Age is no guarantee of efficiency.

Catch me still wanting a Honeypot mission~

Hey e’rrybody, sorry for the lack of activity on here and my other blogs, but I’m moving. Starting tomorrow. I’ve been trying to get things packed away, and get the outside of the house as presentable and kept as possible, so I haven’t been able to sit down and write.

I promise to write a drabble or send out a starter call when I finally do get back here. I miss Q (and you guys, too).

   “ —- you look like crap.”

James reaches out to pinch at Q’s cheek, fully expecting his hand to get slapped away. Q’s skin is pale and wan, the dark smudges under his eyes not hidden at all by his glasses. His hair is a mess, his clothes are rumpled, and there’s the shadow of stubble across his jaw. 

James is well aware it’s all on his account.        

@quarterofamaster

And just who’s fault is that? He’s tired, but not too tired to knock the offending hand away. For the past few days he’d been sustained on caffeinated beverages and bad take-away, foregoing rest in favor of results: Bringing 007 home. There’s a slight roll of his eyes as he tiredly pushes fingers through his own hair, mussing it up even more than it’d already become. 

He’d done his best, thus far, to ignore the agent whilst he worked. There were tasks at hand he needed to finish that were far more important than a bored double-oh agent. However, even with his head down, eyes glued to his monitor, half of his attention remained on James (like a mother keeping tabs on a toddler, honestly).

It isn’t until James comes to hover around a very expensive piece of equipment that Q finally moves to intercept the moment 007′s lays his hands on it. 

     “You’d think an agent like yourself would have better things to do than hang around Q division all morning.” Despite himself, his tone is light rather than annoyed, pleasant, almost. “Is there something I can help you with, Bond?”

“Beg to differ on that!” He tosses the comment over his shoulder on the way out, a dopey grin pulling at his lips. Not wanting to leave Q waiting too long, Eggsy tries to make the shopping trip quick, jogging back to Q’s place with a few bags looped onto his arm. “Oi, what’s with your grocery store?? ‘s all old ladies that fuss.” It’s quite the greeting as the younger slips inside, plopping the bags on the counter with a sigh. “Ain’t never getting stuff there again. Took forever!”

He’d timed it near perfectly; the boiling kettle, the steeping tea. He averaged how long it would’ve taken Eggsy to have gone to the local market and acquired whatever it is he needed, before heading back and though he was only a few minutes long on his estimate, the tea was at a perfect temperature to be enjoyed.

    Fingertips card through Eggsy’s hair; gentle, rhythmic. The Agent had come to his flat without so much as a word, and Q had figured it to be another one of those moments where they’d be alone, together. Still, the closeness, the quietness...

     “Did... something happen, today?” He doesn’t stop the gentle motion of his fingers, as he gazes over the man’s face. “You seem... sad.” 

He should have expected that, but somehow, the possibility slipped right by him. Cheeks start to pink up, slow heat building over Eggsy’s face. “Um. Yup.” Dammit, he should not get this flustered by a simple egg pun. The agent gives a little smile, grabbing his coat to head out the door. “Don’t eat the seeds. That’s nasty and probably unsafe. I’ll be back soon, alright?”

“Healthy is not unsafe.” He calls out after him. Yes, there might be a daft smirk on his lips at the very blush upon Eggsy’s cheeks; humor paints his tone as he watches his... very embarrassed companion head for the door.

“I know. I like cookin’.” Especially when it’s for someone he cares about. It allows him to fuss in a way the mother hen side of him demands, but in a manner that’s a little less obvious. “How do ya feel about eggs? Was thinkin’ a veggie omelette and toast. Maybe sausage on the side, if you want that.” 

Humor quietly plays across his features as he considers it; a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips even as brows dip in uncertainty. 

     “Well, Eggs have definitely grown on me.” He can’t pass up the honest opportunity given to him. Their relationship started with bad puns at the expense of the other man’s machismo, didn’t it? (Yes, that’s how Q will forever remember their first meeting). 

“….I ain’t a fuckin’ rabbit, Q. That ain’t breakfast.” Perhaps bird would have been a more apt comparison, with the seeds Q is currently looking at in a slightly unsure manner. “Tell ya what. You stay here, make some tea or somethin’. I’ll go shoppin’ and bring back the ingredients t’ make ya a proper breakfast, yeah?”

     “Dare I ask what a proper breakfast entails?” There are thoughts of bangers, hash and fried tomatoes-- a proper greasy breakfast he can only recall ever having once or twice (and fortunately never again). But he speaks with humor on his tongue, nonetheless. 

     “It’s... chia seeds-- it’s suppose to be good for you.” At least, that’s what he’d heard, but he has this strange feeling his insides might sprout after a week or two. 

     On second thought...

     “Perhaps we should go out for breakfast.”