“Revenge may be wicked, but it’s natural.”
—William Makepeace Thackeray
Title: The Seine
Author: Chestnut NOLA
Fandom: James Bond/Q (Skyfall)
Word Count: 989
Prompt: Revenge (my first ficlet)
James Bond smiled as his lover buzzed him into his lab, though James’ thought of it as more of a lair with it’s dark red brick arches, horrendous lighting, and inky haired genius, who was hell bent on world domination no matter how much he protested otherwise.
“Ah, 007, here to return your equipment, I see,” Q greeted. His lover insisted they remain professional at work, but James was able to coax his bespectacled boffin into a snog fest in his office–with the privacy glass set to opaque–upon occasion.
“Q,” James replied eyeing the metal tray pulled out in preparation for his Quartermaster’s inventory. Q’s expectation–always hopeful, unfortunately–of receiving his equipment back unmolested never failed to infuse James with a little bit of guilt, but just a little bit.
Mossy green eyes, totally innocent with optimism, met his own blue-hued gaze. “So… what do you have for me?”
James pulled his earwig out of his pocket, the metallic ping of the piece hitting the tray echoed throughout the cavernous room. Q blinked when James made no other moves to return the rest of his equipment. He could feel the slight sliver of remorse start to rise within, the longer Q’s quiet blinking continued.
“Your mobile with my jamming software?” Q asked, frowning.
“Broke it over a man’s head,” James replied. “It’s probably in a landfill by now.”
Q’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he found his voice again. “Your Omega Seamaster watch?”
“If you didn’t want me to use it, you shouldn’t have put explosives in it,” James returned, trying not to smile at his lover’s affronted reaction to the statement. It was true, really, what had Q expected when he gave him tech with explosive power.
“Your PPK?” Q inquired with a raised brow. James could see the indignation starting to flush his Quartermaster’s face and knew he’d need to make a strategic retreat fairly quickly. He’d be very very lucky if he got a leg over later, he thought ruefully, most likely he’d be relegated to the sofa, with not even Q’s cats for company.
Clearing his throat, James uttered, “At the bottom of the Seine.”
James cooled his heels at his neighborhood pub, having made his strategic retreat in the face of his Quartermaster’s red countenance. For once, Q had been speechless at the lack of tech, and James hadn’t wanted to linger to hear what ever epic rant Q would have for him, once he finally found his voice. He of course loved that voice, the tone and cadence to Q’s speech was always a pleasurable sound, even when he was in a strop. However, this was the sixth time in a row he’d not brought Q’s beloved tech back in one piece–except for the earwig, he always had his earwig–and James figured self preservation was probably the best choice until Q cooled off a bit. Oh, he knew he was in for it when he’d eventually get home, but perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, if Q had a bit of time to accept the situation.
The flat was brightly lit when James finally stepped through the door. He could see the mess of Q’s disheveled locks over the back of the sofa as he set his traveling case down in the foyer. He was a bit trepidatious, but hoped his peace offering of fish and chips from Q’s favorite pub would help sooth his bespectacled beast of a lover.
Q turned and gave him a sweet smile. That smile sent a prickle of alarm up the back of James’ neck.
“Oh! You brought dinner!” Q said, making grabby hands for the fragrant bag in James’ hand. “Thank you, love.”
Something was definitely not right, James mused, placing the bag in Q’s slim hands. Q raised his face before grabbing James’ tie to pull him in for a soft kiss. He couldn’t help but sink his hands into the soft thickness of Q’s hair, tugging a bit to delve deep into his lover’s mouth with a satisfied sigh. James had missed that mouth the last two weeks.
Pulling back with a delicate suck to Q’s plush upper lip, James perused the beloved face beneath his own. Q was content, peaceful, and extremely satisfied. There was plainly something wrong here, James considered, definitely.
“Q,” he said, running his fingers along Q’s soft nape.
“Why don’t you go get changed before the food gets cold,” Q returned with another smile, though it was more like a Cheshire grin to James’ eyes.
“Okay…” James acknowledged, unable to help the questioning note that came out at the end.
He was a bit alarmed and almost tripped over his feet trying to keeping one eye on his lover when he headed to their bedroom. He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, and was sure it was going to drop on his head soon. Perhaps he should have stayed and allowed Q to have his normal post mission tirade, instead of withdrawing from the battlefield so soon, he thought, flicking on the light.
His mouth dropped open taking in the carnage. It was tragic, horrific, and so unexpected he was frozen, standing in the doorway.
His beautiful bespoke suits were strewn about on the bed, all thirty of them in piles, but the most horrific part was the two felines nesting in the fine wool. Their purring contentment and claws kneading the silken fabrics was absolutely blasphemous, but the worse part, the most unholy of infractions, was the white and gray fur blanketing his gorgeous attire.
Slim arms circled around his chest before a bony chin pressed on James’ shoulder with a satisfied sigh.
“I’ll do my best to bring my equipment back from now on, Q,” James vowed, his eyes wide watching Q’s cats roll around in his beautiful bespoke suits.
He received a sweet kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, 007.”
A/N: This prompt is from the Rough Trade Writer’s Forum, The Workshop, hosted by Keira Marcos.