hello OP, I wrote this in 20mins, I am sorry:
Q brightens as he opens the slim case, revealing the unmistakable form of a fountain pen. He loves all fountain pens, but this one--this one is special.
“Oh, R, you’re a miracleworker!” he exclaims, gently plucking the pen from its cradle. “I’ve been looking for one of these to finish my collection for years!” It’s heavy in his hands, a touch heavier even than the ones he got last month; probably needs a thorough cleaning, and oh, he can’t wait to take it apart for that. He doesn’t need to see a certificate of authenticity. He knows just by sight and touch that this is a late-13th century pen, the one he’s been sighing over during tea breaks, on the collector’s site he still can’t afford but still haunts.
R is looking very smug, as she ought to. “I added a bit of a surprise to it, as well,” she says, chest puffing up a little. “I hope you enjoy it.”
“I have no doubts whatsoever that I will love it,” Q tells her, beaming.
Later that night, when he gets home, Q decides to tinker with his precious new toy. He can’t help it, the moment he’s attended his cats, he goes to his workroom and brings out the pen.
It’s nearly meditative, assembling his tools and ordering them just so: two small tubs of cleaning solutions, a bottle of distilled water, and silver polish; soft pliers to tug the nib free if he can’t get it with just his fingers; several small rags; a box of cotton swabs. Q hums to himself, feeling very warm and appreciated.
It’s just as he pulls his magnifying glass closer, to study the registration marks on the pen’s nib, that he realizes that the weight is far too balanced for a pen this old.
Upon closer inspection, there is evidence that the pen has been tampered with. There are neat seams where the barrel has been cut and then closed again, and the nib is much too sharp. The back of Q’s neck prickles. A weapon? An explosive? Is this a plot to kill him? A nasty little voice in the back of his head, the one that listens to the agents, murmurs that it’s entirely possible.
But R wouldn’t do that to him. Maybe she’s just done some kind of modification. That’s far more likely, isn’t it? Of course. There’s no need to be suspicious.
Except that, the moment his fear is muffled by reason, crushing disappointment hits him. This beautiful, historical pen, that he had so looked forward to fixing up and using for his hand-lettering projects, has already been scrubbed and polished, and then cut up to hide some other purpose. A purpose no one has explained to him.
He thinks of his favorite agent, suddenly, and the painting they had looked at. Grand old war ship, being hauled away for scrap.
This, of course, is very close to being ungrateful, and Q hates feeling ungrateful. He scowls, and says out loud, “It doesn’t matter what I was planning. It’s a pen, and I’m still glad to have it. And if I want to figure out what it does, I might as well give it a proper go-over.”
“Nice umbrella,” 003 says a few days later, admiring the ultra-fine creation.
“Thank you,” Q says, smiling. “It was a Christmas gift.”
jacobvanloon
