Chapter Text
One
─── ∘°❉°∘ ───
The mission had been a success. Well on paper a success, in the eyes of the crown a success. Fourteen dead civilians didn’t feel very successful to Q though. It wasn’t the agent’s fault, not really. No one could predict everything, not even Q, and certainly not the actions of a tired maniac with nothing left to lose.
The agent managed to get out in time for the building to go up, but he had had warning. The others had none. The women and men who had just gone to work as usual, who were chatting round having tea and talking about their weekends -- at least, that’s what Q imagined they were doing when they were promptly blown to bits.
Thankfully it had been early, far from the full staff had been on the premise. Q held onto that. He had to hold onto that.
Q’s downfall in espionage was often his humanity. There were never just bystander casualties. It was ironic, people often believed that Q struggled with empathy, and in a way he always had. Or at least he felt and processed empathy differently than most people. He’d realised he felt things differently at a very young age and had delved quickly into the worlds of psychology, neuroscience, and emotional sociology.
Of course he’d never been very good at expressing his emotions, thus leading to the idea people had of him as their “stone cold leader”, and sometimes those unseen emotions became so overwhelming that he simply had to get out.
So he found himself on the roof, as he often would after a hard case, or an incident in R&D, really any time he just needed to escape the chaos that was the MI6 tunnels. It’s where James found him as well.
Q would be lying if he said he hated when James invaded his safe space. It had started months ago: Q had come up for a quick smoke -- nasty habit, he knew and kept them rare -- and James had simply followed. Ever since that time, if James was in town and Q was on the roof, James would follow.
He should be annoyed, really. James never once asked if his presence was welcome. He just… turned up. Somehow, though, James had wormed his way into the very small circle of people who Q found entirely unoffensive, people who Q could exist around and not feel exhausted or frustrated -- well, James did cause Q quite a lot of frustration, but his simple existence did not.
So Q was thoroughly unsurprised when the door to the roof creaked open just as he was about to light up the cigarette he’d pulled from the pocket of his coat. Q barely glanced up at him, giving him the briefest nod as James sat down next to Q, his body heat immediately spreading down Q’s shoulder as he knocked into him.
They sat in silence as they usually did. Q savoring his cigarette, James staring out at the London skyline. The sun was beginning to go down, the air was crisp with a bit of a bite to it. Really a beautiful autumn evening in London.
“What are you doing for dinner?” James asked out of the blue. Q nearly choked on his inhale at the surprise. He’d grown accustomed to the comfortable silence of these evenings -- or sometimes mornings or nights -- on the roof with James.
“Hm, takeaway, probably.” He looked down at his fingers, examining the way they shook slightly. His body was still trying to regulate itself. Small talk was new, but Q could do small talk. James often enjoyed the simple pleasure of talking , something Q used to find rather disdainful. But he had quickly realised that what James was really doing was seeking normalcy. Talking about the weather or dinner plans instead of talking about bombs and guns and death.
“Or… you could let me buy you dinner.”
Q nearly dropped his cigarette.
“Bond, I know my dress may indicate something different, but I assure you my wages cover takeaway.” He tried to play it off as a joke, hoping Bond would take the hint and leave it alone.
“Have dinner with me, Q.”
But of course James Bond would never leave it alone. He only ever approached things with a calm but intense insistence. Which is exactly what frightened Q.
“Oh.” Q took a deep drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke bloom in his mouth and seep into his lungs fully before pushing it out slowly.
“Oh?”
Q debated how to approach this. He’d been scared of this moment ever since James had started approaching him in a more social manner.
“Well, it’s just that… I don’t really… go in for that sort of thing.” He said, lacking the eloquence he had attempted to use.
“Eating?” James chuckled, though his eyes still held that intensity that frightened Q.
“Dates.” Q offered firmly.
“Who said anything about dates?”
“I don’t go in for that either.” Q bristled.
“Hm?” James looked genuinely confused. He’d turned in towards Q, his body language hunched in a way Q rarely saw from the agent. His brows drew together, his mouth set in a firm line.
“One night stands.” Q clarified.
“I’d like to take you out to dinner, Q. Just dinner.” His brows relaxed, and his body opened up.
“Hm.” Q had often studied body language as a child, from books and observation. It was something he did to try and understand social situations better, but Bond was used to using body language like a weapon. Everything was controlled and perfectly refined. Q couldn’t read him and it was hateful.
“Between friends, if you’d like.”
Q stilled at that, thoughts whirring through all possible outcomes of going out to dinner as friends with James Bond.
“It wouldn’t be though. For you.” Nor me, really, Q thought.
“Wouldn’t be?”
“Between friends.”
“I suppose not.” James nodded. Q appreciated the honesty. He’d had his fair share of “between friends” evenings that had ended up in ugly resentment when the other person realised Q wasn’t going to change his mind. That no amount of time would make Q love them, not like they wanted anyway.
But James had always been different. He wanted to accept, desperately. Especially after the shit show that was the last mission. He wanted nothing more than to say yes and for James to drive them to some ridiculously posh restaurant that would usually turn Q away for turning up in a fraying jumper and rumpled trousers, hair wildly askew. They’d let him in if he was with James. He knew they would, James had this look he could give people and they just… gave in. It’s what made him such a good agent, Q supposed.
He wanted that. But James was not ready. He admitted it even, which gave Q a little hope.
“Try again.”
“Excuse me?” James balked, straightening up slightly.
“You’re excused.” Q flicked the white ash off of his slowly dwindling cigarette with a bit of a chuckle. “Try again. Some other time. I have Italian takeaway and two cats waiting for me right now.” He took a final drag and put out the cigarette, dropping it into a cup he had left on the roof ages ago.
“You’ve already ordered?” James asked as Q began to rise off of his perch, brushing off the invisible dust on his trousers.
“It’s Thursday, I have a repeat delivery order.”
“Ah.” James remained sitting, simply watching as Q quietly made his way to the door to the stairwell.
“See you tomorrow, Bond.”