Q used to be the youngest double oh ever (he was a double oh before Bond was). He "died" while saving Bond on their first mission together. After a couple years, Q come back as 'Q' and Bond reacts. (could be angst or fluff, it doesn't matter) – anon
This was not going to be good.
“… double-oh seven,” Q greeted, with a strangely awkward thing that ought to have been a smile but managed not to be; he turned his attention back to the painting in front of him, wondering – with a touch of hysteria – whether he still had the option of pretending to be somebody else.
Bond sat down heavily, tension riddling his body. Q couldn’t really blame him. The last time Bond had seen him, Q had been carted off the medical evac, never to be seen again and officially recorded as dead. Bond’s very first mission.
(They had slept together on that mission. More than once. Q blushed most of the way to his toes at the recollection).
“I thought you were dead.”
“Yes, that’s more accurate,” Q nodded. “I don’t have much I can say, on this front. It was necessary at the time, for a number of reasons. I apologise unreservedly for any distress…”
“… any distress,” Bond hissed, a shade too loud for a public gallery. “You were dead. I was responsible for you.”
Q arched an eyebrow. “I was your superior officer, I think you’ll find that I was responsible for both of us,” he returned primly. “As it happened, the way to ensure our safety was the feigned-death incident. Not what I had intended, I would like to add, but necessary all the same.”
“You could have contacted me afterwards.”
Bond looked genuinely upset. Not just petulant or angry, but genuinely upset, as though Q truly had managed to do damage. “I considered getting in touch once the smoke had cleared,” Q mused, “but it seemed increasingly unlikely that it never would. Hence I am no longer on field work, and it would have been foolish to contact you. Now, onto the mission at hand…”
“… and you’re now Quartermaster.”
“Finish that sentence, and I will kill you.”
Bond didn’t doubt it. He still had vivid memories of the man in action; Q was one of the few agents Bond remembered with nothing but respect. He had been brilliant.
And now, his Quartermaster.
“All of us die once in a while,” Q reminded him quietly, wryly. “Necessary sacrifices. New beginnings.”
Bond looked at him. Truly looked.
“Let me buy you a drink?”
Q hesitated, his assessment transparent, the thoughts flicking. It was probably a bad idea, if he was being honest; Bond was a loose cannon, Q was juggling identities and a very demanding job, both had histories of destroying people they loved.
“Alright,” Q nodded, blithely ignoring all better judgement. “Drinks.”
