smile fades, he know he hasn't succeeded.
He's not even surprised anymore.
She tilts her head, gaze concerned. “Are you all right, Q?”
He gives his smile another shot. “Perfectly fine, thank you, Moneypenny. Is there something I can do for you?”
She's frowning now, and he knew that this attempt was a failure too. “Q, I can see you're not okay. Do you want to talk about it?”
Q feels his gaze flicker towards the door. Which it shouldn't have done. Gave everything away. This was why he was here, and people like Bond and Moneypenny were out there.
Trained agent that she is, she catches it. She looks towards the door, confused, but then she gets it. She looks at him more closely. “It's not...is it Bond?”
Q tries to return his attention back to his laptop. “It's nothing.”
Moneypenny isn't convinced. She's examining him, and he fights not to let everything show.
“He's not doing anything to you, is he? I mean, I'm aware of how he can be, but I thought you two got on? You make an excellent team. Is there a problem between you two?”
Q's shoulders sag. “No. There's no problem. As you said, we make an excellent team. Where exactly would the problem lie?” He tries to keep his tone light, smile at her, but he's not fooling anyone.
“Q,” she says softly. She's giving him a soft look, sympathetic, and of course, she can see right through him.
He shakes his head. “It's nothing. Nothing that will affect our work. There's no need to worry.”
Moneypenny sighs at him, looking a touch less sympathetic and more exasperated now. “It's not your work I'm worried about,” she says sternly.
That takes him aback a little. Of all things, he wasn't expecting that.
She must catch how his eyes have widened, as she softens again. “Do you want to talk about it? You can come to my place, after work. I'm willing to listen.”
Q doesn't know how to respond to that. He licks his lips, trying to figure out what the appropriate response is. He can't find one.
Moneypenny gives him a firm look. “You're coming over. If you don't, I know where to find you.”
He gives her huge, innocent eyes, and she laughs at that.
After that, it's all talk of missions and work, and Q sinks back into the rhythm of things. And if the thought of a certain double-oh pops into his head every now and then? Well, he's used to it by now.
Doesn't stop it hurting though.
Moneypenny's apartment is warm and cosy, very well suited to her. It's also very neat, and Q feels conspicuously out of place on her sofa, his hair every which way, cardigan lopsided. But he knows his manners, and thanks her as she hands him a cup of Earl Grey.
He didn't even know she had Earl Grey.
Moneypenny sits back, tucking her feet underneath her, and fixes him with a look. “So. Talk.”
Q gazes resolutely into his cup. “About what?” he asks.
She doesn't buy it. “Bond.”
He deflates. He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to talk about this at all. He glances up at her, and she looks genuinely concerned now, all soft eyes and warmth.
Q doesn't know where to start. “I thought I'd be happy,” he finds himself saying.
He doesn't know where it's come from, or how to continue. He doesn't know an alarming amount of things, these days.
Moneypenny, or Eve as he should be calling her at the moment, just tries to look encouraging. “Go on,” she says gently.
Q takes a sip, trying to find words for what's been hollowing him out from the inside.
“I thought that my life, being Q, the quartermaster, the behind-the-scenes man, would be fine. That it was all I wanted. I thought I'd be more than comfy, sitting at a laptop with my tea, world at my fingertips. But then he... I suppose I changed. One can only blame outside influences so much. The change has been within me. I'm what's different.”
“Outside influences,” repeats Eve. “Bond.”
It's not even a question. Q nods, hands wrapped around the cup. “That's right. It was...frustrating. I've read his file, all of it, which is no easy thing, which you know, of course you do, but I-”
He takes a breath, a fortifying sip.
Eve waits patiently.
“Meeting someone in person is always different from just reading about them. I know that. I've managed it perfectly fine before. You, the old M, the new one. But 007...”
He closes his eyes, and he can see Bond before him, smirking, tall and confident and solid. Immoveable. Irresistible. Both the opposing forces combined in one.
“Suddenly, I didn't feel enough. Like I was enough. I've always been good enough before, been perfectly content with who I am, what I do. But looking at him, I mean, talking to him. It's maddening.”
Suddenly he has to put the cup down, finds a space on Eve's table. He puts the cup down, and brings his hands up to his face, fingers sliding up under his glasses to press at his eyes.
“He talks to me,” he says, muffled slightly in the palm of his hands. “But he doesn't... I'm not, I'm not someone, to him. I'm...just a letter. Just Q. The quartermaster. Someone who gives him things, then reprimands him for loosing them. I don't register to him, other than that. And it's destroying me.”
He hears Eve shift, movement from the sofa she's on, but he shakes his head. “It's entirely ridiculous. I'm aware of this. But it- It's making me want to be a field agent. Making me want to be something other than what I actually am, and I can't, I know I can't. I am Q. I am the Quartermaster of MI6.”
Something in that strengthens him. He lets his hands fall to his lap.
Eve is quiet, and he looks at her, offers a small smile. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “It seems I did need to talk about it.”
She doesn't look like she thinks he's any better though, mouth turned down. She swallows, licks her lips. “I...I'm sorry, Q. I don't think he goes in for men. I hadn't... I didn't realise you...that you felt that way.”
He shakes his head, sitting back up. “It's all right. I'm aware that he'll never look at me that way. And I actually feel better now. What I said is true. I am who I am, and that is Q. Trying to change myself for the attention of some hopped up double-oh is both foolhardy and impossible, at best. I believe I'll be all right, now.”
Eve doesn't look convinced, but she works up a smile for him. It's a lot better than when he tries. “You're right. You're perfectly brilliant as you are, Q.”
Q picks up his cup and toasts her with it. “To being one's self.”
“I have a surprise for you, Q.”
He doesn't look up from his laptop, pleased to find that his usual desire to turn round and look at Bond instantly is muted this morning. “If it's that you've returned one of your weapons intact, that will be a surprise indeed, 007.”
A hand bearing one of his coded Walthers appears in front of him, scratched, dirty, but in one piece. He feels inordinately pleased.
“Ah, excellent,” he says, taking it from Bond's relaxed grip, resisting the temptation to prolong the contact. “Does it still work?”
“Indeed it does.” Bond moves to stand round beside him, and Q almost spares a moment to wonder why exactly the agent was standing directly behind him in the first place, but his focus is on the gun in his hand. He fits it into his own hand, and watches, pleased, as two of the lights come up green.
“Excellent, excellent,” he hums. “Not in perfect condition, but easily repairable. I am astonished, 007.”
He looks up to smile at Bond, and is surprised to find Bond staring at him, brow furrowed. He raises his eyebrows. “Problem, Bond?”
Bond tilts his head towards the gun. “I thought it was coded to my grip only.”
There's a note of disapproval to his voice, and Q tuts at him.
“Really, Bond. Firstly, these weapons are my make, and I would intensely dislike being unable to use them. Secondly, I like to at least test them before I send them out into the world with an agent's life in the balance. And thirdly, it may have escaped your notice Bond, but I don't exactly get out often, so I don't know why you're worried.”
He was rather hoping Bond would stop frowning at him, possibly smile. But instead his frown has deepened.
How vexing.
Bond glances down at the gun again, and then back up. “So, you mean to tell me you hand test all the guns you send out?”
Ah. Damn. Um. “Not at all. Just the print coded ones. I don't have all that much time, 007.”
If he was hoping that would dissuade Bond from his line of questioning, it seems he had another thing coming.
“And how many, Q,” says Bond, all gravel smooth, the bastard, “Are print coded?”
Q focuses on the gun, hoping to put up a work front. “Not all that many, obviously.”
Not many at all, actually. Bond is the only one who gets them. But he's really really hoping to avoid that bit of information ever reaching Bond.
To his relief, Bond changes tack, to a degree. “I must admire your dedication, Q. But would it not be better to get an actual marksman to test the guns? Someone who knows what he's doing?”
Q gives Bond a very cool look, unsurprised to see that Bond has settled back into their usual sparring games, smiling smugly at him.
He lifts an eyebrow. “And what, 007, makes you think that I do not know what I'm doing?”
Bond shrugs, casual, looking away as he leans on the tall desk. “Well, not exactly your area of expertise, is it Q? Real guns are somewhat different from those in video games.”
Q continues to just look at Bond as he beckons two of his aides over. He only turns away once they get there.
He hands one of them the gun. “Get this cleaned, fix it if you can. If not, leave it for me to do.”
He steps back from his computer and waves at it to the other aide. “Continue with this. Let me know if anything comes up. I'll be in the firing range.”
Bond is full on smirking at him now, pleased to have goaded him into a challenge he's certain Q will fail.
Well, he has another thing coming.
As they walk together, Q feels a little proud of himself, and makes a note to have something nice sent to Moneypenny. If this had happened a couple of days ago, he'd have been working himself into a proper state at the moment. As it is, the small swell of hope he feels is perfectly manageable.
He can do this. And up Bond's with a rusty fork.
Hah.
Bond moves up to get to the door to the armoury before Q, and then ceremoniously pulls it open, bowing with an elegant gesture. Q takes it with all dignity, chin held high as he sweeps through.
It's empty, and Q doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Now something could happen, and that's exactly what he's worried about.
Also, the fact that something could happen, but probably won't. He fixes his gaze on the wall of guns, trying to pull himself out of the drag of depression. He was doing so well.
Under Bond's cool gaze, he selects a plain Glock, checking the clip and chamber with ease. He looks up, arching his eyebrow, asking a silent question.
Bond purses his lips. “Well, it seems you aren't at a complete loss then.”
Q gives him a withering look, and steps up to the mark. He dons the glasses and earmuffs, and steadies himself, lifting the gun.
Bond's a fool. Sometimes.
It's easy to slip into that white noise necessary for him to shoot. The gun's weight is familiar, comfortable. This is going to be perfect.
He fires off six shots.
He smiles.
Q pulls off the earmuffs, takes the glasses off. He looks at Bond.
Bond is frowning at the target.
Q looks back at it. Six shots ring the heart. He can do better, he knows, group the shots more tightly. But he felt like something neat.
Bond is looking at him now, and Q raises his eyebrows.
“Really, 007. I'm the Quartermaster. Which means I'm a weapons expert. Obviously, I favour cyber weaponry, but it doesn't make me any less of a marksman. Even out of video games.”
He turns away, replaces the gun on the wall. He's pleased with himself, for his ability to surprise Bond and his good shooting, if nothing else.
Dusting off his hands, Q turns back. And stills.
Bond is examining him. Thoroughly. As in, is genuinely looking at him.
Seeing him.
Q doesn't know what to do.
Once again, this is becoming frighteningly common.
Bond finally pushes off the wall he was leaning against and comes towards him. Q knows better than to back up, knows how to deal with Bond, except this is an entirely new situation and he's a little lost. Couldn't Bond have stayed over there?
Bond stops alarmingly close, right in his personal space. Which, granted, is perhaps a little bigger than most peoples, but he is a genius, he has rights to be eccentric.
He tries to hide the fact that he needs to swallow, but fails miserably as Bond's gaze flicks down to where his adams apple bobs above his collar.
“Something you require, 007?” he asks, all too aware of the way his voice is not quite level.
Bond brings his gaze back up again, pausing momentarily on Q's mouth, which is...
He wishes he knew.
“I wouldn't say require, Q. More, I would like.”
Bond's voice is frustratingly gravel deep, and Q struggles with himself. He wants to step back away from Bond. He's figured everything out, he was settling down, he had got over this infuriating man. So why was all this happening now?
He doesn't step back.
“Would like what, exactly, Bond?”
Lips turning up at the corner, Bond leans in a little closer. “I think I'd like to take you to bed.”
Q's blood runs cold.
He steps back.
Bond, who was just leaning in further, almost stumbles, and there's a flare of petty triumph in Q's stomach. But it fades quickly.
Now he just feels slightly broken.
“If that is all,” he says softly, lowering his gaze from Bond's look of surprise, “Then no.”
This is not what he wanted. This is not what he wanted at all.