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A few months after Bond fucks off into the sunset with Dr. Swann and the newly restored and fantastically upgraded DB5, Q tells Mallory that he’ll be taking all of his accumulated days off now, thank you very much. He heads off the disapproval and interrogation both by pointing out that with Bond officially retired, he finally feels that it’s safe enough to leave his post for some much-needed recuperation. With a nod to M’s laptop, he gives some highlights of the email he’s just sent, outlining the steps that have been taken recently to ensure that there’s no single point of failure in the Q Branch chain of command or any of the processes and procedures it oversees. Less critical trial runs have already been carried out with great success. The department head going on holiday is the final test, and he is confident that it will go smoothly.
M signs off on Q’s request, and only stops him at the door with a grave, “I look forward to seeing you back at your post, rested and ready, Quartermaster.”
Dramatic bastard.
Q nods, because anything that passes his lips at this moment will come out snippy.
Moneypenny is given a more gracious nod and a genuine smile, and then Q is hurrying back to his office where he snatches up a pre-packed carryall and waves various configurations of fingers in response to cheers and farewells and cheeky comments that he need not hurry back. His staff are visibly happy that he’s finally taking some time off for himself, audibly eager to prove themselves, and probably also very excited for the opportunity to play a bit while the cat’s away.
Q honestly couldn’t care less what they get up to and into. All of his attention now is on the little red dot on his SmartBlood app, pinging away merrily on the same screen as his own blue dot. (Of course he’s got SmartBlood in his veins; it’s called beta-testing.) Over the last week, the red and blue dots have been getting closer and closer.
James Bond is coming home.
Q, naturally, gets on a plane and travels to the opposite end of the Earth.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to see the man. He’s very much attached to him, in his own way. After six days in the hands of an enemy nation’s top interrogation team, he might even admit that he’s attracted to Bond. But Q also has a healthy amount of self-respect, plus a good dollop of caution when it comes to workplace relationships. After the way they met and collaborated and conspired together, not to mention all the innuendos and favors and flirtations they’ve exchanged, and especially with the innumerable ways Q has chased after the man…well.
Tanner thinks Q’s in love, and Moneypenny thinks he just needs a one night stand or dirty weekend to get Bond out of his system. They’re both wrong, but not egregiously off the mark. Q prides himself on his self-awareness, among other strengths, and he’s very aware of the fact that it wouldn’t take much for him to get too attached, to fancy himself in love, for that fancy to push him into actually falling in love, and for the accompanying rose-coloured tint in his vision to change steady admiration into a runaway sort of lust along the way.
He wants to get ahead of this potential problem, and make sure it doesn’t become a problem at all.
Q is not the sort of person to wail and whine that he’s no idea how something happened after the fact, as if ignorance has ever excused lack of preparation and forethought. If he’s questioning how he allowed something to happen, it’s because he’s determining how to prevent it happening a second time. He’s thought about his pattern of behaviour when it comes to a certain blue-eyed mischief maker, not to mention said mischief-maker’s modus operandi when it comes to him, and decided that it’s high time to draw some boundaries. (And this time, maintain and defend them.)
This wouldn’t be necessary if Bond had stayed gone, but now that he’s on his way back, however temporarily it may turn out to be, Q intends to put a little (okay, a lot) of distance between them so that he can make some cool, objective decisions.
And maybe, perhaps, possibly, there’s a chance that he wants to see if Bond will chase him, if the emeritus double-oh returns to Vauxhall only to find that his favourite most useful boffin isn’t there to casually stumble across. Q won’t be waiting in the armoury, nor popping up in any bar, nor cooking up a little too much pasta that will turn out to serve two instead of one quite nicely when Bond turns up uninvited but with a very nice Riesling in hand.
He wants to see if this thing goes both ways, or if he’s been making himself pathetic, running down a one way street all this time.
His duties as Quartermaster will always be discharged to the best of his abilities, of course. But if Bond finds that his welcome home is quite complete even without a certain speccy spymaster there to greet him, the line between friendly workplace colleagues and anything more will need to be drawn all the firmer. Chiselled in stone this time, instead of a shallow mark in sand. Q loves to give and help and support, but knowingly letting someone take advantage is not healthy.
Fortunately, New Zealand is lovely this time of year.
He signs up for a week-long walking tour of the Tasman Bay area and then fails to show up for it, because Moneypenny texts him to suggest that he check his SmartBlood app. The tracking app loads, retrieves updated data, and then reveals a little red dot moving through Christchurch International Airport at a walking pace.
Huh.
Fortunately, Canada is lovely this time of year.
He recovers from the ordeal of connecting flights and tight layovers by marathoning plate after plate of sashimi at Miku Vancouver, chasing them with steaming cups of green tea. It’s like hot and cold water therapy, but just for his mouth, with the added bonus of not requiring that he strip down and let his hair get frizzy.
Once the soporific effects of a comfortably full stomach are acting like an internal weighted blanket, Q takes his phone off of airplane mode, intending to poke Moneypenny for additional information. She’s anticipated his request, but not fulfilled it to his requirements.
Q frowns at the photograph of the DB5 that she’s sent him, sitting pristine and pretty in the Q Branch garage once more. Miss Swann is not in the picture, so to speak, but then again neither is Bond, so he’s not quite sure what’s being implied.
Q: Now that he’s retired, he’s finally learning how to return equipment intact?
Eve: Don’t be obtuse, darling. It doesn’t suit you.
Eve: Exhibit A: The car that you gave him so that he could go look for his happily ever after, and he’s brought it back to you with the passenger seat unoccupied.
Eve: When you weren’t here to be unimpressed at him he started pestering people for your whereabouts. 008 tossed him out onto the street, and R sent a memo to everyone in Admin and Security reminding them that Bond’s no longer an employee.
Q: And he tracked me down in New Zealand how?
Eve: Oh we let him mope for a bit, interrogated him as to his intentions, and then sent him off with a new phone. Tanner calls him once a day.
Q: Tanner as in Bill Tanner, MI6’s Chief of Staff and one of three people on this planet who have access to my SmartBlood signal?
Eve: The very one.
Eve: What are you going to do now?
Q: I think I’ll have dessert. Thank you for the updates.
She sends him some kiss emoticons, and he taps his phone thoughtfully. He’s still too full for pudding, but after a meal of fresh fish and bitter tea, he knows he’s eventually going to end up craving a chiffon cake piled high with fruit, or a towering parfait that’s more than half cream. And the little red dot seems to be leaving Dallas Fort Worth at airplane speed, headed to either Calgary or Edmonton International.
Fortunately, Japan is lovely this time of year.
Moneypenny texts him some more of her thoughts, and Tanner actually rings him.
“Am I being ridiculous?” Q asks, in lieu of a more conventional greeting. He finds it comparatively easy to be vulnerable in a dim hotel room oceans away from everyone who knows him. If Tanner condemns him, Q can pop open his laptop, erase his identity, delete his SmartBlood code, and start over as a goatherd in Rajmachi.
“Reactions are only ridiculous when they’re not in proper proportion,” comes the reassuring reply. “An apology is the least he owes you, and everyone knows it.”
“Does he know it, though?”
“I wouldn’t have given him your location otherwise.”
“So I should stay put?”
“Maybe go somewhere more romantic for the actual reunion,” Tanner suggests.
“This isn’t a romance,” the Quartermaster doth protest.
“I think it’d be good for you both if it was.”
Q puzzles this over for a while, rotating the sentence in his mind and trying to find a way for it to fit in with the rest of his thoughts. Tanner lets him ruminate, soft keyboard clicks keeping the silence from becoming tense, because he is a good friend with the patience of a saint and the thoughtfulness of a philosopher. Eventually, however, he interrupts.
“Moneypenny told him that you like interesting textures and uncomplicated dark chocolate truffles. I told him that you like having as much data as possible before making a decision. And I think Bond is in the habit of taking everything he can get–”
“Everything he can get away with,” Q interrupts with a snort.
“--including advantage,” Tanner breaks back in, “because he’s too used to having the people he loves taken away from him unexpectedly.”
The joke deflates with a sad, flatulent squeak, leaving Q calculating start-up costs of goat herding in rural India.
“I should go.”
“Somewhere romantic?”
Q exchanges civilized farewells with the Chief of Staff, ends the call, and then - fond of a good pun - books a flight to Rome.
Fortunately, Italy is lovely this time of year.
He nibbles pensively on pasta and ponders. He’d run away from Bond, wanting time and space and admittedly, to test the other man a bit. His fantasies had mostly revolved around getting a proper acknowledgement that Bond’s been a bit of a shit, and blood oaths to be more thoughtful vis-a-vis potential damage to Q’s career in the future. Maybe a bit of groveling, for a garnish.
But those are just fantasies, and real conversations between real people with their own perspectives and experiences are nothing like the scripts they toy with in their imaginations. Bond is not going to suddenly appear, throw himself at Q’s feet, and launch into an impassioned soliloquy containing everything Q wants to hear. Not unless some hardcore drugs and blackmail are involved.
Q will have to let Bond catch up to him, and they’ll need to negotiate. Q has things he wants to say, and things he wants to hear. And Bond the same, presumably, since he’s flying over Kazakhstan at the moment and he’d hardly go to all this trouble just to drop off the keys to the Aston.
Eight hours later, however, instead of landing at Leonardo da Vinci International, the dot comes to rest at Marco Polo International…in Venice. It moves, but not by much.
Q waits, and wonders, and then texts Tanner that he’s heading to Florence.
When he’d originally left London he’d been running away from Bond, the bridge between them not burned but certainly singed in many spots. Now, he’s ready to meet him halfway, and to take the first steps toward their reunion where they’ll hopefully decide together what to repair, and what to rebuild.