Chapter Text
“In my opinion, Sir, Q belongs in the field in the same way a goat belongs on an ice rink.”
“Fortunately 007, your opinion in this matter is moot,” said the voice from the door to M’s en suite, Bond turning to see Q stroll into the room at that very moment.
“No offence, Quartermaster.”
“Oh none taken, Agent,” replied Q plainly. “It’s not as though you don't find a dozen ways to do just that before you’re even off the plane en route to your next mission.”
“Enough of that gentlemen. Your bickering is enough to drive a man back into the arms of his estranged wife…” muttered Mallory.
A soft tap on the door interrupted, swiftly followed by the shapely form of Eve Moneypenny appearing in their midst. “Sir, the Chancellor for you? Regarding the upcoming budgetary meeting.”
Bond barely inhales a breath only to have his next witty jibe cut short by Q. “It’s not like you need actual explosives to cause things to blow up, 007 so I doubt whatever request you’re going to ask M to drop into the conversation with No 11 Downing Street is also as moot as your opinion on my qualifications.”
“Quite,” agreed Mallory, silently enjoying the manner in which their clever Quartermaster could exercise his oneupmanship skills on their unruly agent. Bond smiled. It would appear he enjoyed it too.
Mallory picked up his phone to take the call while in the same move handed Q the mission brief with his other hand. “Off you go, the pair of you.”
They turned as one to depart their superior’s office.
“Oh and Bond?”
“Sir?” his hand on the door while Q ushered himself to the other side of it.
“Do try and bring our Quartermaster back in one piece.”
James Bond has made it his secondary mission in life (simply for the cold, hard fact that Queen and Country must come first) to always ensure the Quartermaster remained in one piece. Though usually after he has successfully taken him apart in the first place. Relaxing together in bed the night before a mission he had found was an excellent place to scatter their minds and lose themselves to the pleasure they so easily found in each other.
“Your spine is a mess, Arthur. We’re going to have to work on your posture stuck behind that desk for hours on end.”
“What’s this “we” business? Frankly, James,” he all but huffed in response, “unless you’re planning on early retirement and taking an open university course in engineering and coding, there’s not much to be done about that. Though having said that, you are doing a rather fine job of realign-nnngggg…”
“Times like these I’m really not quite sure how I survived this long without a Double-O masseur,” he breathed, words barely audible muffled into the mattress. Mission accomplished, James rolled off his back to lie alongside Q.
“And I’d like you to survive a lot longer if it’s all the same to you,” James replied with casual nonchalance.
Q raised his head, the question on his lips easily read before he got the words out.
“Fieldwork is not for adorable, cardigan-adorned, glass-touting boffins.”
Q scoffed. “What did I tell you about me in my pyjamas, James? Or weren’t you paying attention.”
“I never fail to pay attention to the contents of your pyjamas, Arthur,” quipped James, the smile on his lips not quite reaching eyes scanning the skin beneath his shoulder, the scar tissue from the bullet wound bestowed upon Q by Bond himself standing stark against his otherwise flawless features. He pushed Arthur onto his back and straddled him. He sat there, looking mildly expectant.
Q sighed. “All will be well, James. I have complete confidence in my favourite agent to watch my back. Besides, this could indeed be a red letter day. The first time in the history of MI6 in which you feel completely motivated to bring back Q Branch assets intact. You owe me after all. The many times I’ve all but hauled your precariously balanced backside from the proverbial cliff. And at least one strategically placed sofa…”
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Bond candidly. “Why you? It’s an MI6 agent’s job to retrieve intel from the field.”
Q interlaced his hands behind his head. James stayed where he was, backside resting lightly on Arthur’s thighs.
“Let’s just say our contact has trust issues with respect to field agents. Easily turned with the right incentive. Once one has established what weaknesses an agent possesses that can be manipulated to advantage.”
Bond didn’t need to work hard to join the dots of such a scenario. “He’s been already burned.”
Q simply nodded. “Orphans have so little to lose,” he murmured, trying to keep the tinge of regret from his tone.
Bond pressed on. It was obvious to Arthur that he had abandoned any pretence at subtle extraction of information in favour of bluntly expressing his concern for the mission. Adorable as he is annoying, he thought. Though he didn’t voice the sentiment. He wasn’t in the mood for a spanking.
“Why is he doing this? Why betray your own nation? Not the kind of person to be trusted in my experience…”
“My my. We are full of curiosity and questions this evening aren’t we, Commander Bond?”
Bond gave him a pointed look and a heated gaze with a promise that evoked an offbeat pulse through his body. “A full brief - warts and all - the more effective makes the agent.” A promise he always made good on.
“When he reached out to me on Darknet and through a series of subtle, coded communications it dawned on me exactly with whom exactly I was interacting, the mutual trust and respect sprang from there.” Q freed his hands from their mutual grip and brought them to rest on the top of James’ thighs. “We had met previously, once - in our former lives.” He allowed his palms to travel up and encircle Bond’s waist.
“Mmmm,” replied Bond, appreciatively. “Should I be concerned about the honour of my Quartermaster?”
“Your Quartermaster can look after himself,” he whispered against his lips, one hand on James’ back, the other on a firm, flexing butt cheek gently guiding him down and manoeuvring him onto his back. “As well as he looks after his agents…”
That’s as good a place to conclude a conversation as any.
For now.