Sanctuary in the Storm by Dassandre
Chapter Three: Cat’s Nose
Cat’s Nose: (English): A cool, northwesterly wind
Privately. Grudgingly. James had to admit he’d never had a mission go so smoothly.
That wasn’t to say there weren’t the usual unexpected hitches, scrapes, and near-deadly encounters with schools of electronic piranha, but at each turn, Q was there in his ear guiding him in a new direction, supplying an electronic lock code, or hacking in with a well-timed virus to turn the bloody cyberfish against each other.
Only Mallory’s promise of a three-month suspension -- “The rest of the agents acquitted themselves quite well during your recent death. In a time of crisis, I might add, so I think they can withstand your lengthy suspension now.” -- in addition to the PPO threat had kept James from crushing the earwig under the heel of his mahogany-capped derby brogue the minute he stepped out of Q-Branch.
Once in Cairo … well, he hadn’t made things easy on the Quartermaster. He’d been cool and remote. Professionalish. But distantly so. Monosyllabic and brusque, when he could get away with it.
Okay, so Alec would’ve called him out for being a sullen, difficult arse, and he’d be right.
You’re such a sodding toddler, James,
he heard Alec say in his head -- the irony that years ago his conscience, what remained of it, had taken on the voice of Alec Trevelyan was not lost on him --
Suck it up. Do your job. Listen to the Quartermaster. And stop being such a fucking wanker!
James had tried, sort of, but it rankled in his mind that the autonomy he had enjoyed and had made good use of -- no matter what the data on Q’s bloody hard drive might say -- for nearly ten years could be summarily stripped without so much as a by your leave.
If James Bond had wanted to be micromanaged, he’d have become a bloody banker, fuck you very much.
Q, however, had been the consummate professional. Legitimately so. If the Quartermaster had felt any residual anger or frustration from their dust-up in Q-Branch, he never let on.
At least not overtly.
Every interaction, every painfully polite conversation was precise, detailed, informative, beneficial.
Soulless.
The quick humour and light flirtation that had coloured their conversation during the Silva affair was notably, sorely absent. James knew he had only himself to blame, but for some reason, he’d been unable to shift out of ‘acting like a right bastard’ mode.
And suddenly Cairo was over. Done. Bad guys dead. Intel obtained. Time to go home.
Q was as coolly efficient in wrapping things up as he had been throughout the operation.“
Your debrief with Mallory is two days hence at 1345. Travel itinerary is being sent to your mobile, and Ms Moore will be available should you have need of us en route to London. Thank you for your service in Egypt, 007. Safe journey home. Quartermaster signing off.”
And he was gone.
It wasn’t until Q was no longer there that James realised how much -- and how quickly -- he had come to appreciate and rely upon the gentle tenor in his ear and the brilliant, witty mind that supplied it.
Fuck.
It was why nine hours later, after returning to Six with the excuse of turning in his kit and discovering the Quartermaster’s office dark, James found himself knocking on the door to Q’s flat.
You can read the rest of the chapter here ...
Chapter Three: Cat’s Nose