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a fic fulfilling the “ex-military q” and “it’s good to be bad” squares on the Trope Prompt Table (004) by @mi6-cafe
meddler
“--and there he was, looking like a little lost puppy,” Tanner said with a grin, making Moneypenny laugh with delight.
Q simply rolled his eyes and sipped at his IPA.
“Wait, I missed something,” Bond stepped up to their booth with another round, “who’s a puppy?”
“Q!” Moneypenny said brightly, turning to the boffin beside her and throwing an arm over his shoulder, her movements much looser than normal. “Our sweet puppy was put in jail--”
“When were you in jail?” Bond slipped into the booth next to Tanner, a surprised look on his face as he stared at the man across from him. He smirked. “What’d you do, jaywalk?”
“I wasn’t in jail,” Q hissed, just tipsy enough he didn’t bother hiding his frustration.
“No, he was about to be court-martialed,” Tanner shook his head, waving away Bond’s comments to continue his story, “keep up. So I walked in--”
“Wait, court-martialed? Why, Q, I had no idea you had it in you!” Bond laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on the table to peer at him with a newfound respect and a shit-eating grin. “Were you a bad boy, Q?”
Q exhaled forcefully but kept his annoyance to himself (he was also just tipsy enough to admit he wasn’t sure what would come out of his mouth in response to Bond’s blatant flirting). He slumped down in his seat, taking his nearly empty glass with him.
“I don’t know why I bother trying to correct you all…” he muttered, tipping his head back against Moneypenny’s arm and closing his eyes, “it’s not like accuracy is important in our line of work or anything.”
Moneypenny grinned at Tanner, kicking him underneath the table to prompt him to continue.
“So,” he said, nodding, “I walked into the holding cell and I recruited him.”
Q snorted but didn’t say anything.
“But I thought--” Bond stopped when Q opened an eye to peer at him.
“What? That I’d hacked into MI6 and left my resume on M’s desktop?”
“Well, that’s certainly the way Double-Oh Two says it went down.”
“Oh and do you believe everything you hear, Double-Oh Seven?”
“Only what I hear in the locker room and on the internet,” Bond shrugged.
Q shut his eye once more, frowning.
“Of course you do.”
Moneypenny and Tanner shared a familiar grin across the table from each other--one that said they could literally slip under the table and saunter off into the night together without either of the other men the wiser, as preoccupied as they were with one another.
She leaned against Q’s side, trying to draw him back out from his strop.
“Okay, Mr. Grumpypants, what actually happened?”
Q pursed his lips in annoyance at the name but opened his eyes and sat up straighter.
“Well, I’d say ‘recruited’ is a strong way of putting it. I was facing a court-martial and I knew I’d be found guilty because I was.” He pushed his glasses up when they started to slip down his nose. “Bill came in offering me a job instead of a dishonorable discharge and a decade in prison, said he could make the whole thing go away--it wasn’t like I would’ve turned him down.”
Tanner pointed a finger at him.
“Ah, but see, I was the one who found you and brought you in. That counts as recruiting you!”
Q rolled his eyes and Moneypenny laughed, clearly enjoying that this seemed to be a long-running argument between them.
“You were guilty?” Bond asked, voice serious.
Q stared at him with defiance in his eyes.
“Yes, I was.”
“What did you do?” Bond knew he had no place in asking and Q had no reason to deign him with an answer.
Q emptied the glass he’d been nursing and reached for his next one.
“I saved 800 lives.”
Bond snorted but his laughter trailed off when he saw the arch of Q’s eyebrow.
“Wait, you’re serious?”
“Deadly.” He said, finality in his tone. He managed to disentangle himself from Eve and stood up, excusing himself to the loo.
Bond watched him walk away, the purposeful placement of each step belying that Q was on his way to being soused.
Tanner cleared his throat, nabbing Bond’s attention. Bill leaned in and the other two mirrored him automatically.
“I shouldn’t say anything--technically above your clearance, but yeah, that’s exactly what happened. He used to be Army Intelligence and he picked up information about an attack being planned that was supposed to be a dry run for something much larger. He brought it to his superiors but they told him to sit on the information, not pass it on to Syrian authorities so they could learn more about the group planning the attack and prevent them from cottoning on to their leak.”
He paused to take a sip of his whisky and continued.
“Didn’t sit right with him--doubt it would for anyone, really. Hours before the attack was supposed to happen, all the journalists in the area received an anonymous email warning them about it, and they alerted authorities. Managed to evacuate everyone before the bombs went off, but it still leveled a city block and a bazaar.
“No one was ever able to trace the source of the emails but people had their suspicions. A buddy of mine from back in the day is in the RMP now and caught wind of the whole thing, called me up.”
“Wow,” Eve said, eyes wide.
Tanner nodded sagely and they drank in silence until Q returned.
He slipped into the booth, an eyebrow raised at the sombre look on their faces. He shook his head when Tanner glanced at him, guilt etched in the lines of his face.
“Look,” Q sighed, “I’m glad it’s out in the open and everything with you lot, but can we just forget about it tonight? Sure, I was guilty but sometimes doing the wrong thing is the right thing, yeah?”
An echo of their very first conversation came to Bond as he stared at Q.
…
“Every now and then, a trigger has to be pulled.”
“Or not pulled. It’s hard to know which in your pajamas.”
...
Bond nodded and toasted the captivating and mysterious man across from him before throwing back the rest of his drink.
a fic fulfilling the “betting pool” and “the mystery of q’s name” squares on the Trope Prompt Table (004) by @mi6-cafe
Kismet
-----
There are only two people employed by MI6 who know Q’s birth name other than himself. One, by virtue of his position, is Mallory. He’d seen the redacted files on the Quartermaster shortly before they’d been destroyed as part of Q’s paperless initiative.
The other found out through sheer, dumb luck...
R finished combing through the debugging program she was working on, glaring at the screen when she found the exact line of code where she’d missed a bracket. The irony was not lost on her.
Glancing at the clock, she noted that a solid fifteen minutes had passed since Double-Oh Six strutted out of the branch. Enough time that she shouldn’t arouse suspicion by heading to Q’s office.
She made a show of stretching at her station, rolling her neck in circles and twisting from side to side in an attempt to crack her back. Victor appeared to have returned to his work but Amara kept referencing the paper on Trevelyan had given her, likely updating their database.
R grabbed her nearly empty mug and stepped back from her desk.
“Eddie, I need a warm up here. You have the conn.”
“Aye, Captain,” the younger tech grinned and saluted her.
She waited until he’d put his headset on before taking her’s off, logging out, and putting her computer to sleep.
“Don’t let Q hear you call me that. You’ll never hear the end of it,” she joked as she headed for the kitchenette in the break area.
She tossed the dregs of her tea down the drain and grabbed one of Q’s mugs from the sideboard. Relaxing into the routine of making tea, she took the time to doctor Q’s with precision. R knew she excelled at what she did, but she suspected that her promotion had been sealed when it came to light that her and Double-Oh Nine were the only people in the building Q trusted to make his tea exactly as he liked it.
A mug in each hand, she carefully made her way back to Q’s office and knocked on the bottom of the door with her boot.
“Come in.”
She pushed against the door with her hip but it was latched shut. She kicked the door once more and heard her boss huff before a wheel scrapped across the floor.
“You honestly couldn’t op—,” Q’s grumbling cut off as he flung the door open and saw R standing there with a cheeky smile, holding his mug out for him, “Oh! Thank you, R.”
“Do you have a moment?”
“Of course,” Q nodded and stepped back. He accepted the outstretched mug, studying her closely as she closed the door behind her.
“What can I do for you, R?” Despite the kind smile on his face, his voice was neutral and diplomatic as he returned to his seat.
She recognized the concern in his tone and waved her hand as she sat down, trying to assuage his worries.
“It’s nothing serious, but I thought you should know that Victor and Amara’s, um, project is beginning to expand beyond the current parameters.“
The corners of Q’s mouth turned down and he appeared to wrack his brain for the details of their current assignment before he realized what she was talking about.
“The betting pool?” Q laughed, cautiously taking a sip of his too-hot tea.
“Yes, sir. It seems that Double-Oh Six just bet 100 quid and you know Trevelyan won’t be able to keep that to himself.”
“100 quid?” He gaped at her before recovering swiftly. “I thought entries were only five?”
R nodded and took a delicate sip of tea.
“They are, sir. He came in with a list of 20 different names.”
Q snorted, shaking his head.
“I knew they’d gotten the cleaning crew in on it, but I didn’t think they’d push the boundaries any further than that.”
“Rod’s team? If they’re in, it’s no wonder Double-Oh Six knew about it.”
Q shrugged with a wry smile.
“For being in espionage, people around here are terrible at keeping secrets.”
R laughed.
“I think it’s more to do with knowing national security isn’t exactly at stake if they gossip. Do you want me to shut it down?”
Q considered the question but had to agree with R’s summation. He waved his hand dismissively.
“No, let them have their fun at my expense. If it allows them to blow off enough steam for us to avoid another stapler incident, it’s worth it.”
R snorted and they shared exasperated grins. They sat for a moment in companionable silence before Q cracked.
“Okay, I have to know. What’s the current front runner?” His smile was puckish and R couldn’t help but notice how much younger it made him look.
“I don’t know.” She said, shrugging.
Q raised an eyebrow as she threw the end of her hijab back over her shoulder where it’d slipped off.
“Oh, come on. You must have some idea.”
“Well. . .I don’t know what the actual name is but last I heard the odds favored something terribly modern, like Kasper with a ‘K’ or Maddox. If I recall correctly, the guesses are mostly split between more, um, current names with extraneous letters or the standard top tens. You know: Thomas, Christopher, Daniel, Michael, Andrew—popular ones.”
She leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile on her face. ”Though there seem to be a few favoring names that start with Q—Quincy, Quinlan, Quinten, Quigley.”
Q laughed loudly at that and R smiled, happy to be able to keep pulling him out of the rigid, no-nonsense persona he put on at work.
“Quigley, that’s amazing. . .” He chuckled as he raised his mug to his lips. “And what did you put your money down on?”
R offered him an indulgent smile.
“I’m not the betting kind.”
“No? Well, you must have at least a guess.”
“I. . .may have some theories.”
“Like?” He smiled, indulging his curiosity.
She narrowed her eyes as she set her cup of tea down on the desk, leaning forward to study him. Q stared back passively, waiting.
“I don’t think it’s anything modern or obnoxious. It’s not overly common or terribly simple, like Mark or Jeff. It’s something that’s a little old-fashioned, maybe, but smart without sounding pompous.”
Q’s smile grew across his face even as he tried to hide it.
If R had been looking at Q as she carelessly tossed out her guesses instead of focusing on her tea, she would have seen Q’s posture abruptly stiffen, the smile on his face chased away by flashes of shock-confusion-fear before silent fury took hold.
The sound of his chair crashing into the wire rack behind his desk as he abruptly stood up made R jump, sloshing tea over the side of her mug. She watched, shocked, as he promptly snapped the blinds to his office window shut and locked the door.
He turned slowly on his heel to face her, tension radiating from him. His voice was tight.
“Where did you find it?”
“Find what?” R frowned and tried kept her voice as calm as she could among her growing confusion. She deliberately placed the cup of tea back on his desk, not breaking eye contact.
“Don’t, R. I know you’re smarter than that. Where was it?” He took a step towards her, voice low and dangerous.
“Q,” R stood, trying to gain some footing in a situation quickly spiraling out of control without her knowing why. She held her hands out, open and placating. “I’m not—“
Q’s jaw twitched and she cut herself off as she saw him glance out of the corner of his eye towards the gun he’d been working on where it lay next to the toolbox on his desk. Panic coursed through her and she vehemently shook her head, but wasn’t able to say anything before he continued.
“Why would you be looking that far back? Fuck!” There was a fierceness in his eyes she’d never seen before. He took another creeping step towards his desk and continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “That name’s been dead and buried for a long time. Who are you working for?”
R felt her lungs freeze inside her chest and she blinked. If the betrayal in his tone hadn’t clued her in, that certainly did the trick.
She’d later blame the utterly lethargic firing of her synapses on how blindsided with panic she’d been at the idea of Q turning a gun on her.
She knew his current alias and his cover identities. When they’d first started working together, years ago, he’d been called Colin—but, just as she’d been given the name Naima when she was promoted to R, she knew he’d been assigned that one too. She didn’t know the name he used before that, let alone the actual name that had been put in ink on his birth certificate decades ago.
There was no way. . .
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but eventually closed it when it nothing came out that could be construed as actual words.
Q, still as could be, watched the play of emotions across her face before everything clicked into place.
His eyes widened in what R would’ve considered a highly comical fashion had her heart not been close to beating out of her chest. His expression cleared as he realized just how dumbfounded R was.
“You. . .You have no idea, do you?”
She shook her head, still completely gobsmacked.
“So I--I guessed right?”
Q began laughing and immediately deflated as all the tension left his body in a matter of seconds. He placed a hand on his chest and exhaled in obvious relief.
“Yes. Yes, you did, love.” He said, shaking his head in amazement as he pulled her into a brief hug. “Shit, R. You bloody terrified me. I thought it was a lucky guess at first, but then you had my middle name too and—Christ, I thought you’d defected! I was afraid I’d have to shoot you right here if you tried anything before I could call someone in.”
R laughed weakly and took a step back from him.
With a delighted grin and a wondrous huff of laughter, he leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms.
“I know you said you’re not one to gamble, but maybe you should buy a lottery ticket on your way home, yeah? That or start a psychic hotline.”
R managed a grin as she sat back down, reaching for her tea with a shaky hand.
“Er. . .Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Q snorted and waved at her to continue.
“You are bloody terrifying when you need to be, did you know that?” She exhaled and took a fortifying sip of her tea.
Q looked rather pleased with himself.
She smiled up at him before continuing.
“You know, I reckon we’d get more of our equipment back if you got angry like that with Double-Oh Seven.”
“I’m, ah, afraid he’s a lost cause,” Q hedged, reaching across his desk for his cuppa. Based on the rising blush and how he avoided her eyes, she got the distinct impression he’d done just that but with a vastly different outcome than what she’d proposed.
They sat in silence as their heart rates returned to a somewhat normal range. By the time they’d finished their tea, they were back to arguing about just which rifle Double-Oh Four should be issued for her upcoming mission.
An alert pinged on Q’s mobile and they grinned sheepishly at each other.
“Back to it, I suppose. . .”
R collected their empty mugs and made it to the door before Q spoke again, his voice quiet.
“Naima?”
She turned back with a soft smile.
“I’m sorry. I know you would never—“
R nodded, not needing words to assure him that he didn’t need to elaborate further. He returned her smile gratefully.
“Um. . .I wouldn’t say anything if you happened to make a bet, you know. It wouldn’t technically be cheating since you guessed correctly and all.”
R laughed.
“And ruin their fun, sir? Absolutely not. Besides,” she unlocked the office door and opened it, giving him a cheeky smile over her shoulder, “you didn’t actually tell me which one was correct.”
-----
(i have no idea what this is?? but i hope it’s clear they’re bros)
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A prompt fill for the incomparable @alexandre00q whose prompt was
“Defenestration is my favorite word.”
Mission Report
“Double-Oh Seven returned his kit, I take it?” Q didn’t bother looking up from the tablet in his hand as he passed by R’s station.
“Uh, sir? About that…”
It wasn’t at all like R to hesitate or stutter and Q stopped mid-step.
“What about it?” Q ground out as he turned back to look at her. “He ‘lost’ the bloody rifle again, didn’t he?”
R paused. “He…hasn’t been by.”
Q narrowed his eyes at her in confusion for a moment before diverting his attention to his tablet. “He was supposed to get in at seven this morning. It’s half three.”
“He did get in then,” R paused to pull up a few screenshots from security cameras in and around MI6. “From what I gathered, he’s debriefed with M already, checked in with Medical, and swam some laps.”
“And where is he now?” Q didn’t bother suppressing the moue twisting his lips.
R cleared her throat. “According to computer logs, he’s in his office, working on his After Action Report and…playing Solitaire.”
Q snorted, convinced she was having him on. As if James Bond would complete an AAR in anything close to a timely manner. He took in R’s serious and rather apologetic expression and sobered.
“Oh, bollocks.”
—————————
“‘Defenestration,’ Bond?” Q threw the AAR on his desk and began to pace in front of the chair Bond had planted himself in without invitation.
He kept his face politely neutral in spite of Q’s increasing ire. “Q?”
The Quartermaster stalked back to his desk and snagged the offending paper from its surface.
“‘Tracker [prototype] attached to previously cited myrmidon (Section 2, subsection B); destroyed via defenestration,’” he read out loud, his voice rising. “‘Defenestration’ — are you fucking kidding me?”
Q belatedly thanked whatever deity was responsible for Bond shutting his office door when he’d strolled in. He stalked to his office windows overlooking the bullpen and snapped the blinds shut.
Bond barely managed to stop himself from smiling at his Quartermaster’s outburst. “Of course not, Q.”
“So you can take the time to crack open a thesaurus while writing your bloody report but not keep track of my goddamn prototype? Which you stole!” Q wheeled around to point an accusatory finger in Bond’s face. “You’re a thief. You’re a bloody thief!”
“Defenestration is my favorite word,” Bond drawled in explanation as he reached up to take Q’s hand in his.
“Not, it’s not,” Q scoffed. “Your favorite word is probably four letters long and not suitable for polite company.”
Bond gently straightened out Q’s fingers and shifted forward to get closer to the other man. He brought the hand up to his mouth and began pressing light kisses across the back of it.
“The fact that you were able to comprehend and correctly use a five-syllabic word far exceeds any expectation I’ve ever entertained about your intellect, Double-Oh Seven,” Q continued undeterred, his tone clipped. “Based on your performance in the field and your history concerning your equipment, I’d think anything beyond three syllables would push your brain to its limits.”
Bond nipped at the tip of Q’s middle finger. “Now you’re just being mean…”
Q could feel Bond’s lips caressing his palm as he spoke, a light puff of air followed by the scrape of stubble. Loathe though he was to admit it, he could already feel the tension leeching from his shoulders as the fight drained out of him.
Sensing the subtle change, Bond pulled Q to him with a gentle tug on his wrist. He reluctantly settled himself into a more comfortable position in Bond’s lap, still frowning.
“I hate you. I really, really hate you,” Q sighed.
Bond nodded cooperatively as he leaned in to capture Q’s mouth. Q wanted to resist purely out of spite, but the pressure of those lips against his own proved too much. He kissed back with increasing fervor, just managing to reign in a moan when James caught his lower lip with his teeth. James pulled away and leaned back far enough to look into Q’s eyes.
“I am sorry, love.” Bond had the good sense to look contrite.
“Yes, well…as you should be.” Q righted his askew glasses and sat up straighter. “It still doesn’t make up for the fact that my tech is — Christ, do you have any idea how much time and money went into that tracker? Even if it was in pieces, I still would’ve happily accepted it and been able to analyze-”
Bond shut him up effectively with another kiss.
“It worked perfectly. I wouldn’t have found their headquarters without it. And I still have the phone so you can at least analyze the information it got from the tracker,” Bond argued. “And next time, I promise I’ll remember to remove the tracker from the guy I’m fighting to the death before throwing him out the window.”
“Damn right you will.” Q twined his arms around James’s shoulders and relaxed against him for a gentle kiss. “Sorry I yelled. I’ve just…I missed you.”
The corner of Bond’s mouth quirked up at the sentiment.
“I missed you too, darling. Can we go home now?”
Q arched an eyebrow at Bond. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you so quickly, Double-Oh Seven. It’ll take a lot to get back in my favor again.”
“Would picking up curry and a bottle of Shiraz help, perhaps?”
“It’s a start. I appreciate where your mind is headed,” Q smiled, slipping off his lap only to bracket Bond in between his arms and the chair, “but I expect you to be a bit more imaginative than that.”
There was no mistaking what Q meant as his heated gaze slipped down Bond’s face and chest, landing on the bulge pressing against the front of his trousers.
“I’m sure I’ll rise to the occasion.” Bond smirked.
Q hummed and stood back to lean against his desk, allowing Bond to get up. He crossed his arms and grinned.
“See that you do.”
Bond left Q’s office smirking. No, he wasn’t absolved yet—not by a long shot. But getting back on Q’s good side was a challenge he’d always meet with enthusiasm.
this fic fulfills the squares “fake marriage” and “there was only one (1) bed” on the Trope Prompt Table (004) by @mi6-cafe
marital bliss
“...So you see, I’ve royally mucked things up and I’m afraid he's going to think our whole honeymoon is ruined if I can’t turn things around.”
The proprietor of the bed and breakfast peered closely at Bond over her spectacles before she broke into a sympathetic smile. He had a feeling the Armani suit played into her decision, despite how much rainwater it was holding currently.
“Oh, he won’t hold it against ya,” she rounded the reception desk and flipped open an appointment book, her finger tracking over the page until she found what she was looking for. “Just what I thought, our honeymoon suite’s booked through Thursday, sorry to say, but I have a cozy little room with a fireplace available if that’ll do.”
Bond played up his relief, heaving out a sigh and an amazed grin.
“Oh, we’ll take what we can get! Thank you so much,” he reached out to shake her hand, taking it warmly in his. The older women blushed and gave him a knowing look. “If we need to pay a late booking fee or anything, that’s no problem.”
She waved her hand dismissively at him and tucked a strand of grey hair behind her ear.
“Oh, nonsense. I’m just glad we had an open room for ya. Why don’t you go fetch that fella of yours and I’ll get everything sorted out here, Mr.--”
“Bond,” he gave her his most charming smile, leaning against the counter. “James Bond.”
“Well, nice ta meet ya, Mr. Bond. I’m Helen. Here, take this--” she rummaged under the counter for a moment before handing him an umbrella. “You don’t need to get any more soaked than you already are.”
Bond accepted the umbrella gratefully and headed back out into the storm.
-
Sure, Q had seen the door open and Bond amble out with an umbrella. And sure, he figured that meant they had lodgings for the night, thankfully. And sure, maybe it was childish, but he couldn’t help wanting to make him suffer just a little bit more.
Bond approached the passenger door and pulled on the handle to open it for Q, but the door didn’t budge. Q glanced up from his phone with a bored look on his face and looked at Bond through the glass. Bond rapped on the window, staring at him expectantly, and Q unlocked the car with a sigh.
“Yes?” His waspish tone was sharp over the sound of rain on the roof of the car.
Bond kept his answer just as short.
“C’mon, we’ve got a room.”
Q took the umbrella from Bond without a word, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and tightened his grip on the prototype case, leaving the rest of their luggage (or what little remained of it) to him.
He didn’t wait for Bond before setting off for the dry indoors.
-
Q entered the small lobby area and closed the umbrella on the threshold, shaking it off under the eaves before turning his attention inside.
“And you must be the other Mr. Bond!” A sweet, very midwestern American accent rang out and Q turned to stare at her in shock for just a moment before nodding slowly.
“I suppose I must be,” he grinned, now kicking himself that he didn’t brief with Bond before coming in because clearly he’d already gotten to talking with the older woman behind the desk.
“I know, it’s hard to get used to it at first, but you will. Get used to having a new name that is,” she said and held out her hand. “I’m Helen.”
Q stepped forward to shake it when the door opened behind him.
“Oh, you poor thing,” Helen said, holding his hand between her’s, tutting. “Your new husband is absolutely frozen, Mr. Bond.”
“James, please,” Bond said, setting the suitcase down next to Q, who slowly pulled his hand away from Helen. “To be fair, he’s always cold. Lounging around the flat in jumpers in the middle of the summer. But I’ve always run hot, so we balance each other out.”
Q felt Bond’s arm wind around his waist and it took every ounce of his energy not to elbow James in the stomach. He relaxed into the embrace, following his lead.
“Well, I had Roger head on up to the room to start a fire for you,” she said, grabbing a honest-to-god brass key from a pigeon hole behind the desk. Q tried not to look completely horrified at the complete lack of modern innovation or security in the setup.
Helen led them up a narrow stairway and down a short hall before reaching an ajar door.
“Again, sorry we don’t have that honeymoon suite available, but I hope this’ll do,” she said as she pushed the door open and led them in. A man in overalls was throwing another log on the fire and Bond set their luggage down off to the side. He hooked his chin over Q’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around him from behind.
“Really, Helen, it’s perfect. Besides, it doesn’t matter where we sleep, as long as we’re with each other.”
Q saw the woman put her hand over her heart at the sentiment and had to close his eyes to cover up him rolling them. He felt the warm press of lips along his jaw and an involuntary shiver ran through him.
“Oh, we should leave ya alone to warm up,” Helen said, nodding at Roger who got to his feet. “If ya boys need anything, just give us a ring downstairs. There should be enough towels and blankets, but let us know, and we’ll bring more up in a jiffy!”
Roger guided Helen out of the room with a hand on her elbow and Bond broke their embrace to quickly lock the door behind them.
“What the fuck, Bond?” Q hissed, stepping into Bond’s path as the agent loosened his tie and shrugged out of his soaked suit jacket. “This is your plan? Hide in the middle of fucking nowhere Missouri and hope they didn’t follow us?”
Bond ignored Q in favor of unbuttoning his shirt.
“Also: our honeymoon? That’s the best you could come up with? What are we supposed to do with this?” Q gestured exaggeratedly at the single bed in the room.
Q received a raised eyebrow as his only response before Bond dropped trou.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Q turned around and marched towards the luggage that was piled in the corner. He rifled through his go bag until he heard the bathroom door shut. Stripping his wet socks from his feet, he threw them in a pile on top of Bond’s jacket with relish.
He shrugged out of his coat and made quick work of changing out of his wet clothes into dry ones. He eventually settled himself in front of the fireplace, leaning against the bed, and donned the warmest pair of socks he’d brought with him. As he stared at the fire and listened to the sound of the shower running, his mind immediately reminded him of the electric charge feel of Bond’s fingers pressed against his stomach, the scrape of stubble against his cheek, and the eyeful he’d been graciously granted moments before.
He dropped his head back against the foot of the bed with a groan, conceding there was no way he’d sleep tonight.
