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“I’m so sorry, sir,” R sighed. “He insisted.”
At least Q’s second-in-command had the decency to look truly apologetic. That sensitive and observant young woman, whom Q handpicked to be R, did effectively fend off the complaining senior staff from Accounting hours ago. And two times yesterday.
But that didn’t mean that Q appreciated her insubordination, which resulted in James Bond, of all people, catching the rare sight of a red-eyed quartermaster sitting cross-legged on the hard cold floor, one-handedly slowly typing away on his laptop at 6am-ish. This should be the most secluded corner at Q-Branch. Despite the annoyance, Q was impressed R located him so quickly, without alerting him in advance at all.
"What can I help you, 007?” Q was too tired to mind his coarse voice, setting down his bread unceremoniously next to an opened can of tuna.
The agent was in a pristine grey suit, assertive as usual. Still, he tended to conclude that the man inside the armour wasn't doing great at all. Probably for weeks. Those slightly less piercing blue eyes were on the liquid spilt around the tuna can for a moment.
“Having tuna again for breakfast, Q?”
Q would have risen to the bait, yet he was pretty sure he would terribly regret it later. It had been around a month since Skyfall burned to the ground. If Q spoke his mind directly, he would bring Bond unnecessary flashbacks. Bond certainly didn’t deserve that.
So he just nodded, looking down again on his laptop to enter another line of code. The screen was a bit too bright. It was poorly written. He waited for the agent to continue.
There were simply no further comments. Of course one shouldn’t expect normalcy from James Bloody Bond. Q restrained himself till he felt the silence stretch unbearably too long. He wasn't in the mood for patience.
“If you need nothing urgent, please come back again during proper office hour. I’ll be in the garage.”
“Gladly,” Bond agreed, catching Q off guard. “See you later, Quartermaster.”
“Bond.” Q tended to think he hid his thoughts well in such a dismissal. Bond gave him another unreadable look before turning away.
What would he have told his agent?
That he was being emotional? That he should be allowed few unprofessional moments before office hour at his bloody department?
That he was sort of mourning for his feline friend at the same spot she chose to hide away? With her struggling to live on, on her own, in a clinic?
In reminiscence, her initial absence should make him unease then, but he was too busy gathering the last scrap of evidence which could defend 007 well at the internal hearing the next day. Bond was, and had been, the best in the Double-Oh section after all. More importantly, Q just knew the man couldn’t live without his work.
Q’s all-nighter paid off. Bond did keep his Double-Oh status.
Yet that night, Q found the cat lying bonelessly at the corner of the least used storage room, breathing weakly and shaking. He took her to the vet immediately. The serious faces of the vet and nurses told him quite a lot even before the proper diagnosis.
Just hours earlier, a nurse from the same clinic called. It was a sympathetic voice, asking him to prepare for the worse. They had been doing everything they could during the three days she was in.
He couldn’t spare a visit. 009 would have the major breakthrough in her mission anytime this early morning. Dazed, Q reached inside his drawers after he tossed his mobile away. He felt the coolness of metal. The last can of tuna. He always told himself to get some more cans from Tesco. That silly girl only liked that brand of tuna chunks in springwater.
Which was now he was trying to have all alone, with some bread he got from the pantry fridge. He did chide himself for not saving it for later to share with her, but that was after he realised he'd opened the can. All too late.
That fluffy smart girl- Q suspected whenever he allowed his thoughts to wander that way- must have picked up the Queen-and-country attitude after spending a decade at Q-Branch. There had been times she was away from Q at nights when he was working on something really important. She seemed to know when he needed undisturbed concentration. Her age and the move to the underground bunker had made her even more vulnerable. Q should have known better. After all, it was that trip to the vet check-up made them both luckily escape the explosion.
Except he was promoted to Quartermaster at such a short notice. He suddenly had a department to run. He hadn’t had been home for four days, save for those three hours, commute time included, to shower and change in his flat, plus to save the slightly scratched old girl from his two overly possessive spoilt kittens, who took their annoyance at Q's prolonged absence out on the older feline. In the end, she had to stay at the cold and damp underground.
Eying the uninviting chunk of fish, Q was too tired to tell his brain to resist a flood of memories.
So there was that first failure to impress Boothroyd with his codes. And also the first time he was insulted by someone at the Engineering because of his age. There were followed by countless times when he had to take his frustration out in all-nighters.
She started to be there. Gradually, she was simply there, a natural presence around him. Her tail used to swaying at a soothing rhythm. It was a bit of a fluke for the strange pair of them, having bonded over their less-than-welcoming presence at Q-Branch.
Or at better nights, he would find his working performance even better and more efficient when she was nearby. She could be his own Muse for coding.
It was quite a blur how he had come so far after his efforts, thanks to hers support too. He managed to gain sufficient respect at work. Unfortunately, the pair didn't even have time to celebrate with more tuna cans.
Simply because of not such a clever boy.
He couldn’t afford to lock himself away in her company, being the department head who just devastatingly embarrassed himself. But those headbutts he earned whenever he walked through an ominously quiet corridor grounded him, reminding him of his capabilities and faith in his own judgement. It was with such confidence he continued to send Silva on the A8 without a second thought that night.
Then there was Skyfall to clean up. There was no time and space for mourning for a great mentor who believed in him. Or feeling it properly.
He settled the things in Scotland swiftly, allowing no distraction. By the end of the singlehandedly painstaking organisation and arrangements, he did win back few points from his subordinates. Once done, he kipped on the sofa inside his office, missed the alarm but thankfully woken up by gentle paws kneading his hair. R, ever the coffee person, passed him a mug of Earl Grey as he emerged dizzily into his workshop. He accepted it thankfully, undoubtedly understanding that she, an ally, had forced someone to make it.
Then it was the funeral.
Somehow he couldn’t bring himself back to his cozy home and the company of his lively kittens. He stayed at work, checking the cybersecurity of all SIS databases. Twice or thrice- he didn't remember.
When he was certain of Mallory’s support of his still shaky position, it was finally the first time he’d allow himself to spare under half an hour, enjoying a can of tuna with his feline friend. He would never forgive himself, not noticing her lack of appetite. It was truly nonsense to think she actually let him to eat more. He was deceived by the usual affectionate gesture from the fluff of comfort.
But how could he know her unchanging company days ago, as he tried to finish the last paperworks for Skyfall final clean-up, could be her last? Soft meows and continuous purr, loud enough to be heard over his frantic typing. She did prevent him the embarrassing visit to the Medical for some anti-anxiety pills for numerous tmes.
He could only wonder if he would ever eat tuna again if she couldn't make it. Inevitability of time- he had never thought it was that applicable to anyone he knew. He was wrong. It was unfair if he would be wrong again. He was then merely testing the water. It was absolutely silly to think of the possibility of jinxing himself.
His eye sight blurred. The blue can and the bread swam in front of him. Sniffling a bit, he forcefully took deep breaths and squeeze his eyes tight to still himself. He braced for the morning chill to set in, and yet—
Bergamot fragrance filled his nostrils.
Alarmed, he quickly dapped his eyes with a ball of used tissue before looking up from the black screen, forcing his best blank face.
There stood James Bond. With Q’s own scrabble mug steaming in one those gun-wielding hands. He watched the agent walk towards him, stunned. He could only react with cursing internally and wondering wildly whether recalling their first meeting probably summoned the agent.
“It won’t like it if you get dehydrated.” Bond crouched down smoothly to settle the mug gently next to Q on the cement floor. “Maybe you don’t want this right now. But in your own words, it’s necessary evil.”
So that was why during one of those nights with the paperwork pile, she went from fully content amid his murmurs to hisses in milliseconds. He thought she detested the huge volume of water he left in her tuna. He couldn’t help a sad smile.
“Of course it was you, 007,” Q sighed wearily, “lurking around during mandatory leave.”
“Focaccia from the cafe. Freshly out of the oven.” Bond shrugged and presented a paper bag Q hadn’t noticed before. “It’ll give more flavour to your tuna.”
Q accepted it only because it blocked his screen. The warmth through the brown paper was too much for just random comments on the weather.
“She’s unlikely to make it. I got a call hours ago. Surgical complications.” Closing the laptop, he added with a huff before realising, “She’s been the constant through all the shit happened to me.”
He would blame himself later for giving away too much. Perhaps it'd be actually better to let it out. Even his sensible mind would agree that probably only Bond, of all in MI6, should know his struggles and anger. The only thing Silva constructively did was teaming them up. Bond’s trust and respect had been unwavering up to the hearing. He could trust Bond to have seen enough his competence not to take advantage at such a rare emotional display. After all, Q hated to admit it, Bond was a truly special colleague.
Furthermore, if there was someone who knew what recent huge losses could mean and could relate as much, it was Bond.
“Q, I am truly sorry.” Bond’s soft comment snapped Q out of his countless considerations. There was much understanding contained in those syllables. Q looked up from his laptop cover and strangely found gratitude in Bond’s glacier blue eyes. He sipped from his mug at once, amazed at how usual the tea was.
When had Bond known how exactly he took his tea? He gulped down the hot liquid with a mix of irritation and disbelief.
The dots connected almost immediately. So the gossipy nightshift intern, who was overenthusiastic over Q’s tea supply and Celia the cat, was on duty. So Bond easily learnt what had happened to her.
With that in mind and for some unfathomable reasons, miserable solitude suddenly became less tempting. It was half an hour to another update from the vet. From the corner of his stinging eyes, he saw Bond rising up slowly and fixing his cufflinks.
“We can share these,” Q simply offers, shaking the bag lightly with an attempted smile, “if you haven’t eaten anything yet.”
“Thank you, Q.” Bond’s honest reply might give away the rare moment of a Double-Oh being caught off guard. “I’ll be right back with my coffee.”