Chapter Text
Bond stepped into Q-branch and scanned the large open work area but there was no sign of the Quartermaster. Momentarily, one of the Q-branchers piped up and said, “he’s in his office”, thumbing towards the back. Bond had been back from his last mission for a few days, so he was well rested, sharply dressed and curious as to why Q asked him to stop by.
Q was often found working in the open or hunched over a bench in a lab, but he also spent a few hours a day in his office. Bond used it occasionally when he was at MI-6 as it had a comfy couch perfect for resting and napping while he recovered from injuries. He didn’t admit it to himself, but watching Q work quieted his mind, the rhythmic tapping on the keyboards relaxed him like a lullaby, and Bond could sleep soundly with none of the nightmares he so often had. Q’s office felt like home, far more than his mostly empty apartment and he trusted Q to watch over him in the bowels of MI-6 as much as he trusted Q’s help in the field.
When Bond arrived at the office, he was a bit surprised to find the door closed. Q answered his knock with, “just a minute” and after a short time, “come in”. As Bond entered, he saw a flicker of movement in the corner and started to react, but Q said, “don’t worry, it’s just a rat.” Rats were a fairly common sight in the “new” MI-6 offices in the tunnels of Churchill’s bunker. Bond recalled Tanner’s words as he had led Bond into emergency location for the first time — “Quite fascinating, if it wasn’t for the rats.”
Bond said, “you need to be more careful about storing your snacks”, but Q only huffed in answer.
Q was known for copious consumption of tea, his sweet tooth, his love of all things chocolate, and a tendency to skip real meals when wrapped up in a project. He did keep some snacks in his office where a small cabinet held chocolate, biscuits, crackers, peanut butter, dried fruit, and an emergency supply of his favourite tea. After raiding the cabinet a few times, Bond decided that Q had excellent taste — except for the peanut butter. He supposed Q must have picked up a taste for it in during his student days in the States, but Bond had never seen him eat it. Vile stuff.
Q bent over and picked up a small plate and dish from the floor and set them on the edge of his desk. The dish was half of water and the plate had a respectable collection of crumbs and peanut butter smears. Oddly, they joined Q’s customary tea mug and another plate holding a couple of his usual chocolate biscuits, one half eaten.
Turning to Bond, he said, “Thanks for coming down. I have a rather personal favour to ask. I need a companion… an escort…” Bond chuckled lightly at this, delighting when Q realised his ambiguous word choice. Q smirked but recovered quickly with “err…a bodyguard tomorrow evening. I plan to visit what might be considered a rough part of town and it would be best to have a deterrent along to avoid trouble. This isn’t for MI-6 though, so do feel free to decline. But if you’re up for it, I do promise an interesting evening and some unique cuisine.”
Bond wondered just where is his posh public-school Quartermaster off to that he wants Bond along? A new club? He hoped that he wouldn’t be dragging a drunk, protesting Q out of a mosh pit in the wee hours. But wait, where did he get that idea? The rare times Q played music in his office, and only after hours, it tended to be classical, often just solo violin in what sounded like amateur recordings.
Bond dragged himself back to the present and said, “I wouldn’t miss it. How could I pass up the promise of an interesting evening with you? I hope you won’t mind if people think you’re my escort, you certainly have the looks for it,” with a teasing emphasis and a long, shameless, dragging look up Q’s body.
Q could feel himself blushing and turned slightly to hide it. Clearing his throat, he said, “Meet me at the downstairs lab tomorrow at 7pm, we’ll be walking from there” and then more cuttingly, “dress for the streets and no, I don’t mean strolling along Savile Row.”