Chapter Text
Chopin’s ninth Nocturne filters via small, white buds into Q’s ears as his fingertips clammer against the keyboard. Q branch has an official home inside MI6’s new facilities: no longer in the basement, once more contained within a cube of glass and sterile surfaces. On quiet days, he’s permitted a moment of solace where this—a few hours of uninterrupted work, the luxury of using a personal music device—is possible. It’s been a month since the showdown on Westminster Bridge and Blofeld’s arrest, and also approximately thirty days since 007 has made contact with Q branch. Officially, of course. Unofficially, Q was the last person to see MI6’s most valuable agent.
The higher-ups (M, Tanner, and a series of dour-faced suits Q only ever sees in flashes between the opening and closing of doors during top secret meetings) have been placing firm, steady pressure to the back of Q’s neck regarding the whereabouts of 007. He’s been insisting that Bond is precisely where he’s supposed to be stationed, even though that’s the half-truth. Frequently, the agent strays and Q knows, even before consulting SmartBlood, that Bond is staying at some luxury resort on a remote beach in the Mediterranean, inside a lush suite, tangled in crisp sheets with Madeleine.
He jabs at the side of the device to turn up the music. Spine straightening (he always stands while coding, never sits), and rolling his neck until hearing the series of satisfying pops. He clears his throat, squints at the screen, and resumes rapid coding.
He’s been lying, is the point, and Tanner knows it. Somewhere in his thick MI6 file is the word collaborator, but that has always been the price tag of being James Bond’s one true confidant. Q knows this, and for years he’s unflinchingly carried the burden—until now.
Something broke in him the last time he saw the agent, when the elevator doors opened and he thought—stupidly, so stupidly—that something could happen between them. In retrospect, his optimism is humiliating. Of course Bond hadn’t wanted him. He’d wanted the bloody car—the Aston Martin—for his elopement with her. If Q tallies all the sacrifices he’s made: nearly giving himself a heart attack by boarding a plane to Austria, narrowly avoiding being gunned down by enemy agents and being sacked by M and quite possibly charged for treasonous acts against the Queen—it makes him dizzy and his face burns in embarrassment.
He’s been carrying on like a schoolboy with a crush. And Bond hasn’t ever thanked him. He’s comforted himself by imagining theirs is a partnership that needs no verbal reciprocation—the twinkle in Bond’s eyes and his knowing smirk are thanks enough—but the emotional starvation is a daily reminder this is untrue. He needs more. He needs Bond to acknowledge him beyond the times he comes to Q for favors.
Severing ties isn’t an option. This isn’t like the old days whenever Q developed a painful, unrelenting (and unreciprocated) crush, where he would simply disappear: quit, unfriend on social media, sever ties with a circle of friends, move to a different city. He’s stuck here with the specific job requirement of checking in with Bond every few hours, activating SmartBlood, and creating a largely fictionalized dossier of Bond’s activities (Yes, he’s been stationed in Athens, No he hasn’t fucked off to some gorgeous white beach) that he must then present to M with a straight face, and then field the obligatory onslaught of incredulous questions.
It’s because of this most recent rhythm that he is unsurprised when the desk’s intercom flashes white. He pauses the music, taps the incoming calls button, and says, “Q.”
“It’s Tanner. M wants to see you in his office.”
“Right, I’ll be there shortly.”
The doors whoosh open and Q steps out into the hallway, walks five paces, and turns right down another corridor just as Moneypenny strolls past him in the opposite directly. She’s wearing a peach pencil skirt and cream chiffon blouse. “Off to the gallows?” she greets. Tanner may have forgotten about their temporary comradeship during the harrowing Blofeld ordeal, but she has not. Moneypenny is, without question, his favorite person at MI6 and his chest loosens slightly upon seeing her. The sensation lasts for only a few seconds—just as long as it takes for their ships to pass, her heels clicking on the lacquered floor—but she must spot some hunted quality in his eyes because she adds, “I’ll come round in a bit to see you.”
“Cheers,” is the only response he can muster.
M is behind his desk, Tanner seated by a nearby window, both their chairs pointed at a lone seat located on the other side of the desk. As he crosses the room and sits, Q is reminded of a firing squad. “Thank you for coming,” M says, as though he had any choice in the matter, “I imagine you already know what this is about.”
“007,” Q says, not seeing a reason (yet) to lie. He adjusts his glasses and glances to Tanner, “Last I checked, he’s still stationed in Athens.”
“Q…” Tanner sighs, fidgeting in his seat. He looks exacerbated, “We know you’ve been making certain…accommodations for 007. We know you’re very fond of him.”
His brows arch, face warming at the implication. Has he been incredibly obvious this whole time? Does everyone know? Insecurity flushed out by a flare of anger. That’s rich, he wants to say, coming from two blokes who helped me lay a trail for Silva to follow back then when Bond needed us. In those days, Tanner collaborated without a second thought, and Mallory simply instructed them not to get nabbed by the Prime Minister. He’s noticed a theme with these two men, who are willing to join forces in the short-term, but are no where to be found when it’s Q’s head on the chopping block. “I wasn’t aware I’m the only one who’s fond of him,” he spits, casting a furious look Tanner’s way.
“I beg your pardon?” Tanner snaps, voice raising, knowing exactly the moment to which Q is referring.
“That’s enough,” M interrupts, palm raised, “No need to get defensive. You’re a superb quartermaster and your job is not in jeopardy.” Q relaxes minutely at this proclamation, though he remains mildly suspicious because M’s never actually paid him a compliment, “I realize I’ve placed you in a precarious position as Bond’s handler. He’s the best for a reason, not least of which is his inclination to break the rules, but then I pull you into these meetings in which you become a surrogate for all his censures.” He offers a weak smile. “Mixed messages, I suppose.”
Q opens his mouth, stunned. He’s been privately (and bitterly) thinking these things for so long that it’s utterly bizarre to hear M say them.
No matter. M continues: “We’re going to switch your job emphasis away from field agents to the in-house Double Os.”
Q stares at him for a moment, blinking owlishly. “But that’s what C wanted: to close down the Double O section—“
“We’re not closing it. MI6 will always need agents to squeeze triggers in the field, but we’re training a whole new generation who are better versed in computers, sciences, and maths. Because this unit is in its infancy, we’d like our quartermaster to devote his attention to these agents.”
“Think of them as a fusion of Q branch and the Double Os,” Tanner suggests, no longer of purple complexion.
He remains unconvinced, brow furrowing. “Once you have them, there won’t be much use for Q branch or the Double Os.”
“I doubt we’ll ever find a replacement for you or Bond,” M offers, smirking, but Q can’t help wondering if his praise is a form of misdirection. “MI6 is woefully underprepared for elite hackers. We saw that during the Silva breech,” he adds, and Q does not miss the subtle dig, the Silva ordeal having occurred when he’d only just become head of Q branch. “The in-house Double Os will be a sort of assistance program, deployable here when you need them, but also capable of support in the field.”
“We’d like you start with one of the in-house Double Os in a sort of pilot program, and then depending on how that goes, we’ll expand the program,” Tanner says.
“Who?” Q asks.
“009,” M says, plucking a pair of reading glasses from his desk and perching them at the tip of his nose as he reads an open file in front of him, “With whom you are already familiar.”
Q nearly cringes. He’s not as familiar with any of the Double Os as he is Bond, but his interactions with 009 have always had a particularly awkward element to them since Bond has a penchant for nicking the other agent’s mission tools, most recently the Aston Martin. “Uh, yes,” he articulately replies. Their interactions have been limited to a handful of words, hardly a solid foundation for a productive partnership.
“He’s brilliant,” Tanner volunteers, perhaps detecting that Q is weakly treading water, “Testing is off the charts. A master of coding and cryptology.”
“How are his field scores?”
Tanner shifts in his seat and looks to M, who smiles slightly and slowly closes the file. “As I said, we’re more concerned with developing hybrid agents with strengths in both fields.”
That means rubbish then. Or at least subpar. Not matching the standards of, say, a 007.
“He’s making improvements in the field,” Tanner says.
A Herculean effort not to roll his eyes, but some of the snideness bleeds through his question: “If he’s so brilliant, why does he need my help?”
Tanner and M share a wary glance, which interests him because he’s rarely seen either of them hesitate. “009 was red-flagged during one part in his psychiatric review. He has a borderline personality disorder. Our psychiatrist isn’t sure if it’s a mild form of autism, or perhaps Aspergers. He has a difficult time making interpersonal connections and it’s become a restriction on the job.”
“I’m not a trained psychiatrist,” Q scoffs.
“I understand that. What we’re asking of you is to go outside your comfort zone for the sake of the pilot program. You’re our best coder and hacker. You’re the head of Q branch. If 009 shows improvements working with you, we’ll know two things,” Tanner says, raising his pinky, “First, the program works,” up comes his ring finger, “And second, that 009 is capable of working with other agents in MI6.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Q sighs, “When have we ever coddled an agent like this?”
“He’s worth it, Q,” Tanner replies, with surprising sincerity, “Trust us. He truly is. We want him on board.”
He stares at Tanner for a moment, gaze sliding over to consider M. “I don’t suppose I have any say in the matter anyway.”
M smiles thinly. “Not really.”
He returns to his workstation and resumes listening to music whilst coding, though he can’t really focus because he’s replaying the bizarre meeting with M. A large part of him can’t squash the feeling that he (and the Double Os) will be replaced by these new hybrid agents. But then he secretly accesses 009’s file (full name: Alistair Turner), reads the full psychiatric report, and his paranoia is eased by the realization that the agent is, frankly, utterly inept at personal relationships. Judging by his daily itinerary, it seems MI6 keeps him largely locked away to do his calculations, but the handful of times he’s been permitted to roam about have been disasters.
Arrogant, smug, emotionally callous are just a few of the descriptors written in the additional notes section of his file. Seems incapable of processing or unwilling to acknowledge the feelings of others.
Q is so immersed in the file that he fails to detect Moneypenny entering the room. She appears at his side and mouths something. Q jumps and removes a bud, “Sorry, pardon?”
She gestures to the screen where there is an employee file photo of 009. “I said, he’s an odd one.”
He pulls the other bud from his ear and turns to face her. “You know 009?”
“Of course,” she smirks, easing onto the corner of his desk. “Back when I worked in the field. The first thing he said to me was, ‘I didn’t think women could be field agents.’”
“Christ,” Q sighs, “I’ve been charged with babysitting him.”
She winces. “Rotten luck, though I’ve heard he’s quite brilliant. He’s just, you know..” She glances over her shoulder, to make sure they’re alone, and then leans close to conspiratorially whisper, “A bit of a wanker.”
Q chuckles and shakes his head as he clicks out of the file. The last thing he needs is for a superior to catch him snooping in someone’s classified file. “I imagine this is my punishment for helping 007,” he smiles weakly.
The words seem to stir Moneypenny’s memory of their brief interaction in the hallway. “I wanted to ask…” she begins, head cocked to the side, eyes soft and probing in a way that makes Q’s face warm, “What’s been going on with you? You’ve seemed…off.” She means his skittish behavior, which is really only the surface of his suffering. Unbeknownst to the likes of Moneypenny, he’s also been suffering from insomnia and lack of appetite. “Is it about James?” Her intuition, and the use of Bond’s first name (an intimidate act), surprise him. His head snaps up, eyes widened beneath the lenses. Moneypenny has always been clever like that. She should be an interrogator.
He thinks quickly, willing his tongue to deny it. “No, it’s just…work. I’ve been overwhelmed.”
There’s a wisdom in her gaze, perhaps a little pity too. She sees through him, and the thought makes his cheeks burn. “Can I give you a bit of advice?” she asks, and he’s so terrified that all he can do is nod. “Find a life outside of James.”
“I’m not—“ he objects, but she silences him with a quirk of her brows.
Please, she seems to say, Don’t insult us both.
“I’m speaking from personal experience,” she says. “One day, I woke up and thought: sod it, I’m not waiting around for him anymore. And I moved on. I’m seeing other people now.”
Q looks down to the keyboard, moving it minutely and then sliding it back to its previous location. Of course, he’d known about Moneypenny and Bond’s fling, just as he’s known about all of Bond’s dalliances. But it’s news to him that she ever lost sleep over the agent. “He’s such a wanker,” Q mumbles.
Her hand is cool atop his. “Yes, but you mustn’t let Bond destroy your life. You’ve sacrificed too much for him already.”
A timid glance to her face, which is just as radiant and compassionate as he feared. “I feel so pathetic.”
“No,” she insists, grip tightening on his hand, “Your attention will be appreciated elsewhere.”
“Why does he get to do whatever he likes?” he mumbles bitterly, unable to stop his brain from conjuring an image of a bathing suit-clad Bond reclined on a sunny beach. “With her…” he adds, feeling petty and small for hating Madeleine. After all, it’s not her fault his heart is broken, but still Q feels wildly jealous.
He self-consciously glances towards the door through which the outside corridor is visible. No one is walking past the room. All of this is terribly unprofessional, gossiping while they’re at work, but Q literally has no one else with whom he can talk about Bond. If anyone understands wasting time on the agent, it’s Moneypenny.
“Oh, darling, do you really think that will last?” she teases, her hand withdrawing.
Q looks up as she begins to laugh. “What do you mean?”
By the time he asks the question, her chuckle has blossomed into a full-blown cackle. She slides off his desk and saunters towards the sliding glass doors. “He’ll be back within the month. Alone.”
The next morning, Q is desperately attempting to balance a tray of two coffees (breakfast) and a sack containing a raspberry scone (lunch, possibly dinner) as he walks through the doors and passes a cluster of Q branch minions, who each rattle off a series of requests. Most of it is white noise, though a short blond lad breaks through the static: “Sir, the engineers are waiting on your approval of the modified Aston Martin, since we were…unable to clear the last one.” Code for: Since Bond nicked the last one.
“Uh, yes. Very good. Tell them I’ll be at the testing station shortly,” he says on the way to his desk, sacred space that the underlings know not to sully with their presence. Save for one, apparently. There’s a man standing by his workstation, curiously examining the screen of his laptop. “Can I help you?” Q spits, setting down the cups and sack on the desk.
He doesn’t recognize 009 until the man turns to face him. “We were scheduled to meet at 0800 hours,” he greets, pointedly, because Q is five minutes late to work and assumed no one would notice or dare to censure him.
“I missed my train,” Q mumbles, waiting for the agent to step to the side so he can commandeer the computer. He deliberately doesn’t apologize.
009 waits quietly, even though Q isn’t doing anything of grave importance—simply signing into the MI6 mainframe and checking his inbox, which can wait. He’s trying to remember his last interaction with 009: how the man looked, what was said, how he reacted to the disappointing news that 007 had, once again, stolen his field items. He can recall only the vaguest of descriptions: tall, broad in the shoulders (which describes 99 percent of all field agents), Caucasian, dark blond hair, blue eyes, an odd, clipped way of speaking. Odd. That’s the word that continues to fly about inside his head, maybe because Moneypenny was the one to release it there. He’s unable to expand the characterization because he’d been too preoccupied with Bond at the time.
There’s a message from M in his inbox: Good morning, Q. 009 should be at your work station by now (he’s very punctual). Please print two copies of the attached cryptology quiz. You and 009 are to solve the quizzes on your own, one question each day, until the quiz is complete. Every morning, you will meet to discuss your findings.
Q downloads the attachment and recognizes it immediately as the GCHQ Christmas quiz, a series of questions designed as fun brainteasers for the cryptologists. Fun, in the loosest possible terms, solvable to perhaps only five percent of the British population, enjoyable to less than that. Q solved his first Christmas quiz when he was twelve.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he mumbles, angrily jabbing command and “P” on his keyboard, sending the first question to print.
009 gazes over his shoulder, “Why don’t we simply solve the entire quiz in one day? That’s more efficient.”
Q sighs, deleting M’s email. He can’t think of a reason to lie. “The exercise is meant to help you socialize. It’s not about getting the answers correct. I’ll be judging you based on our interactions.”
“Oh…” the man replies, gaze shifting from the screen to Q’s face. He dimly registers that 009 looks very young. He’d missed that before. Some would probably describe him as handsome. “Because I’m difficult.”
Q almost smirks until he realizes 009 is being perfectly serious. “Uh, yes.”
He nods, unoffended, simply processing the information. “I’ve read your file too. Very impressive.” 009 looks at him, perhaps waiting for Q to react with gratitude, but he simply stares back at the man. Of course he’s impressive. He’s the head of Q branch. The agent apparently interprets his silence as a request for more information. “Top of your class at the University of Oxford at age fifteen, youngest head of Q branch in the history of MI6—”
“I know what my file says,” Q sighs, slipping away a few paces to fetch the quizzes from the nearby laser printer.
He returns to the work station and hands one copy to 009 as he says, “You’ve also had more red flags than any head of Q branch, mostly for the Silva debacle and 007’s indiscretions—I hope he’s enjoying the car, by the way—”
“I’d be very mindful of who you’re talking to,” Q spits, annoyed with the agent, but also himself for allowing his hackles to be raised so soon, so easily. It was the mention of Bond. He doesn’t want to think about the agent right now.
009’s mouth closes and he nods. “I apologize. I spoke out of turn.” He sounds like a man who is reciting a script the psychiatrist had him memorize so he would have something to say whenever he made a conversation terribly awkward.
“Just…do the bloody quiz and report back tomorrow,” Q mumbles, feeling exhausted and miserable all at once. It’s barely a quarter past eight o’clock and he already wants to go home and burrow under the blankets of his bed.
009 lingers, and Q is beginning to wonder if he’ll have to give a direct order for the man to leave, when suddenly he says, “Right. See you tomorrow,” and is gone.
There are too many people crowded on the platform for him to make the first train, so he waits for the second and barely makes it on that one, the majority of his commute spent with his nose practically mashed against the glass window of the door. He increases the volume on his phone (Chopin blaring into his ears) and closes his eyes, breathing and meditating so he can complete the journey without having an embarrassing panic attack in public. The anxiety inspired by the crush of rush hour reminds him of flying to Austria, and how he’d managed his fear by repeating to himself that he was making the journey to help Bond.
He trudges off the train and up the stairs into a mist of rain. Coat clutched miserably to his throat, he hurries up the street and jogs up the steps of his building, opening the front door and scaling a single flight up. He opens the second door into his flat and Heisenberg greets him first, as per usual. The little tabby pitifully whines at his feet as he bends down to scratch behind her ears in greeting. “Hello, I know,” he sighs, locking the door and leaning down to unlace his shoes.
All the commotion summons Babbage, the tuxedo cat lumbering over from his spot by the parlor window to not-too-subtly rub himself along Q’s legs. “I know, I know,” he soothes, petting him too. He drops his messenger bag by the door and hangs up the damp jacket on a hook so it will dry. “Let’s get dinner,” he sings, hurrying to the kitchen to pop open a can and crouch by their feeding dishes to dole half to Heisenberg and the other half to Babbage. The meowing ceases as soon as he does so, giving way to silent carnage as the cats bury their faces in the dishes.
Q leans against the counter, watching them eat, and quietly reflecting on his day. “Still no word from James,” he says to the cats, which is only slightly less depressing than if he was talking to himself. “Probably off shagging Madeleine,” he adds, sighing, with a glance to the refrigerator. He should make himself some dinner, but he’s so tired. All he wants to do is curl up in bed and go to sleep. The field test of the new Aston Martins didn’t go well. There’s something wrong with the engine, and one of the engineers commented it would be much easier to know what the problem is if Q hadn’t allowed 007 to abscond with the original model. He hadn’t used those words, naturally. At the time, the engineer used euphemisms and delicately danced around the subject, but everyone knew what he meant. Another humiliation. “Daddy is an idiot,” he sadly informs the cats.
He can’t remember the last person he kissed. Squinting into the distance, Q thinks it might have been some bloke at a New Year’s Ever party ages ago during the in-between years post-graduation and pre-MI6. And you know the last time you had sex, his brain scoffs. Considering you’ve only done it twice. Twice, with the same person. His only boyfriend: Peter. If he can’t recall the last kiss, he certainly can’t remember the last time he has sex with Peter because it was years ago. One might imagine, having only completed the act twice, that memories of both times would be seared into his memory in precious detail, but sadly this is not the case. He had to drink copious amounts of alcohol in order to relax enough to have sex, hence his muddled memories.
He stares across the kitchen island into the parlor. His flat is in a desirable area of London, located in a former warehouse that has been sectioned off into stylish units for working singles; the decor best described as eccentric chic, but really he simply enjoys shopping at flea markets. He likes furniture with a soul. Located in the center of his coffee table is a sad Charlie Brown-style Christmas tree with tiny ornaments designed to scale for the evergreen dwarf. Originally, he thought the tree would be a funny tongue-in-cheek commentary on the modern life of a single man, but now it’s just sad. There are two wrapped gifts at the base, one for each cat, but both containing the same thing: catnip-filled toys.
“And now I’m babysitting 009,” he adds. Briefly, Babbage looks up at him, licks his mouth, and dives back into the small pile of food. Q nods slowly. That’s about the amount of interest he would expect an independent party to have in his life. “I’m off to bed,” he sighs, exiting the kitchen.
It’s not until he’s dressed in Gingham pajamas and under the covers that he remembers the quiz. “Bugger, bugger, bugger,” he grumbles, storming back to the front door to wrestle the sheets of paper from his bag and transport them back to the bedroom where the cats are already curled at the foot of the bed. Q turns on the bedside lamp, puts on his glasses, and lays on his back, considering the first question.
1. While clearing up after a Christmas party, the paper inserts from some crackers were found on one of the tables. They were arranged in order and the inscription reads:
FROM PERSONAL EXPERIENCE;
HABIT THAT HAS BECOME INSTINCTIVE;
FEET TURNED OUTWARDS WITH HEELS TOUCHING;
THE FUNDAMENTAL CONCEPTS ON WHICH A METHOD IS BASED;
AN ALTERNATIVE, ESPECIALLY AN AGENDA WHICH IS CONSENSUS-BASED;
PEOPLE OR THINGS GROUPED TOGETHER AS THE BEST;
A CHANGE OF OPINION AFTER RECONSIDERING SOMETHING;
COVERING DAMAGE SUFFERED BY A PERSON OTHER THAN THE INSURED;
THE HEALING OF A WOUND BY NATURAL CONTACT OF THE PARTS INVOLVED;
THE HIGHEST-RANKING NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICER IN A UNIT;
AN ALTERNATIVE COURSE OF ACTION IN CASE ANOTHER ONE FAILS;
A GROUP WITHIN A COUNTRY AT WAR WHO ARE WORKING FOR ITS ENEMIES;
MAIL FOR UNSEALED PRINTED MATERIAL;
AN OPENING ATTACK WITH NUCLEAR WEAPONS.
What is the message?
Q spins a pen between his fingers and hums as he considers the first line. He then draws a vertical line between the text and the blank half of the page’s eastern hemisphere. Beside the first line he writes, “first hand.” A habit that becomes instinctive is also known as, “second nature,” and “first position” is another name for when ballerinas turn out their feet, right down the list until his second column is full:
FROM PERSONAL EXPERIENCE — first hand
HABIT THAT HAS BECOME INSTINCTIVE — second nature
FEET TURNED OUTWARDS WITH HEELS TOUCHING — first position
THE FUNDAMENTAL CONCEPTS ON WHICH A METHOD IS BASED — first principles
AN ALTERNATIVE, ESPECIALLY AN AGENDA WHICH IS CONSENSUS-BASED — third way
PEOPLE OR THINGS GROUPED TOGETHER AS THE BEST — first class
A CHANGE OF OPINION AFTER RECONSIDERING SOMETHING — second thought
COVERING DAMAGE SUFFERED BY A PERSON OTHER THAN THE INSURED — third party
THE HEALING OF A WOUND BY NATURAL CONTACT OF THE PARTS INVOLVED — first intention
THE HIGHEST-RANKING NON-COMMISSIONED OFFICER IN A UNIT — first sergeant
AN ALTERNATIVE COURSE OF ACTION IN CASE ANOTHER ONE FAILS — last resort
A GROUP WITHIN A COUNTRY AT WAR WHO ARE WORKING FOR ITS ENEMIES — fifth column
MAIL FOR UNSEALED PRINTED MATERIAL — third class
AN OPENING ATTACK WITH NUCLEAR WEAPONS — first strike
That’s the easy part, but now he has to excavate a message from the latter column. It will be a combination of a letter taken from each of the second words, he decides, and so Q begins organizing letters into a variety of messages. Then he glances back to the original question and smiles. “Ah,” he says and Heisenberg’s ears perk up.
first hand
second nature
first position
first principles
third way
first class
second thought
thirty party
first intention
first sergeant
last resort
fifth column
third class
first strike
Happy Christmas, he writes at the bottom of the page and glances to the bedside clock. Ten minutes. He tells himself he would have been faster if he was properly caffeinated. “Happy Christmas and good night,” he says, placing the papers on the table and switching off the lights, each cat a warm bundle pressing into his feet.
For some reason, he feels lighter the next day traveling to MI6. The train pulls up just as he descends into the tube station; there’s an open seat waiting for him on the train; every cross light yields to him; the underlings part when he walks into the control room, like the sea at the beckoning of Moses, and he glides over to his work station, humming a bit of Chopin’s ninth Nocturne beneath his breath. His good mood lasts approximately as long as it takes him to start up the SmartBlood program. Bond is off the grid, and waiting in his inbox is an ominous message from Tanner, subject: ???, and in the body: Bond?
According to the tracker, 007 is five hours south-east (and a quick hop over the Aegean Sea) on the island of Mykonos. Another flash: Bond, shirtless, the ropes of his back muscles rolling as he braces atop Madeleine; waves of hair a golden halo around her face, lips spread in an enraptured cry.
“Happy Christmas,” 009 declares directly beside him and Q knocks over his cup of coffee.
“Bloody hell,” he growls, yanking paper napkins from the sack containing his scone and immediately mopping up the coffee pooling across the surface, but not (thankfully) anywhere near his computer. 009 watches him, spine rigid, maybe a little proud. He’s completely oblivious to the magnitude of Q’s annoyance. He keeps waiting for the man to help him, but he doesn’t move. “Are you just going to stand there or help me?” he finally asks.
“Oh, of course,” 009 replies, plucking a few of the napkins out of the bag and crouching to dab up where the liquid has run off the edge of the desk and dripped onto the floor.
Q watches him with a furrowed brow. “So you solved it.”
009 looks up, the corner of his mouth curling. “In seven minutes. How long did it take you?”
“Six,” Q lies, face hot in annoyance. Seven Minutes. Tanner wasn’t joking about the agent’s cryptology skills.
“Well done,” 009 remarks, and when Q glances at him, the agent seems sincere. He has no idea Q’s just lied to him. He’ll have to add that to his report. A Double O should always know when someone is lying to him.
They toss away the wet paper napkins in a nearby bin. “I’ll get you the second question,” he mumbles, swiping away the SmartBlood window as if shooing away a fly. He opens the latest email from M, downloads the attachment, and sends the question to the printer.
“We’re meant to discuss and analyze how we arrived at our answers,” 009 points out, reciting back to him M’s email. He scrolls up and sees, indeed, that is what their superior has instructed.
“Right…” Q sighs. “Uh, well, obviously I was looking for patterns, so once I saw the initial answer was first hand, I assumed the rest of the answers would be a variation of that.”
009 nods. “A number and then a secondary word. I skipped that step. Once I saw it was a Christmas Party, and fourteen lines, I deduced the message would be Happy Christmas.” Q’s face warms. It’s obvious that wasting time on the intermediate step would burn a significant amount of time, and Q would have been unable to complete the puzzle faster than 009, but the agent doesn’t point out this reality. “I didn’t think they would have shared that variable unless it was important to the answer—”
“Yes, very good,” Q mumbles, walking to the printer. He fetches the second question and hands it to 009.
Looking up, he notices the man staring at his screen where the SmartBlood window is once again visible. He must have maximized it without realizing—reflexively, like he can’t stop his brain from searching for Bond. “It’s not your fault, you know—the majority of the marks on your record. I saw you were trying to help 007.” Q gapes at him. To say 009 is overstepping boundaries is to vastly understate the gravity of the situation. The only thing stopping Q from unleashing a stream of vitriol is the fact that none of his subordinates are within earshot. Still, he opens his mouth to suggest the agent mind his own business, but before he can the man adds: “He takes you for granted.”
Clearly, the agent means in the professional sense, but the words wound him deeply because it’s true. Q has nearly killed himself to help Bond, and the man ceases thinking about him the moment Q is no longer in his field of vision. “Occupational hazard,” Q smirks, hoping his tone sounds light. There’s ringing in his ears. He feels light-headed and needs to sit down.
009 has unnerving eyes: focused and steady, like the eyes of a predatory bird. “I hope he appreciates it.” A worrisome moment follows where Q can’t breathe, while wondering what in the world he should say. The agent interprets this as meaning he should say more: “All my apparatuses: the guns, the car…”
“Oh…” Q sucks in a breath, laughing at his own stupidity. Of course. He hopes Bond appreciates the nicked goods. “Uh, I’m sure he does.” As soon as Q laughs, a smile breaks across the agent’s face. The expression makes him look younger and relaxed—almost normal. He realizes he’s staring. “Okay, very good. I’ll, um, report to M that we met and both solved the first question.” 009 nods, still gazing at him, a warmth in his eyes that Q finds unnerving. It dawns on him that he has to be the one to tell the agent to leave. “You should report back to the Double O facility.”
“Right,” 009 says. Q notices he’s spent the entire interaction with his hands neatly clasped behind his back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
His stride through Q branch is confident, if not slightly robotic, as if he’s making a conscious effort to mimic the behavior of his peers. It then occurs to Q that he’s staring and has now watched the man’s entire journey from desk to door, right up until he disappears down the hallway.