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“Ladies and gentlemen, I have an important announcement.”
Everybody turned to Q. Their Quartermaster and esteemed leader, standing before them with a mild expression, worry turning his green eyes slightly darker than usual. They all dutifully watched him, suspending their programmes and projects
Except Heloise, who stopped for nobody, Q himself included. Nobody really had the nerve to tell her otherwise.
“The annual Battlefield teams have been drawn,” Q explained; even Heloise snapped to attention, pausing mid-line to watch, eyes wide.
The Battlefield was the nickname for the annual team-building, inter-departmental paintballing that happened yearly. It was not just paintballing. The teams won nothing but honour, bruises, and a round of drinks from the losing team – but it was the single most important event in the MI6 calendar.
There was only one rule: no lasting physical harm. Beyond that, everybody went quite categorically insane over the entire affair.
Historically, MI6 staff had been abducted, interrogated, held at gunpoint. Communications were hacked across the entirety of the building, entire swathes of British countryside rigged to explode by A-branch – the team who rigged buildings and bombs for a living. The Catering staff maliciously starved the opposition in the preceding days. The Medical staff did unspeakable things. Finance cut off everybody’s money flow, which made life very difficult for some of M-team – management – and Q-branch in particular.
To avoid outright chaos across the entirely of MI6, the different branches – or ‘teams’ – were paired with one another at random. So Medical would only be vitriolic to the support division, or H-branch – who worked exclusively on deep-cover missions – would be the only branch affected by the Catering issues.
Betting began the moment the teams were drawn. The double-ohs, M-team and T-branch – the training staff for all agents – were conventionally the most lethal. The Renegades team – a specially formed team, of retired MI6 volunteers – were also occasionally very dangerous, depending on how they’d formed.
Q-branch was generally pretty average. They could usually beat Catering and Finance, and managed a surprising victory against the H-branch staff one year. Everybody from Medical upwards could generally beat them; Medical had done so the previous year, in fact, by drugging everything caffeinated in the building. The disorientated branch could do little in their own defence.
This was, however, Q’s year. He had been a junior employee in previous rounds, and lamented that his branch took it nowhere near seriously enough.
They would need to, given the competition this year.
“It’s capture the flag, with a secondary goal of elimination. We’ve been pitched against the double-ohs,” Q told his branch, expression faintly apologetic.
The reactions ranged from pained groans to stifled sobs.
-
“Battlefield’s up, we’ve got Q-branch,” 001 announced over the phone; the double-ohs were scattered across the world on various missions, but always found ways to communicate. 007, 006, 004 and 001 were all on-site, through more luck than judgement. 009 was on a mission in Uganda, would be contacted separately. 002 and 003 were on a joint mission in Pakistan, 005 in Texas, 008 in Xi’an, China.
008 burst out laughing. “Tough break, Bond,” he snorted; Bond rolled his eyes. His relationship with their Quartermaster would have little to no bearing on the Battlefield setup; both he and Q were aware that all bets were off until the battle ended, the next week.
Seven days to plot, organise themselves, and usually a few hours of actual combat. Maybe less. Q-branch would probably be a whitewash, after all. “Can we use Q to gauge their plan of attack?” 008 asked, his voice a low rumble; everybody in MI6 turned to look at Bond. ‘Use’ generally did not notate tea and biscuits.
“By all means, we have an understanding,” Bond told them, with a faint shrug. “It’ll be difficult to get hold of him, he’ll be hiding out in Q-branch now the news has hit. When are the rest of you back?”
“Tomorrow,” 003 said, on behalf of himself and 002. They were a useful pair, worked very well together, were often sent on dual missions.
005 was, disappointingly, unlikely to make it back. “My mission’s in a delicate place, I’ll do my best, but comms will be difficult from late afternoon tomorrow for a good few days,” she explained regretfully. “Who else has who? I need to get my bets in, I won a bloody fortune last year.”
It actually promised to be fairly interesting. M-team – which included M himself – were dealing with A-branch; explosions were always a given with A-branch, but the M-team were always unpredictable, and had the benefit of bribing other departments for help.
Catering and Finance were handling each other; Finance would therefore cut Catering’s budget, and Catering would refuse to feed them. Hunger-driven Finance stuff would cock up the budgets for the next financial year, and everybody in the MI6 building would be ordering in take-out.
H-branch and the support agents were battling it out, which would probably be quite an even match. B-branch – literally, the ‘baby branch’, for all trainee agents – were against the Renegades, which would potentially be hilarious, if the Renegades had a decent collection.
Medical and T-branch were together. Medical played very dirty, and T-branch were world experts in all forms of combat. It promised to be actively frightening.
“Alright,” 001 said, her tone businesslike and formal. “We play on the dynamic with 007 and Q, if we’re able, start bombarding them with verbal threats, they’re unlikely to cope well. R…”
“I’ll handle R,” 006 interjected; Bond looked at him with interest, and Trevelyan shrugged, a sideways smirk growing. “You’re not the only one who likes a geek to play with,” he jibed; Bond punched him, and Trevelyan tackled him to the floor.
004 sighed. “For those taking this seriously,” he noted, over the sounds of Trevelyan attempting to throttle Bond, “We need their tactical aims. An infiltration, preferably; chances of blackmailing a weaker employee?”
“Q has them well-trained,” 005 mused, “but I think there are a couple who’ll fold. They’ll probably have the location before us, which will give them an immediate advantage.”
“Anybody have any undamaged tech they can use to tap into their resources?” 001 asked optimistically; radio silence, of course, barring grunts from 006 and 007, who were still fighting one another.
That would teach them all to trash their equipment.
-
“Tactics,” Q began calmly, his branch all assembled, every last one cradling some form of caffeinated beverage. Q was reading the transcripts from the phone conversation the double-ohs had conducted, when the news first came through; their initial ploys were unsurprising, focused on intimidating them as a branch. Psychological warfare, before the battle itself. “The double-ohs do not fight fair. We may need to bump security.”
“The other branches will be busy, they won’t be able to afford the manpower,” Lisa pointed out; Q nodded, expression vexed. “Can we increase screening here?”
“Possible,” Q conceded. “The double-ohs are infamous for their abductions, I don’t want information leaked. I need everybody working on armour, camouflage gear, holders for ammunition. Can we modify any of the old AKs from last quarter?”
Elizabeth, from the back of the room, piped up: “They’ll overheat, the paint will jam them,” she pointed out apologetically.
Q took a sip of his tea, as his branch buzzed with ideas. “We will need backup; who can we blackmail, coerce, bribe?”
“Most teams owe us favours,” R shrugged, taking a sip of her ridiculously strong coffee. “A-branch owe us from last year, that could be useful. Catering are also onside, but I don’t see how…”
Q interrupted before she came even close to finishing the sentence. “Call them, before the funding cuts from Finance come through,” he ordered. “Get supplies to last a week shipped down here.”
R did as told, while the rest of the branch exchanged looks. “If I’m not mistaken, the agents will target anybody who sets a foot outside this branch,” Q explained, humming in satisfaction at his tea; Mark did an excellent line in teas, was Q’s favourite tea-maker of the lot. “So, I’m locking us down in here for the week. Easiest way of doing it.”
“I have a family,” Nigel pointed out, from somewhere at the back; Q’s expression was faintly pitying, everybody else’s contemptuous.
Nobody had family, friends, or a life in general the week of the Battlefield. Q wasn’t seeing his partner either. More than that, he was plotting ways to completely and utterly undermine his partner, in every way conceivable, and probably ultimately shoot him.
Some things had to take priority.
-
The double-ohs weren’t overwhelmingly worried. Really, it was very stupid of them.
Q had discovered, very early on, that there was a loophole in MI6 phraseology concerning Q-branch and weaponry that could work very well in their favour. Namely, that Q-branch were obligated to assess every single piece of weaponry all active agents used, for security purposes.
Their loophole: the paintguns were technically classed at weaponry.
Thus, Q-branch got hold of all the paintguns, for all branches. From that point on, they had every single department in MI6 eating out of the palms of their hands, trying to one-up one another to get their opposition sabotaged.
After all, the wording was ‘assess’. The fact that Q-branch would work in their agents’ favour was merely assumed. On this occasion, they had other aims in mind.
The double-ohs were happily oblivious. They had a strategy neatly worked out, for the Battlefield itself; Q-branch thus knew, from their surveillance, that the double-ohs were heavily relying on ambush and snipers. The best marksmen – 001, 004 and 009 – would station themselves in various pertinent locations, to eliminate the bulk of Q-branch. 002, 003 and 008 would be going for the flag itself.
006 and 007 would be working through the Battlefield, on the ground, working on the ‘Elimination’ aspect of the goals. Q-branch outnumbered the double-ohs quite considerably – nine, against fifty-seven – but the double-ohs were the double-ohs. It made up for the numbers.
Either way, Q-branch had their opponents’ strategy. From there, it was relatively simple.
-
The day of the Battlefield dawned, dark and cold.
They were in Cumbria – and had thankfully managed to get out of the branch without undue catastrophe – after a very long coach journey. Everybody was tired, and faintly pissed off with the whole proceedings, after a week spent in close proximity to one another, forming ways to try and eliminate nine people.
The two teams began at opposite ends of a large stretch of woodland. Q-branch –naturally – had known the location of the fight for the past several days, and had planned accordingly. They also were equipped with thermal sensors, intercom systems, and sheer determination.
“This is our moment,” Q announced to them all, dressed head to toe in paintballing gear, gun in hand, barrels of spare ammunition stashed in various pouches over his body. “Be brave, ladies and gentlemen.”
His branch all nodded, dutifully dressed up with their goggles on, the tech showing them cross-sectioned trees for the next mile and a half.
The klaxon sounded, and it began.
-
The double-ohs had not been entirely lax. They realised quickly that Q-branch were employing other departments for help, and thus kidnapped them, in lieu of any actual Q-branch employees. Waterboarding may or may not have been used. Nobody’s telling.
A-branch were definitely involved in some capacity, as were T-branch. A- and Q-branches working together was a frightening concept given both parties propensity for blowing things up, but given that serious or lasting physical harm was prohibited, it was unlikely to be in anything lethal. They were also banned from using any projectiles other than paintballs.
M-team was also definitely involved with Q-branch in terms of their strategy, and also in allowing Q-branch loopholes in the paintballing laws; Q-branch were therefore likely to have, and be using, more advanced technology than usually seen in the Battlefield fights. None of M-team would talk under torture, annoyingly, but Moneypenny could be plied with alcohol if one tried hard enough.
Or so she made them believe, she giggled at Q the next day.
The double-ohs moved quickly and efficiently through the woodland; the flag was due east, along with Q-branch. Their base was due north. They had the advantage of speed; 002 and 003 were fast runners, keeping alongside one another as the combed the woodland, 001 and 009 moving towards higher trees, anywhere they could conceivably station themselves.
The explosion ripped through the earth.
A-branch were damn good at their jobs, it had to be said. No physical harm to any party, but a massive gouge in the earth, blocking their path, trees collapsing in front of 002 and 003 as they came within spitting distance of the flag.
“What the fuck?!” 003 yelled at 002, a heartbeat before a paintball slammed him in the direct centre of his chest. Followed by another ten, dotted around his anatomy, at relatively close range.
002 rolled away into the underbrush, cursing under his breath, darting his head around the corner to level off a decent number of shots at the wave of Q-branch operatives that were cascading towards him; they were in a neat row, easy enough to dispatch. 002 managed to eliminate seven before a paintball hit him squarely in the left leg.
“Bollocks,” he muttered, as Q-branch swamped him and 003, a plague of very frightening locusts.
-
Q knew he needed to get to Bond, as fast as humanly possible. What was more, Bond would be waiting for him; Bond would want to get Q out of the way, if at all possible, knowing Q was the leader and puppet master of Q-branch.
An explosion in the distance; Q nodded appreciatively, resolving to thank A-branch once again when this was all done. “002 down,” came the report a moment later. “003 also down, non-lethal. Successfully taken hostage.”
That was an achievement. After being shot by a paintball, it was illegal to continue shooting. If the wound would be considered ‘fatal’, the player was immediately out of action, and off the field.
If the wound would be non-lethal, in the Real World, then the player was technically still allowed on the field. The player would fight back, hide if possible – in elimination games, wounded players would skulk up trees for hours, waiting to be found, and properly killed. A ninety-two hour Battle several years ago had utilised that rule nicely.
Q-branch had decided they would do something new, and take a hostage. They had a plan. 003 remained trussed like a turkey, but decidedly not dead, at the feet of a handful of Q-branchers.
“Our casualties?” Q asked, remaining precisely as he was, very still. He hadn’t taken so much as a step.
Nigel replied after a moment, breathing a little harshly. “Seven down,” he reported. “One non-lethal, moving out of range.”
Q-branch were, of course, utilising the afore-mentioned rule concerning wounded parties. They also had many weaker fighters hiding in perverse locations, scattered all over the Field; the double-ohs would have a good deal of trouble tracking them all down.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tactic 007 is being deployed imminently,” Q announced to them. “R?”
“Receiving; am currently being tracked by single hostile, presumably 006,” R returned; Q smiled slightly, nodded. From the various pieces of intelligence Q-branch had acquired, 006 was tracking down R down; the double-ohs had correctly established that Q-branch were using a decent amount of their own technology, and needed R to feed false information to the Q-branch team.
Meanwhile, Q was almost entirely certain that Bond would shoot on sight. Bond would never allow any other double-oh shoot him, and Q needed to be taken out as a priority.
Yet.
Q knew Bond’s weaknesses.
“Tactic 007 is live,” Q announced, to his entire branch.
With that, he cut his own microphone for a moment, and let out a broken, strangled scream: “JAMES.”
-
Bond heard the cry. Q. His Q. In pain.
“Bond, he’s playing you,” 001 said urgently, trying to reach out to Bond, pin him back; Bond shrugged her off without effort, darting through the depths of the woods towards the sound of his lover, somewhere, calling out for him.
-
R wasn’t too surprised when there was a sudden pressure against her lower spine. “Move and I shoot you,” Trevelyan growled; R raised her hands slowly, almost comically. She kept the comm. system open, so her team would know what was happening; she was intentionally on her own, nobody in the branch to back her up.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely.
Trevelyan smiled very slightly, body pressing closer; R raised an eyebrow, not wholly surprised, but not precisely delighted either.
She moved quickly, but not quickly enough; Trevelyan pulled the trigger, the gun jammed as predicted, and R shot him at point-blank range with a customised paintball-shooting Webley. “A pleasure as always,” she said with a slight, mocking bow.
R couldn’t resist a delighted smirk, as she looked over 006. “006 is down,” she reported happily. She would have preferred a non-lethal, but trying to restrain a double-oh on her own would be impossible. “Status?”
“Pending,” Q replied calmly, leaning casually against a tree, gun ready at his side.
-
Bond burst out through the woods, immediately focusing on his young lover, propped against a tree, looking very pale, clad in defensive gear with his gun dangling from his long fingers, glancing up at Bond with his beautiful wide, green eyes.
He looked at Bond, sighed slightly, in what Bond was almost certain had to be relief. Bond moved closer, trying to assess for injury, trying to find what had caused his lover to sound so pained.
Q rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know whether to be flattered, or concerned at how easily you can be compromised,” he said simply, and fired.
-
009 was ambushed. Q-branch could track him via their thermal sensors; a gang of fourteen Q-branch kids engaged him in an all-out fire fight, paintballs soaring across the field, hitting trees, 009’s aim impeccable while the Q-branch kids were just desperately trying to make something – anything – hit.
They lost nine of the fourteen, before Abigail managed a direct hit to 009’s groin. Everybody winced, 009 included, appallingly grateful for the armouring over said area, before another handful of paintballs slammed into him.
“009 down,” Elisabeth reported smugly, a moment before a shot went directly into her lower back.
-
In the centre of the ring, 008 had managed to traverse the gorge created by the A-branch explosion, plucking the flag free and moving back to their base. They had agreed to rendezvous at the base in precisely one hour, after the klaxon sounded; by that stage, it was understood that the flag would be at their base, and 006/007 would have managed to eliminate a fair number of Q-branch.
The double-ohs had no way of communicating with one another, while on the field. In this particular battle, it was a serious disadvantage.
008 made his way back quickly, efficiently, with the flag. Nobody intercepted him en route, which boded rather well for how many Q-branchers were already out of the running.
He was the first back to the base. After another few minutes, 004 appeared, helping set up a defensive perimeter. “Any word from the others?” he asked, glancing over 008. He nodded, when 008 grunted out a negative. “Alright,” he continued, glancing at his watch. “Nine minutes. I’ll be on the east side.”
-
Q let out a gentle keening sound, pinned against the tree by Bond’s bodyweight, gasping slightly.
Bond had looked at the paintball spattered over his thigh, looked up at a very nonchalant Q with a gun in hand, and everything about the image had struck a chord. A heartbeat later, and Q was slammed into a tree and kissed with terrifying ferocity.
Really, Q wasn’t very surprised. It was actually what he had been counting on.
“008 has the flag, as per the plan,” Steven reported; Q smirked into Bond’s kiss, glad his microphone was off as his lover growled in his ear, Q letting out a breathy, deliberate moan. “Q, status?”
Q broke off, tapped his earpiece. “Q here – all is going as intended,” he replied in a warm tone, brushing over Bond’s limbs happily. “007 will be onside imminently.”
“007 will be nothing of the sort,” Bond denied immediately, glancing down at Q, eyebrow raised emphatically.
Q just glanced up and down him, snorted. He muted his mike again, expression faintly pitying. “James, you and I both know I will easily get you doing absolutely anything I want,” he said simply, tutting slightly at Bond’s sheer stupidity. He tapped back into Q-branch. “Elizabeth, report?”
There was silence from the other end. Bond was still watching Q without something like confusion, Q’s hand stroking through his hair the only thing keeping him in place. “R, can you track down Elizabeth, I need to deal with 007.”
“I’m leaving the field,” Bond told Q flatly, unequivocally.
Q rolled his eyes. “No, you’re planning to hide out somewhere so we can’t eliminate you. Don’t insult my intelligence,” he shot back, feeling rather annoyed that Bond would even try such a ploy. “What you will actually be doing is working for Q-branch.”
Bond snorted, pulling out of Q’s grip. “And what makes you say that?” he asked mockingly, glancing over Q’s thin frame, both aware from experience that Q stood absolutely no chance of physically outmanoeuvring him.
“No sex for a month,” Q said, his trump card. “I don’t care if you believe me or not – I dare you to risk it.”
It was actually a little embarrassing, how fast Bond acceded to every single one of Q’s demands.
-
004 very nearly fired, when 003 stumbled out of the undergrowth, hand on the back of the neck of a terrified-looking Q-branch kid. The girl had to be in her early twenties, looked very vulnerable, sobbing with mild hysteria while decked out in enough gear to sink a battleship.
“Change of plan,” he panted. “Base is opposite end of the fucking field. We were fed the wrong information, Q-branch intercepted. This little shit told me everything. They’re hooked into each other, they’ve got some serious tech.
“We hacked your transmissions,” the girl whimpered, while 003 showed his companion the guns Q-branch had cannibalised. “Just shoot me, I don’t want to be…”
004 rolled his eyes. “Chill,” she said, in as placatory a tone as she could manage. “If you’re lying, I’ll do more than shoot you with a goddamn paint gun. Is Q there?”
“007 has him,” the girl sniffed, hands trembling as she handed over the headset, looking between 004 and 003 with hugely wide eyes. “I’m sorry, I…”
Q sounded a little stressed, which was generally indicative of matters going extremely wrong. “004, good morning. Could you please stop terrorising my staff? You have made your point, and have the information you require.”
“Your proof?” 004 replied; she pushed hair out of her eyes, glancing over to 003 again, noting a stain on his upper arm.
A stain, bright green, almost neon in brightness. 004 smiled a little.
“You little fuck,” she said to the sobbing girl. Said girl looked over where 004’s eyes had fallen – and 003 just looked vaguely apologetic – and the girl’s face lit up with bright, deliberately obnoxious grin.
004 was a very fast agent. She fired several shots into the girl, ignoring 003 – who had obviously been rendered a treacherous party – and ducking for cover as a cascade of paintballs flew in her direction.
“Hey, Morris,” she yelled, hoping 008 would hear. “Morris.”
A handful of seconds later, she heard the rhythmic sounds of return fire; she twisted around, rattling off shots at anything that moved, cursing eloquently under her breath as shots whistled millimetres from her skin.
Just out of spite, she also managed a lethal hit to 003. The bastard deserved it. Honestly, 004 just wanted to know what in the hell Q-branch had on him.
Her moment of self-indulgence cost her; a Q-brancher managed a shot, hitting the shoulder. “Oh, fuck it,” she moaned, preparing herself for hand-to-hand defence as the Q-branchers swarmed.
-
“Q, we lost eleven of ours in the base offensive. 004 compromised, 008 down, the flag is ours. No reports from Elizabeth, and we’ve lost contact with Jeremy,” R reported, from a safe location. “001 is not accounted for, repeat, not accounted for. Communications may be tapped. Status?”
Bond bit down on his earlobe, Q moaning with pure desperation, Bond’s hand working insistently around his cock. Distracting bastard. “Hang on,” he told Bond, voice very low, breath catching. He flicked his microphone on. “Compromised. 007. Over and out, you’re on your own.”
He cut the microphone, looking back at Bond imperiously. “You were busy?” he asked crisply, guiding Bond’s hand back to his crotch, while Bond’s expression remained very unusually confused. “Bond, we knew one of you would infiltrate, probably tap in on the comm. system. I’m assuming 001 has done so. Ergo, she needs to believe you’re still active.”
“You’re a sneaky little bastard, aren’t you?” Bond asked softly, squeezing Q’s cock, making him moan outright. “Fuck, I like you like this. Armed and dangerous.”
Q smirked. “Duly noted. Now seriously, Bond, we don’t have all day, and I need you to kill 001 for me,” he purred, placing a hand on Bond’s shoulder, gently pushing James Bond onto his knees.
-
004 arrived at the Q-branch base, carrying the damn flag, handing it over to a delighted minion.
“Thank you,” he said politely, nodding. “We’ll have the requisite munitions to you in time for the Ghana mission, and all paperwork is levied for the time being. Your assistance is, as always, appreciated.”
With that, said minion shot 004, dead in the centre of the chest. “I am sorry,” the man sighed, and handed the flag to raise over their base. He tapped over to Q and R: “Flag acquired, and in place.”
-
Q came with a muffled cry, Bond’s mouth deliciously hot around him, customised paintball Browning against the older man’s temple – something Bond, it seemed, rather enjoyed.
He listened to the reports from base while Bond made him shiver, tongue cleaning him up, pulling the agent up to kiss him with ridiculous intensity before breaking violently apart, staggering back.
Bond was flushed, pupils hugely dilated, his suit and protective equipment doing nothing to conceal his very obvious erection. “Q…”
“Take my microphone. Say whatever you would, if you were attempting to terrify my team, and had me in your custody,” Q ordered him. “Do it, and I make you come. Do anything untoward, and I swear, I will ensure that you do not come for days.”
Bond’s expression didn’t change. He pulled the microphone from Q, and started speaking.
-
This is agent 007. I have Q here with me, and he’s kindly given me access to everything you fine people have in the way of technology. Believe me when I say – I can find you. I would strongly suggest that you surrender now, or I will play with my food. Get to your base, we shoot you quickly. You have ten minutes.
-
“We need more power-play dynamics,” Q rasped, and kissed Bond again, hand slipping into the agent’s trousers.
-
Ten minutes.
Q-branch had planned the entire affair quite meticulously. Seven Q-branchers stood around, looking very awkward and very nervous, armed to the teeth, ready to be shot at.
It was ten minutes, on the dot, when shots started firing. A moment or two of hesitation later, and there was more than one gunman.
The Q-branchers had all expected to be shot, and thus were. They didn’t even attempt to put up a fight. The shots were not too painful, but the two gunmen were thorough; all of them were drenched head-to-toe in paint by the end of it.
001 took a handful of steps forward, intending to clear the rest of the area; she moved quickly, a microsecond from shooting before recognising Bond. “Just us?” she asked, a little roughly, body an exercise in tension.
“More or less,” Bond replied.
That, in itself, was indicator enough.
001 rolled her eyes. “Q is a tricky little fuck, isn’t he?” she asked darkly; Bond smirked, and 001 just looked mildly repulsed. “Really. You are aware that the Battles are on record? Filmed?”
Bond shrugged, looking very unapologetic. “Free porn,” he said lightly, before his expression became a little more repentant. He almost looked sympathetic, as he looked 001 over. “There’s no point in fighting," he pointed out to her.
“Fuck that,” 001 snorted, and shot him.
-
001 had enough time to extend her arms to either side, eloquent as a dancer, looking inches from taking flight, when the twenty remaining live members of Q-branch emptied their paint guns into her.
-
“You owe all fifty-something of us drinks,” Q grinned, when he and Bond had made it back to London, both filthy and covered with pain and bruises and utterly, ferociously exhilarated.
Bond raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Yes, I suppose we do,” he returned, glancing over Q with an expression that was pure, predatory want.
Q’s grin was terrifying as he pushed Bond into the bedroom, stopping very briefly to pick up Bond’s spare Walther, before shutting the door firmly behind them.