Chapter Text
I
It was a blessedly quiet morning at Q Branch, and sweeter still for its rareness. 007 had made it back late the previous night from Sri Lanka; 004 was still en-route to Delhi and not due to land for several hours; 006 had just checked in from Madrid; and 001 had been in touch with R from Gdansk. All in all, it was a lovely moment of calm. Q thought he could indulge himself a bit, and did something he very rarely allowed himself. He accessed his personal e-mail at work.
Q opened the files that had been attached to the latest e-mail he'd received, and smiled. He took another sip of his tea, and started to browse through the photographs; they were many, and he lingered over several, pausing in particular to peruse the ones where it was just him and Geraldine, the baby pressed against his chest protectively, and his nose nuzzling the back of her head.
She was an absolute angel, and Q felt a very acute twinge of longing at the sight of them together. It was a bit over a week since the photos had been taken, and he hadn't seen her since.
“Getting broody, Quartermaster?”
Bond.
Q didn't flinch because that would have been unprofessional. Instead, he turned to look at the newcomer with a very unimpressed frown. It was a look he had come to perfect over his months long acquaintance with this particular double-oh.
“Such remarks could be construed as workplace harassment, Double-oh Seven,” he said mildly.
Not that he expected Bond to care. He seemed to treat everyone, perhaps barring his fellow double-ohs, with the same flippant disregard, but that didn't mean Q had to like it. And if Bond thought he could waltz in and make stereotyping remarks about child-broody Omegas to his technical superior, well, he had another think coming.
“No such sentiment intended, Q,” Bond said. He narrowed his eyes at the monitor; Q belatedly remembered that he had left the last photo in full view. “Cute pup. Not yours, I presume?”
Q gave him another one of his unimpressed looks. “Hardly, Double-oh Seven.”
The photograph in question was perhaps a bit too revealing, he thought; his lips were pressed to the pup's perfect, downy cheek, face full of utter adoration. One could perhaps forgive Bond for suspecting him of getting broody; he did look the part. Q closed the photograph and took a fortifying breath. Bond had been coming down to his branch more often these past few months, and Q still didn't quite know how to deal with the him.
First, Bond was an Alpha – one old-fashioned enough to exude an unapologetically imperial air of command about him wherever he went. Q refused to back down an inch before any agent, but it was inarguably hard to stand one's ground when Bond went into full Alpha-mode.
Second, Bond was also interested. He had caught the first whiff of interest as early as their first meeting in the National Gallery, where they had sized each other up and traded banter to get some idea of each other. Q almost dreaded to think what Bond had made of his scent – his unbonded status, certainly; his sex, without a doubt; and perhaps even the elusive whiff of being quite taken with the legendary James Bond.
No, Double-oh Seven wasn't the handsomest man around, even among the agents, but he was built, and deadly, and so utterly Alpha; it was quite unparalleled in his previous experience.
Oh, it was entirely possible that Q was sporting a crush of his own. Eve certainly thought so, pulling faces at him whenever Bond was mentioned, and going as far as to extol his virtues to such an extent that Q couldn't help but laugh. (“You'll never get me to believe you'd shag him. You're both Alphas, you'd be much more likely to bite him than to kiss him!” “Oh, I don't know. Have you seen that body of his?” And yes, Q had noticed.)
“So what brings you by, Double-oh Seven? I wasn't aware you needed to be equipped for anything.”
“Me neither, Q. I was just passing by and wanted to see if you had anything interesting going on.”
Q's lips twitched despite himself. Bond was a pain in the arse, but he did have his charm. “Define 'interesting'. Nothing explosive in the works, no. However I have just received the latest prototype of the recording contact lenses for final testing. They're kinetic, and charge themselves on saline. They also come in several colours.”
Not that they came in the improbable hue of Bond's eyes.
“Do you need a test subject?” Bond asked nonchalantly, hands stuffed in his trousers pockets. He didn't look disappointed when Q told him no.
“I'm testing them myself. The best part is that they actually also work as a seeing aid,” Q said, pushing up his glasses. He took in the speculative look on Bond's face and sighed. “And what now?”
“I'm just trying to imagine you without those glasses.”
Q almost blushed. “Well don't,” he said. “I'll be wearing the lenses at home, mostly.”
Now it was Bond's turn to almost smile. “And when do you ever go home, Q? I come in at six am, you're here. I come in at ten pm, you're here. Please don't tell me you call your office 'home'.”
“I do have an actual apartment, Bond, but thank you for your concern,” Q said, blinking. “Now shoo. The morning shift is arriving in ten minutes. They don't need you hovering over them the first thing in the morning.”
“I do no such thing,” Bond protested.
Q gave him a sceptical look and indicated with a flicker of his eyes that Bond was actually standing less than two feet away from him and, thanks to being slightly taller, almost crowding the Quartermaster. Bond stepped back, looking slightly chastised.
“I am likely leaving for Turkey next Monday,” Bond said suddenly. “M was hinting strongly at it.”
“Really? I've heard no such thing.” Q's fingers flew over his keyboard as he drew up Bond's mission files, that the ones he knew Tanner updated personally (and somewhat obsessively). There was no new file set up; Q frowned, wondering what was going on.
“I've heard no such thing either,” Bond said, tongue in cheek. “It was all in between the lines. Subtext, if you will.”
“Well, once it stops being subtext and manifests into actual reality do stop by again, Double-oh Seven,” Q said. “I'll make sure to have something for you. Not your exploding pen, just to pre-empt your next question – which is getting somewhat tedious, one should mention.”
“You don't go for that sort of thing any more, I know,” Bond said. “Which just begs the question: what sort of thing do you go for?”
There it was again, the unstated interest. Q thought he did quite well in not reacting visibly.
“Workplace harassment, Bond,” he said absently, adjusting his glasses. “When have I ever sent you out in the field empty-handed?”
“Last time you sent me out with a radio and a bloody whistle,” Bond said, and Q had to fake a coughing attack.
“...because like I’ve told you a hundred times, and Tanner told you a million times, you were to rendezvous with a French agent just outside of London, and they were to equip you as per the agreement with M–”
“Except that it all went to hell right outside the Vauxhall station – and before you say it again, I'm not a stranger to the rush hour on the Tube.”
Q tried to stare him down, but was frankly a bit too aware of how gorgeous Bond looked when stubborn and riled up. He sighed and had to look away. Bond wasn't wrong.
“I'll personally hand you your gun before you leave for Turkey – or any other place, for that matter,” Q said. “That's a promise.”
He left it unsaid – because it would have been grossly unprofessional to say it – that he had quarrelled with M over not arming 007 for the mission himself; it rankled him to send out an agent unarmed, even if he knew his French colleagues to be competent enough. Only, 'competent enough' wasn't likely to keep a double-oh agent alive, Bond in particular. They had traded some heated words in M's office after the fiasco (after Bond had ended up in Medical and M had finally agreed to allow Q to personally mind Bond's equipment.)
Q wouldn't let that man die on his watch. And as far as Q was concerned, his watch wasn't over until 007 returned back to HQ after his mission.
“Thank you, Q,” Bond said, sounding genuine. “So, the pup? What's her name?”
Q was slightly thrown by the change of topic. “Geraldine Emily,” he said.
Bond nodded. “You look good with her,” he said. He left before Q could cite inappropriate workplace behaviour.
~
His sister Laura rang him after work, and before he knew it, Q had invited her over before Christmas, calculating mentally that he should be able to manage an extra day off from work, barring a global crisis. She was a student at the University of York, co-habiting with a partner. They didn't see each other that often, but Q still considered her the closest member of the family. She was the only one who knew that she worked for Six (not that she knew what his job description entailed; she likely thought he was one of the pencil-pushers).
Laura asked if he was dating anyone. She made sympathetic noises when Q told her that no, he didn't have the time, and outright laughed when Q rebuffed her suggestion of signing up for a dating site. He wasn't that desperate. Also, with his working hours, he simply didn't have the time to date. He barely had the time to have a private life at all, actually, or to do the things that he enjoyed during his off-hours.
He briefly toyed with the idea of telling her about Bond but decided against it, since there wasn't much to tell. For all he knew, Bond's interest was just a passing fancy, soon forgotten in favour of someone more suitable.
They said goodbyes after she made him promise to call more often, and let her know about his Christmas plans; he told her say hi to Luke, her fiancé.
He watched the news while he ate, going through his e-mail on his laptop for any urgent messages; there was a group e-mail to the branch leaders about upcoming employee evaluations (from Tanner), as well as a poll on the choice of venue for the upcoming annual Christmas Party celebrations (from Eve and the few others who were in the self-appointed 'fun committee'). Q decided they could all wait until office hours.
Thanks to the discussion with Laura, he couldn't help his thoughts returning to his own more intimate affairs.
He was young for a branch head. He was also something of a rarity, an Omega in a leading position with a large number of blindingly brilliant subordinates who hailed him as their Overlord (Q made sure it never ended up in writing; M already took him for an eccentric even without knowing all the details).
And he was also getting on a bit: twenty-six, partner-less, and pup-less.
Not for lack of wanting.
It had become something of an automatic reaction. A new agent was shown in, or a new colleague (never an employee, or an intern, that was a steadfast rule), or a new anyone, and he would take notice. Of their sex, and their status, and levels of possible interest. Most unbonded Alphas showed at least a little interest, but it didn't often lead to anything other than mild flirtation, intimidation, or very misguided attempts at 'showing him his place' (oh, did they ever come to regret that. Q took entirely too much pleasure in teaching them better).
Jack had been the last one to take him out for dinner, and they had talked about books and tech, and skirted around the issue of a family. Q had made it clear that he expected to keep working until it was physically too uncomfortable to continue doing so, and would return to work after the appointed parental leave to his job as a branch head. Jack had asked if his priorities should change after he had a pup to look after, and Q had expressed his opinion that since the pup would have two parents, the other father could pitch in to the pup's care in equal amount.
It was a rather progressive stance to take, he realised, especially after seeing the look on Jack's face.
A month later (with no more dinners), Jack had started to come in with a young intern straight out of uni; a few months after that, the intern's belly had started to grow, validating all the rumours. Q sometimes wondered if that could have been him if not for the parenting discussion, and then berated himself for even thinking about it.
Until Bond.
A well-known womaniser and a total Lothario. Flippant, irreverent. Apparently indestructible. Loyal to a fault. England's best knight.
And he hadn't once acted disdainful towards his young Omega Quartermaster. Sceptical, certainly, but their bickering before the Fighting Temeraire (or bloody big ship, as Bond had succinctly put it) had been more about establishing rapport than trying to cow a younger Omega into backing down. He had appeared amused by Q's comebacks and his unwillingness to give an inch, and that had morphed into professional respect during the whole Skyfall fiasco and afterwards.
And vice-versa. Q had heard ad nauseam about how hard 007 was to handle, how he was impossible to look after, stubborn to the level of absolute pig-headedness, and how M was considering cutting him loose at least once every mission. He was an absolute menace to the entirety of Q Branch, unmindful of the equipment and the fact that it actually cost to produce, hell-bent on raining destruction wherever he went.
After reading his mission files, Q could hardly blame him. It had always struck him odd that just because double-ohs had a licence to kill they were somehow expected to find their own lives expendable. The fact that Bond refused to do so was unfairly held against him. Bond fought tooth and nail and always came back, even when the powers that be sometimes rather wished that he didn't.
But Bond was interested. Somewhat subtly, but also unapologetically, interested.
They had some-what bonded after the whole Skyfall incident, where Bond had shown himself to have an obsession for Raoul Silva that ran almost as deep as Q's. He hadn't known that Bond had any knowledge in computers, but apparently the man could hack, and had accessed all their files on Silva. Bond blamed himself for M, Q blamed himself for Silva, and they shared a need to know all there was to this man that had almost brought Six to its knees.
Q blinked himself awake when the doorbell rang. He groaned and sat up from where he had fallen asleep on the couch, his laptop now asleep too on the coffee table. He brushed at his face with his hands, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, and ambled to the hallway. He took a cursory look through the eye hole.
He opened the door and went for his most unimpressed look. “Double-oh Seven.”
“Quartermaster.” Bond frowned at the sight of him, then honest-to-God grinned. “Are you testing those contact lenses of yours? Or did you just crawl out of bed?” He glanced pointedly at Q's hair which Q knew was standing up a bit more than usual.
“What's with your inappropriate comments, I'll never know,” Q said, “but yes, I am testing them. And yes, my hair looks like this because I want it to. I'm so sorry it always looks fabulous. Except no, I really am not.”
He leaned on the door frame and couldn't withhold a yawn, which effectively ended his rant. He didn't even bother asking how Bond knew where he lived. He had a tidy two bedroom apartment in Kensington – address classified information – inherited from the previous Q after his death. Maybe that was how? Only, he couldn't imagine Bond badgering poor old Boothroyd after hours about office matters.
Bond held his hands up in surrender. “Consider my head bitten off. Can I come in?”
Q shrugged and went back inside, leaving Bond to close the door behind them. He cast a quick look around his apartment, hoping that nothing too embarrassing or incriminating was on display. The door to his bedroom was slightly open, but the bed was made and he kept all of his toys hidden in the drawers anyway. There were no used underwear lying about (because he had just loaded the washing machine the day before) and the only clutter around were his books (several in progress) and a plethora of mugs on all available surfaces.
“To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” he asked, sitting down on the armrest of his little love seat.
Bond remained standing in the hallway; he was wearing a dark grey suit – the same he had been wearing that morning – now slightly dampened by rain. He looked very fit, and very alert. Q almost wanted to fidget under his stare.
“I'm just coming from HQ. I'm leaving to Morocco later tonight for a quick retrieval job. Return scheduled for the day after tomorrow. According to Tanner, there was no need to call you in because you supposedly have everything I need right here.”
“Wait, what?” Q blinked. “Okay, let's see.”
He rounded the couch and woke up his laptop, logging in and accessing Bond's mission files from the MI6 database. Tanner had already updated them.
“So you’re to retrieve a hard-drive from an agent stationed in Tangier. In-and-out. As if,” he muttered under his breath. “A standard kit should do it. Anything I need to know or take into account?”
Bond's brow quirked. “Such as?”
“Such as pulled muscles, old injuries playing up, whatever,” Q said seriously, his eyes flicking up from his laptop screen. “I'm not asking for fun, Double-oh Seven.”
“I never thought you were. Nothing new, I'm afraid. All in the medical files.”
“You know those files are confidential, I don't have access to them.”
“Do you really expect me to believe there is a single file in the MI6 database you don't have access to?” Bond asked. It was a rhetorical question and Q knew it. Q sometimes checked the files to see what the agents kept from him; apparently Bond had also guessed that he would.
“Fine. Stay there.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and accessed the hidden safe behind the framed Pulp Fiction poster across from his bed. He kept a standard issue Walther in there, just like Tanner knew that he did, and some ammo. It wasn't one of the fancy palm-coded ones, but it got the job done. He still hadn't issued Bond another one after he had fed it to some sort of lizard (not that he believed that particular fairytale, even if Eve too had vouched for it).
He returned to find that Bond still hadn't moved from where he was standing.
“I trust you have the radio?”
Bond nodded and Q handed him the gun. “Standard issue. Return everything in working order and I'll consider making you another palm-coded one.”
Bond nodded tersely and accepted the weapon, tucking it into the holster hidden near his armpit. Q noticed suddenly how close he was standing to the agent, but didn't want to draw Bond's attention to it, since he was leaving. Then Bond was looking at him, all concentration and danger. Q's heart did a little stutter inside his chest as he noticed the change in Bond's scent.
“Those glasses you wear day in and day out don't do your eyes any justice,” Bond said, and Q had to bite his lip from whimpering in response when he realised the precariousness of their situation.
This was an interested – all subtlety shot to hell – unbonded, very eligible Alpha alone in his flat with him, just a few feet from his bedroom, and suppressants or not, his body was taking definite notice. He swayed on his feet; suddenly Bond's arm was around his waist. This time Q did whimper, although he would deny it to his grave. He could have sworn Bond's pupils dilated at the sound, and he held very still, not daring to move a muscle.
Bond's eyes dropped to Q's mouth as he licked his lips despite himself, and tried to recall the branch head manual concerning interpersonal relationships and all the paragraphs about the estimated life expectancies of double-oh agents, but all he could think about was Bond's pheromones clouding the air about him.He almost couldn't breathe for fear of succumbing entirely.
“Christ, not now,” Bond muttered, yanking his arm back. Q had to stabilise himself against the wall as to avoid crumpling to the floor, his knees having forgotten how to hold him upright.
“I'll be back on Tuesday,” Bond said, eyes shockingly blue in the dim hallway. “We'll talk then.”
“I'll be in your ear until then,” Q said, and was relieved to hear that his voice sounded perfectly normal. It definitely didn't sound whimper-y, or like he wanted to roll over and present, at all.
“Tanner's handling me himself,” Bond said, sounding a bit regretful – or was that just wishful thinking on Q's part? “I imagine you'll have your hands full with Double-oh Six. He's causing trouble in Spain, last I heard.”
Q straightened himself. “Fine. Try not to get yourself killed in Morocco and I'll get you the specialized Walther for your mission in Turkey.”
Bond almost smiled at that. “Good night, Q.” His eyes flickered to the bedroom door and then back to Q so quickly that he could almost be certain it hadn't even happened.
Q bit his lip and cleared his throat. “Have a good one, Bond. I expect everything back in working order. Including yourself.”
Bond let himself out with an amused little snort. Q waited until the door closed after him to slide along the wall to sit on the floor. His heart was still pounding, and he took in several deep breaths to calm himself down. So Bond was no longer in the 'interested' category. He seemed to have taken a leap to 'intent on claiming'.