Bond kills a lot of people. He’s not denying it. But sometimes people try to blame him for deaths that aren’t his fault, and it grates, okay?
That British bigwig’s bodyguard that got shot by Greene’s men at Tosca? Not Bond.
Mathis in Bolivia? Not Bond.
That guy that got eaten by the komodo dragon? Bond didn’t make that fellow tackle him into a BLOODY KOMODO DRAGON PIT, that was a CHOICE that he MADE OF HIS OWN FREE WILL, but did the officials in Macao see it that way? No, they did not.
The most galling one is Vesper. The Venetians noted a “blond man fleeing the scene,” and as the man sharing her hotel room, he is their prime suspect. It’s easier for them to blame a rogue boyfriend than to guess that international intrigue was afoot. It doesn’t matter in the long run. (It just burns when he thinks about it.) (Even as he discovered her betrayal, he knew that he wouldn’t kill her.)
He’s a killer, but that doesn’t mean he’s their killer.
***
Sometimes, on a mission, he’ll do something that Q thinks should be rewarded. Nothing like returning equipment, or refraining from property damage, or anything that could be given official praise. Sometimes even things that earn an official scolding.
He saves a boy’s life even though it gives his target a head start. He shoots some human traffickers and opens their cargo crates even though it’s not relevant to his mission. He dives off a villain’s yacht to save someone from drowning even though it weakens his cover.
And one by one, Bond gets letters in the mail. ‘Cleared of all charges’ and ‘no longer a suspect.’ Signed documents that take a great deal of bureaucratic wrangling, not just technological interference. He images Q working with the translators, talking, blackmailing, bribing---getting his hands dirty.
For Bond. For no reason. Because Bond’s job is to be a blunt instrument, but Q values his humanity.
Q works backwards. He hasn’t got to Vesper yet. But if Bond keeps going, then maybe... Maybe.
Maybe one day the whole dying thing will take, and Q won’t be the one to write his obituary, but he’ll have unwritten all the wrong bits, and that will be even better.
Headcanon: Bond is the one who takes Q’s cats to the vet
It’s meant to only be the one time, but Q’s schedule doesn’t get any emptier as the years go by, and Bond ends up knowing far more about the cats’ medical info than Q does.
The first time went like this:
Bond’s office phone rang. He picked up immediately; usually it was Moneypenny, calling to tell him that M wanted him. (Sometimes it was Tanner, calling to tell him that lunch was off.)
This time it was Q.
“You know that thing in that place?” Q asked.
“What do you want?” Bond returned. There had been a few things and places; Q had more than earned a favor.
“Chavez called out sick; I need you to take my cats to the vet.”
Bond let his incredulous pause elongate. Killing someone, fine. Cats...
“I have their folder here; they’re due at the office in an hour and 005 is in the weeds,” Q said. “Please take them. They’ll be in their carriers, you won’t have to handle them---”
Bond realized that he was, like an idiot, arguing with a reason to be out of the office for three hours. Perhaps he and the cats would pick up lunch. “You owe me,” he warned Q.
“Yes, fine,” Q said, and then the dial tone was ringing in Bond’s ear.
***
In Q branch, one of Q’s lieutenants thrust a cat carrier, a thick manila folder, and the Aston’s keys at him with barely a glance away from her monitor. 005, it seemed, was in Moscow. In January. Poor sod.
The car’s GPS sprang on with the rest of the car, guiding him to the vet’s office. The cats were quiet on the drive. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
Then they walked into the vet’s office.
“Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmm,” the ginger cat said, low in its throat.
“Mraaaaoooooooooooooow,’” the black one yowled plaintively.
Bond sat down. Next to them, a terrier mix started barking and its scruffy owner started shushing. In the corner, someone’s parrot started swearing. A child started laughing and repeating it; the parent ignored them. Everything smelled like animal and no one except him was wearing anything nice.
He hardly blamed the cats for protesting. These were cruel conditions and Q definitely owed him.
While Bond waited, he flipped through the cats’ folder for intel. Q’s cats, it turned out, were named Lucifer (the ginger) and Michael (the black); impudent mortals could shorten those to Lucy and Micky if they so dared. They were females, and they needed their annual vaccinations, worming, and a general health check. DO NOT SKIP, Q had typed out, bolded and underlined and in large font. EXPOSURE TO RATS CAN LEAD TO HEALTH CONCERNS.
And the tunnels had their share of rats; it was the reason the cats were there in the first place.
“Lucy and Micky?” the vet technician called.
Michael hissed.
***
The vet, Saunders, addressed him as Mr. Richards. Bond went along with it, and as a consequence he got to hear all about Lucy’s sensitive stomach (I’m sure you’re watching to make sure she doesn’t eat any more string), and Micky’s impressively clean teeth (Do you brush...? No?). Bond answered all questions noncommittally and felt more and more like an absentee father, which was rather unfair given that it was Q who couldn’t be bothered to care for his feline offspring.
(Apparently his Q-branchian spawn took priority, along with his double-oh stepchildren...)
In between the interrogation, the vet offered the cats some fish flakes, confidently handled the beasts during their check-ups, ensured that all shots were taken, skillfully launched the cats back into their carrier, and told Bond that the cats seemed in good health and he looked forward to seeing Lucy and Muffy again in six months.
There was a careful lack of specification as to who would bring them. Bond wondered how many iterations of “Mr. Richards” the vet had seen.
***
He took the scenic route home, stopping for a couple of take-away sandwiches. He ate one in the car and the cats took the last bits of turkey from his fingers, their reward for holding their shit in while they were in the Aston.
“Back to Papa,” Bond told the cats.
However, Q Branch was still a hub of tense activity when they returned, and it didn’t seem like the cats would make a good addition to the scene. Bond glanced around, stole one of the litter bins and a rolling cart, and trundled the cats up to his office.
He got some funny looks in the lift, but no one said anything. Most people avoided questioning double-ohs; after all, the double-ohs might answer.
Ponsonby, the double-oh secretary, raised an eyebrow and definitely would have asked, only Bond shut his office door in her face.
“All right, kitties,” he said, low so Ponsonby wouldn’t hear. “I’m opening the door. Please piss in the right box.” He set the litter box in one corner, set the carrier in the other, and unzipped the carrier’s top.
Michael leaped out and stared at him. Lucifer flattened into a ginger puddle.
“Right,” Bond said. “I’ll just...go over here.” He sat down at his computer and glanced at the clock; just past two in the afternoon. Might as well tackle the briefs in his inbox so Ponsonby didn’t have an excuse to bitch.
***
By two-thirty, Michael had twined her way between his ankles and Lucifer had sprawled on his desk, batting the occasional paw at his typing fingers. If Bond gave either of them a scritch, that was his business.
***
By three-thirty, Lucifer had settled in his lap and had started to purr and knead at his thighs. “These trousers are Tom Ford,” Bond informed her. She gave him a long, slow blink. Her eyes were almost as green as Q’s.
Michael, less easily contented, started pouncing on his mobile charging wire. Bond rummaged in his desk and easily redirected her by wiggling around a blunted caltrop tied to the end of some detonation cord.
***
By five-thirty, Bond and the cats were both grateful for the second sandwich.
“Your father,” Bond informed them, “is going to buy me a much better dinner than this.”
***
By seven, he had reached the impossible state of inbox zero. No more briefings to read. No more reports to fill out. At least not until Ponsonby tossed another heap at him tomorrow.
He glanced at the cats, who were spooning near the heating vent. Lucifer was snoring. He could probably leave. Technically speaking, cats weren’t equipped to open doors, and he could just lock them in for Q to pick up.
Instead he hit the recliner lever on his expensive office chair, adjusted it to nap position, and put on a Youtube video labelled TEN HOUR CRICKET MATCH CALMING.
***
It was dark when he woke, jolted into awareness by the sound of boots on the floor outside, by the light streaming in from the crack under the door. The cricket match had auto-paused. His torso felt heavy---he had a cat curled up on his chest and one on his belly. He reached for the pistol holstered under his desk and readied himself to dump the cats on the floor if need be.
“Lucifer?” Q’s voice whisper-called as the door slid open a crack. “Michael?”
Bond let go of the gun.
The bloody automatic lights, detecting either his or Q’s movement, decided to flicker on.
“Oh!” Q stopped in the doorway, staring.
Bond tried to picture it from Q’s point of view, the three sets of eyes blinking up at him, raccoonish under the fluorescents. He chuckled, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”
“Ah, just before midnight,” Q said, ducking his head with a guilty glance. “Bond, you didn’t have to...”
“Don’t ask a double-oh to take care of your cats unless you want the cats to be taken care of, Q,” Bond said, smug. “Besides, they weren’t too bad.” He glanced down at them. Michael was already stretching awake on his thighs and she quickly jumped to the floor. Lucifer, on the other hand, mrrrped and curled her paws over her face, clearly ready to go back to sleep.
When Bond looked back up, Q was smiling softly. “No,” he said, kneeling to scritch behind Michael’s ears. “They’re not too bad.”
“Don’t worry,” Bond added, “you can take me to dinner to make up for it.” He stifled another yawn.
Instead of protesting, Q only nodded, frowning. “Believe me,” he said. “I will.” He scooped Lucifer off of Bond’s chest, plopped her into her carrier, and chucked an unprotesting Michael in next to her.
It was on the tip of Bond’s tongue to offer to drive them all home, but he sensed that that would be a bridge too far, proud as Q was. Instead he smiled and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Q. And Lucifer and Michael too.”
“Thank you, Bond.” Q hefted the cat carrier in his arms and sighed in a way that seemed to deflate him. “If you want to take the day off tomorrow, I’ll make your excuses.” His shoulders drooped as he left, the very picture of an exhausted boffin.
***
Tiredness aside, Q texted him to be at The Ledbury the next evening, and he walked up to the restaurant wearing a lovely plum suit that had no cat hair on it at all. They ate twelve courses and talked cats, suspense novels, engineering, uni, times they’d accidentally set things on fire, anything but espionage. Their eyes met frequently in the dim, glowing light of the restaurant, and Bond found himself laughing rather more than he had thought he would.
At the end of the meal, Q’s tongue slid over his lower lip to catch the last taste of his pudding. The invitation to bed would have been easy, natural.
Instead Bond said, “Same time next week? My treat.”
Q narrowed his eyes, as green as Lucifer’s but far more suspicious. “If you have time,” he said, hedging.
“For Lucifer and Michael’s owner, time can be made,” Bond replied, and watched the pleased quirk of Q’s mouth with satisfaction.
Rather like the cats, Q had surprised him with how pleasant he was to be around. Also rather like the cats, Bond suspected that a longterm operation would prove to be far more rewarding than a convenient in-and-out.
Q’s suit on Bond’s floor would be nice. On the other hand, a future with more cat hair in it might, incredibly enough, be nicer.
Like all execs, Q had mandatory interrogation resistance training. His happened about a year after Bond returned from Turkey and perhaps three months after they started...doing whatever they were doing.
Q went into the interrogation room jangly with nerves. He had aced the academic; the practical was another matter. Six had him for forty-eight hours. Nothing that would leave a bruise or make Medical go into paroxysms would be allowed, of course, but that left a lot of leeway.
He could safeword out, but if he did, he would have to retrain and then go through it all again another time. One and done would be better.
There was a two-way mirror in the room. Bond stayed behind it, watching, except for the times when he was assured Q would be experiencing sleep-deprivation, uncomfortable temperatures, and little else. Then he went home and tried to sleep for a few hours; R kept watch while he was gone.
They stripped Q naked, yelled insults at him, and exposed him to tear gas. They slapped his tender areas until he screamed. They tied him into uncomfortable positions until he cried. They played loud music and sprayed him with water to keep him awake. They killed small animals in front of him, the closest they could get to the more likely real-world scenario of a threatened child, mission partner, or asset.
Q only ever said his made-up name. He stuck to his cover. He even exhibited minimal sarcasm instead of provoking the enemy, though his lips were bitten to bleeding before the end of the first day. He gave up his tears, but not the iron in his spine.
He would probably last through an actual interrogation. For a while, at least, and hopefully that would be all it took for Bond to find him.
Bond felt oddly proud, but that pride didn’t stop Q’s screams from interrupting his dreams.
Q would recover from his experience within a few weeks, resilient as a willow tree and bolstered by support from Bond, from Q Branch, from psych.
For Bond it took much longer. He invited Q to sleep over more, wanting to hold him in his soft, quiet bed, to assure himself that Q was safe.
Just until the nightmares stop, he told himself.
The trouble was, he later found out, that the nightmares always came back. Six weeks, six months, a year---they always returned.
Maybe a clean break was what he actually needed. A fresh start. Some distance away instead of holding Q close.
Bond left after confronting Blofeld, hoping he’d find peace away from Q and England. He wasn’t aware that he’d hurt Q far more than any interrogation trainer ever had.
And being the senior 00 comes with responsibilities, ones that are completely unofficial, unacknowledged, and uncompensated for outside of the pay rise given to all double-ohs after their third, fifth, and seventh years of service.
001 bullying the new field agents? Word gets back to Bond and he arranges for some repercussions.
003 having a bad not-a-break-up-because-it-wasn’t-a-fucking-relationship-you-fuck? Bond takes them to the range every so often and they have some quality Shooting Things Time, and if 003 happens to do some venting, then Bond isn’t going to say anything. Their performance in the field stays steady.
005 just got tortured and now she’s stuck in medical, throwing bedpans at the nurses? Bond knows she likes languages and biking, so he brings her one of those pedal-in-bed machines and a few ConLang books. She invents a language that only she and Bond will ever know, that no one will ever be able to use against her.
Missions have been low because it’s the end of the financial year and no one has any double-oh money unless it’s a big emergency? Bond organizes field exercises around the greater London area to keep up morale.
Their boss’s boss turned out to be working for a terrorist organization? Bond...well, he leaves with that woman from Austria, doesn’t he. Retirement, some 00s say. That’s the official story. Rooting out the rest of Spectre, others say. He’ll be back.
But in the wake of one of the worst betrayals since Kim Philby, M and his team are busy sorting shit out at the highest levels. The department heads are looking after their own. And the 00s...well, they slip under the radar, like they’re so good at. Their trust in Six decreases. What is it all for, anyway, if the missions they’re running might be assigned by the very people they’re fighting? If M’s hands are hampered by an enemy within? Was C really the only one who had infiltrated the system? Could a double-oh, one of their own, be compromised?
Bond would have been above suspicion; he could have investigated and cleared them, one by one. But he’s not here.
Their performance slips.
Blofeld hadn’t won, but the seeds of fear he’d sown were blossoming nonetheless.
M will be damned if he knows how to put things right.
Bond and Q get married at the Register’s Office with only Bill and Eve as witnesses; the important people know, and in their line of work, that’s enough.
Their vows are minimal: “I love you, you old bastard” and “I love you too, you speccy bastard.” Then they sign the paperwork. They’re both in work clothes because Bond has a mission later that day. They don’t exchange rings, but they do exchange heated glances, and they come back to the office an hour after Bill and Eve do.
They wrote each other letters with actual feelings the night before. After the reading, they ceremonially burned them in order to destroy the evidence.
Their wedding invitation is supremely casual and looks like this:
It takes a little while for the reality to sink in; they both go about things in the same way as always at work. Things don’t really feel much different.
But Bond returns from his mission after losing comms, smiles and says to Q, who stayed up waiting for him, “Of course I made it home. Couldn’t leave my husband in the lurch, after all.”
And Q replies, “Yes, a husband might feel supremely put out if you died before the honeymoon.”
And then they’re kissing, and they both feel a little like they’re glowing inside, because---married. They’re married and they’re husbands and it’s official, and if they’re lucky this will be the longest, most important mission of their lives.
“Once upon a time,” Moneypenny said to the group of new field recruits, “there was a Double-Oh who thought he knew best what kind of gadgets he needed. He begged and he begged, and he used all of his wiles, and eventually the Quartermaster gave in and gave him what he wanted.”
***
“Is this what I think it is?” Bond asked, greedily eyeing the slim box in Q’s hand. It had to be---no, Q was opening it, and it was. An exploding pen!
Q ducked his head, an attractive flush on his cheeks. “We don’t really go in for that sort of thing anymore...but I thought I could make an exception.” He offered Bond a tremulous smile.
“Q, I could kiss you,” Bond said, and he did just that, swooping in and planting a smack on Q’s lips. “Brilliant!”
“Yes, well...do keep it in the case, just to be cautious,” Q said, touching his fingers to his mouth. He seemed a bit dazed, poor thing. “They were removed from our inventory for a reason.”
“Cautious, of course,” Bond agreed, but he hardly heard Q over the chant of exploding pen, exploding pen, exploding pen in his mind.
“Three clicks to arm it, three to disarm it,” Q said. “You know.”
“I know,” Bond said, grinning. “Thank you, Q!”
He practically skipped away, intent on bragging to the other 00s about his gift. Unfortunately, none of them were in the office, so Bond ended up using the pen to do paperwork instead. The novelty at least kept him smiling at random moments throughout the day.
And when it was time to leave, well, Bond knew he had to take his pen home with him. What if he left it in the office and one of the other 00s took it? No, that would never do.
His jacket pocket had a hole in it; his tailor told him that it wasn’t meant to hold bullet clips, but the man would just need to reinforce the seams a little more next time. In any case, the pen fit fine in his trouser pocket; it even snugged down right next to the line of his cock, nice and secure.
When he slid into the seat of his Aston Martin, he heard the pen click against his thigh. “Hmm, can’t have that.” He clicked the pen five times more to disarm it.
As he turned the key in the ignition, doubt hit him. That had been the first click, right? He hadn’t been clicking it on and off without noticing as he was walking down the halls, trotting down the stairs, and chatting with his coworkers?
Right?
***
“They were able to save his life,” Moneypenny informed her wincing audience. “But his cock and balls were blown to bits by the extremely localized explosion. And that’s why you should always listen to your quartermaster, otherwise you’ll end up just like 007.”
The field recruits nodded solemnly, a few of them crossing their legs.
“Now get to lunch,” Moneypenny said. She grinned. “I believe they have some spotted dick for dessert today.”
The recruits fled immediately; they knew better than to linger and give an exec an excuse to assign them some more work.
“Putting the fear of God into the recruits, Moneypenny?” M asked good-naturedly when she returned to her desk.
“The fear of Q, sir,” Moneypenny said, giving him her most innocent look.
M took one look at her face and laughed out loud.
Moneypenny smirked. M wasn’t as easy to bullshit as the new recruits, now, was he? He knew very well that Q had made sure the pen wouldn’t actually explode, only produce some highly startling fireworks.
A mildly scorched penis had put a quick end to Bond’s Q Branch beggary, even if Moneypenny suspected that Q had, after he stopped laughing, kissed it better.
I think there are three(ish) office holiday parties.
1) The super fancy holiday party where execs have to dress up and schmooze with various government officials in the hopes of getting more funding next year. Everyone lowkey/highkey hates this one, except the food is usually really nice.
M, Moneypenny, and Tanner all send each other “Kill me” glances periodically whenever some official says something even stupider than usual. Unless there’s someone who they specifically have to impress with him, Q usually gets away with arranging to be absent for the majority of it bc his youth and wit would only offend a bunch of the older farts anyway. This party is reason #1 why Bond tries to be on a mission in December, bc lots of people like to go home saying they danced with a ~suave dangerous spy~ and Bond in a tux fits the bill pretty well unfortunately.
2) The actually pretty decent all-hands holiday party, complete with spiked eggnog, modern music and dancing, fairly good munchies, and Christmas crackers. Held on the premises, participation is semi-mandatory (i.e., unless you have a good excuse, go be social with your fellow espionage teammates). All the departments intermingle and try with varying success rates to make small talk and spread good cheer instead of yelling at each other. Good for meeting people you don’t regularly work with, and much more low-key than the most popular department holiday parties.
3) The department holiday party, which of course varies by department and can take place anywhere from the first week of December to the first week of January. Of note:
Accounting requires everyone to bring a homemade dish. Competition for Unofficial Best Dish has become a bit fierce over the years so they all enjoy a good spread even if the celebration itself is pretty staid.
Q Branch has the most money for the department party due to Q instituting a “holiday tax” on the winnings from Q Branch bets: they do gift give-aways, get umpteen-million kinds of take-away, and do lots of party games. There are also a few hobbyists who contribute home-brewed alcohols. It can get a bit nerdy, but it’s also lots of fun and has a bit of exclusivity attached to it bc people outside the Branch can only come if they’re invited by a Q Brancher. Sneak-ins had better be ready to contribute to the entertainment portion of the evening. (It causes a little bit of a stir when Q invites Bond, bc 00s usually aren’t officially invited and end up having to sing for their supper, so to speak.)
The field agents compete with Q Branch to throw the best party and they mean it when they say everyone’s invited. Depending on who’s in control of the planning that year, it’s either Really Posh and a chance to fancy up for a social event with people you might actually want to look good for, or Aggressively Casual with a box of free condoms by the door. Straws are drawn for who will run security, a duty taken seriously, and there’s an entrance fee to help pay for the food, booze, music, and rented location. More fun than the all-hands party bc everyone is there voluntarily and determined to have the fun they paid for. (Q doesn’t usually go to the field agent party, but Bond manages to persuade him.)
M gives everyone on the admin staff a present and tells them that he wouldn’t dare suggest they spend more time at work by throwing an admin holiday party, which is in keeping with admin staff tradition and makes everyone very happy.
