#31daysofbond

[castillon02]

Recruitment attempt #2

Notes: For the 31 days of Bond prompt ‘tricky.’ Sequel to recruitment attempt #1.  

The bell on the cafe door rang; Q glanced up and froze. It was him! The man Q mentally referred to as That Fucker, the one who had forced Q out of the UK at last, even if Q had had the distinct pleasure of tazing him first. 

Q’s hands wanted to flinch off his laptop keyboard and grab for the umbrella on the back of his chair; he forced them to stay where they were. Why the fuck was That Fucker in an adorable steampunk coffeeshop in Berlin? Q hadn’t published any of his better inventions; he hadn’t stolen any particularly juicy information recently; he hadn’t even stolen any money in a while, given that the thing with those drug dealing accounts six months ago had gone so well. One of them had even belonged to a terrorist group, so really Q had been doing a public service... 

The man had the temerity to smirk and wave at him as he picked his way through the crowd of nerds in the cafe. People slid out of his way instinctively, possibly because of the suit, possibly because of the muscles, possibly just because he gave off an aura that somehow conveyed that he was trained in the fine art of getting what he wanted and was willing to be the carrot or the stick as needed. 

Q had seen what the stick looked like. Perhaps he was about to meet the carrot. 

“Hello again,” the man said, stopping in front of Q’s table. He held out a hand. “I think we got off to a bad start. The name is Bond. James Bond.” He smiled. It was a nice smile. Probably like a vampire’s right before it ate you. 

Q ignored the hand. ‘James Bond.’ Really? Might as well have called himself John Smith. If he was going to give an alias, he could at least be cute about it. Richard Something, maybe, because the man was clearly a dick. 

“Charmed,” Q said dryly, peering at the footage from a CCTV camera outside the cafe. Yes, there it was---the same Aston Martin that had been outside his flat in London when he’d skipped out. Luckily, he’d taken a moment to get its details.

Without asking for permission, ‘Bond’ sat down in the chair opposite Q’s. “Nice little phone you had,” he said, undoubtedly referring to Q’s stun gun mobile. “Self-destructed rather thoroughly when we tried to open it.” 

Q had left it for that very purpose, hoping the man would get a tiny bit exploded for good measure. “I like to keep myself to myself,” he said pointedly. 

“I think,” the man said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that what you really like is to get into other people’s business. And probably to explode things.” He grinned. “As it happens, so do I.”  

...Was that a hint that the man was planning an explosive revenge? With no subtlety, Q reached into the laptop bag at his feet and flicked the switch on his signal jammer. 

The man, who’d tensed up when Q moved, cocked his head and frowned. Something about the movement... 

Hmm. Apparently That Fucker was wired up, or had been until Q’s jammer had taken care of that. The possibility of That Fucker belonging to some kind of evil organization looked more and more probable.  

“And apparently you like privacy, too,” the man said, recovering himself. “Care to go somewhere a little more...intimate? Perhaps we can get to know each other better without an audience.” He gave Q a smoldering look. It was rendered less than effective by Q’s knowledge that by ‘without an audience’ the man probably meant ‘where no one can hear you scream.’

Instead of swooning at the man’s molten blue fuck-me eyes, Q curled his ankles around his chair ridiculously. He liked this cafe. He refused to be kidnapped from it. It was time for Plan C. “Benefits!” he blurted out. “What are your benefits like?” He double-checked his photo of the Aston’s license number, executed a command prompt on his laptop, and unleashed a series of pre-programmed little bots. Unfortunately, this plan, unlike the one back in London, would take a little while. Seeing the man’s leer, he added, “The ones that are offered by your organization, not the carnal ones, Mr. Bond.” 

The man blinked. “You actually want me to give you the employment package?” 

Q eyed him. “I can hardly be expected to make decisions without knowing if your organization offers dental or not.” They would just threaten to pry his teeth out of their sockets once they had him, but forcing the man to talk shop about his organization’s HR policies ought to give Q enough stalling time.

“You know, it would be much easier to do that if I still had someone talking in my ear who could look up the details,” the man said wryly. “I’m afraid I don’t know what kind of benefits we offer to speccy nerds. But I think I have a better idea: why don’t you tell me what you’d like, and I’ll see if I can get it for you?” The man winked at him. 

Q flushed. He liked when big, strong men offered to please him. Still: “You can fuck off, that’s the first thing,” he said. 

Bond looked smug. “Aside from that,” he said.

It had been worth a shot.    

*** 

Q kept Bond busy for an hour, mostly by chatting about ideal laboratory conditions. He sketched schematics on napkins. He talked about safety codes. He ranted about standing desks. Then, when Bond was too bored to protest much, Q plied him with questions about what kinds of gadgets would be useful in his line of work; he was always looking for new inspiration. 

Bond had an amused quirk to his eyebrows that said he knew Q was stalling, but he went along with it rather than cause a scene, which Q had rather been counting on. 

The stun phone hadn’t been bad, Bond said. He enjoyed covert household goods converted into weaponry. (Bond eyed the umbrella hooked over the back of Q’s chair.) But most of all he appreciated reliability, especially in his firearms and his--- “Erk,” Bond said, whipping his head around to look fully out the cafe window. 

A tow truck was just driving off, and Bond’s Aston Martin was hooked to the back of it. 

Q smiled. “You should probably get that,” he said. “Wouldn’t want anything to fall into the wrong hands.”

Just a guess, really, but from the way Bond’s eyes narrowed, Q had been right. The Aston had some illicit hardware. Maybe that Beretta from before, tucked under a seat. Maybe more. 

“Make them put it back,” Bond growled. “Tell them it was a mistake.” 

Ah, back to threats. Goodbye Mr. Carrot, hello Mr. Stick.  

“I don’t think I will,” Q said coolly. “I think you’ll leave me alone and go fetch it at the lot before anyone can take too much of a look at it. By the time you get there, the news of the misunderstanding will have come through and everyone will be very apologetic. Some sort of glitch in the system; it happens.” 

“And you’ll be gone,” Bond said. “And some sort of ‘glitch in the system’ will cover your tracks.” A complicated look flashed across his face---anger, understanding, other things that Q couldn’t identify.      

“I like to keep myself to myself,” Q repeated. He kept his eyes on Bond, assessing; Bond could always try the public kidnapping route, but he had no way of knowing what other safeguards Q had surrounded himself with. 

Bond stood and walked around to Q’s side of the table. 

Q jerked his umbrella off his chair and held it in his lap, ready to stab. 

Bond planted his hands on the table next to Q’s laptop, rough-knuckled and no rings, and leaned over Q’s chair. “Do you know what I like?” he asked, murmuring in Q’s ear. 

The hair on the back of Q’s neck stood on end. He swallowed. 

“I like a good chase,” Bond said. He pressed his lips against the thrumming pulse of Q’s carotid. Then he left---just walked out the door with another cheeky wave. 

Q gripped his umbrella with white knuckles until the CCTV feed on his laptop showed Bond hailing a taxi and getting in. 

[mi6-cafe]

31 Days of Bond 

We’re only challenging you to complete 12 days of Bond this year, but we know some of you are over-achievers, and we hope you’ll enjoy having 31 days of prompts to choose from. We look forward to seeing what you create! 

Make sure to tag with #mi6cafechallenge so we can find and reblog. As always, all ships and gen fancreations are welcome! 

1. Catalogue  2. Roasted 3. Endearment 4. Tricky 5. Blasphemy 6. Whole 7. Eff 8. Spice 9. Sticky 10. Disco 11. Baking 12. Spirits 13. Fandom 14. Cheesy 15. Mail-Order 16. Cookies 17. Trip 18. Consort 19. Palm Tree 20. Name Mix-up 21. Snow 22. Arrows 23. Gift Exchange 24. Office Christmas Party 25. Candles 26. Reindeer 27. Cold 28. Sugar 29. Sledding 30. Fire 31. Family

[dassandre-00qpidsarrow]

Gingerbread by Dassandre

“24 Years of Christmases” - Chapter 12

Chapter Rating:  Explicit December 24, 2028 Q rubbed behind the ears of the purring, ginger kitten -- barely much more than a tennis ball of fluff and fuzz -- who was curled up tightly on the flat of his shoulder against his neck with the sofa cushion behind.  She was sound asleep. Not surprising given the busy night she’d had, James thought. As had become something of an odd tradition the last few years, for an hour each Christmas Eve, Mycroft Holmes came and sat with his youngest brother in the back sitting room, each with a whisky in hand, staring at the fire or at the Christmas tree, largely not saying anything to one another save for occasional, awkward, stilted pleasantries.  Granted, there were a few more of those awkward and stilted pleasantries each year, which James considered progress, of a kind -- he was optimistic they might even manage half a conversation before the turn of the decade -- and whilst things went a bit more smoothly during their now annual New Year’s Day luncheon, the adults in the room all knew it was the children’s presence that helped things along, for on their own, Remy and Mycroft Holmes were something of a train wreck. At least they were trying.  Mostly. Though after tonight ... Tonight’s tête-à-tête had been cut short by Gingerbread.  The kit, who had taken to nestling unseen in the upper boughs of the Christmas tree when she wasn’t curled up somewhere on or near Remy -- Moneypenny’s Christmas gift for the children had immediately claimed Q as her human, instead -- leapt from the tree, wee claws extended to latch herself onto the top of Mycroft’s head.  Something she tended to do whenever anyone wandered too close. Such as when one was pouring another finger of whisky from the drinks trolley. Whilst in all other regards, the kitten was a calm and almost overly affectionate thing, she seemed to take an unholy glee in the sneak attacks, and the rest of the household had quickly learned to give the tree a wide berth. Curious that Q had failed to warn Mycroft about that little fact.   James also wondered when, or if, the trolley would make its way back to its typical spot across the room beneath the window.   You can read the rest of the chapter here ... Chapter Twelve:

[hummingbee-o0o]

00Q

31 Days of Bond

4: snow 6: hot chocolate

[solarmorrigan]

-Snow-

“Is it snowing where you are?”

“Can’t you just pull up the weather report?”

“Humor me, 007.”

“Yes, fine. It is snowing. Big, fat flakes. The roads will be terrible in the morning.”

“Hmm.”

“Is it snowing in London?”

“Not a flurry.”

“Well. I’m sure that will be remedied soon.”

“Seems unlikely, given the projected temperatures. Bring me back some snow, would you?”

“I’ll see what I can do, Q.”

-

It stood out on Q’s desk, an object of clear glass and ceramic amidst towers of papers and tangles of wire. Had Bond not just been by to drop off the remains of his kit, Q might have been more suspicious. Instead, he went straight to his desk to pick up the gift surely left by his agent – a snow globe.

With a smile he allowed only because no one was around to see it, Q gave the trinket a shake and watched the little pellets of white swirl and settle around the tiny monument contained within. A little bit of the continent’s snowy weather for his own.

It hardly made up for the smashed earpiece, but the gesture, Q would later tell Bond, was appreciated.

[jaimistoryteller]

Relationship: James Bond/Alec Trevelyan

Characters: Q (Whishaw), Alec Trevelyan, James Bond

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Supernatural Elements

Verse: none

Challenge: 31 Days of Bond Flash Fics

Summary: Summoning one demon might be considered insane, summoning two definitely is, but Q already knew that. 

[q-and-agent]

For #31DaysofBond, Day 4 is snow which makes sense to think of winter but all I can think of is that lovely gay James Bond music video by Miike Snow (Genghis Khan) So becomes evil criminal mastermind who falls for the handsome spy he captures.

[akwelvhi]

201

“Baby it’s cold outside” prompt

“Baby, it's cold outside. Come in.“ His mother’s voice called from the doorway, warm light pouring out onto the backyard where the young boy stood staring up at the night sky. 

The weather forecast said it might snow tonight, and he wanted to see the first flakes fall from the sky. His nose had gone numb awhile ago, but he stubbornly stayed out waiting. 

“Come in love,” his mother said again, her arms wrapping around him.

“But the first snowflakes aren’t here yet.” Green eyes a touch more hazel blinking sleepily as the young boy leaned in closer to his mother’s warmth. 

“You’ll have many years to come for first snowflakes.” She said gently, tugging her youngest back into the house. Only his head of curls visible as he snuggled against her coat. 

Some miles away, cold blue eyes stared blankly ahead as a few floating white specks settled on the ground. Covering the grounds of Skyfall lodge in a thin layer of white that grew starker as the night wore on. 

-

Writing-Post 200 was on Nov 14th 2017, and before that, the only ‘continuous’ writing I did was working on the monster sometime in the 1st week of October. I think I did a couple of sprints on Slack during the November write-in’s. But that’s about it.

Which has made me realise. My habit of writing everyday has been broken for around 60 days (or more) now.... so I’ve, broken my ‘good writing habit’ ???? X___X!!!?? Have I ??? NooooOoo....?

I think I sorta became too conscious again of writing ‘substantial’ things after the 007games, which leads to thinking, then over thinking, and less writing. So I’ll go back to my “writing whatever random thing pops into my head as long as I’m writing” and kick this habit back on. HIT IT!

[melynen]

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

Q is in the middle of getting settled on the sofa for the evening with a still steaming cup of tea and an episode of Doctor Who on the telly when there’s a knock on the door. Just that single one, loud and clear, broadcasting sureness and confidence in that simple sound, and Q gets a strange feeling that he recognises the sound — even when he isn’t expecting anyone and even with only a handful of people knowing his address.

Q gets up from his comfortable nest of blankets and two cats (both of whom show their displeasure at being jostled by twin trills of annoyance) and makes his way to the door. He checks the cameras for a visual of his unexpected visitor and gets the surprise of a lifetime (or perhaps only the surprise of the year, considering all the things the Double Os get around to with alarming frequency) when he sees none other than James Bond standing there, dressed casually in a pair of nice jeans and a dark green sweater.

Q blinks once and then twice again; he had no idea that Bond was aware of where he lived, let alone that it was the same building the agent himself had recently moved into.

After a moment of consideration, Q finally disengages the locks and opens the door. “Good evening, 007,” he greets Bond, voice perfectly polite and showing exactly none of his earlier surprise.

“Evening, Q,” Bond replies and flashes one of his dazzling smiles. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Not as such, no,” Q replies. “This isn’t a social call, is it?”

“Well, actually, I was wondering if I could borrow some sugar from you. I’ve run out and don’t exactly fancy running to the shops in this weather, and then I remembered that Q lives here too…”

“You. Want to borrow sugar. From me.” Q blinks, wondering if he really heard what he thought he did.

Bond nods. “Yes. If you have some, that is.”

Q blinks again, but ultimately decides that questioning Bond would only lead to madness and/or mayhem. “I do, yes. If you’ll wait for a minute, I’ll go and get it.”

It takes him only half that time to locate his half full bag of sugar and bring it back to Bond. When he hands it to the man their fingers touch, if just barely, and Q has to bite the inside of his right cheek to contain the shiver the touch causes.

“Thank you, Q, this is much appreciated,” Bond tells him and smiles, and then wishes him a pleasant evening. Q repeats the sentiment and watches as Bond disappears up the stairs; he remembers to close the door only when a questioning meow comes from the sofa, and engaging the locks takes long enough to bring him fully back to reality. He returns to his tea and cats and the episode he’d barely started to watch, all the while trying his best not to think about Bond at all. (He fails, of course, but no one needs to know that.)

*

The second time there is a knock on his door it has been close to two hours, two episodes and three mugs of tea. Q gets up more quickly now, curious and wondering what Bond is after this time. Surely he isn’t simply returning whatever amount of sugar he didn’t use?

When he opens the door to Bond, he is greeted with a familiar smile and a tray of something that smells absolutely divine. He looks at Bond and utterly fails to mask his surprise at realising that Bond, the famous agent 007, needed the sugar he borrowed from him for biscuits instead of doing anything more nefarious with it.

“Hello again, Q,” Bond says. “I wanted to thank you for the sugar, so I made you these.” And he offers the tray to Q, who blinks but accepts it with only a little less grace than he normally would.

“Oh, um, thank you,” he says, glancing at the tray and Bond in turn. “I did not expect quite this, though. Um. Would you like to come in for a bit?”

“I would love to,” Bond replies, and Q steps aside from the door, letting Bond in. He closes and locks the door, and when he turns back to his unexpected guest he sees that his cats have already found him. Bond has bent down to scratch Pebble between her ears, and Oscar is currently sniffing at his free hand, neither of them showing any signs of moving away from the man.

”Your cats are adorable,” Bond tells him, though keeping his attention fully on the cats.

Q smiles slightly. ”Yes they are. Well, I shall go and put the kettle on. You’ll find me in the kitchen once my darlings decide to let you move again.” And with that, he leaves with the tray of biscuits in hand. How exactly did Bond know that homemade baked goods are his weakness?

Bond appears in the kitchen ten minutes later, Pebble in his arms and Oscar following close behind. Q takes in the scene and feels his heart melting, just a bit, at the way Bond is with his cats.

”Perfect timing,” he says, indicating the two mugs of tea on the table with the tray next to them.

Bond grins as he puts Pebble down and takes a seat. ”My timing always is.”

Q snorts and stirs some honey into his tea. ”If you say so.”

Bond takes his tea with a splash of milk but neither honey nor sugar, and they both remain quiet until Q finally caves and takes a biscuit. They’re round and brown and buttery and practically melt in his mouth, and he may or may not have made a small noise after the first bite. He can feel Bond’s eyes follow his every move, and he is perfectly aware that he is blushing, but for some reason that doesn’t make him feel uncomfortable. Instead, it feels like something he just does around Bond.

”These,” Q declares after finishing his biscuit, ”are simply amazing.”

Bond smiles. ”I’m glad that you think so.”

”I had no idea that you baked, though,” Q says, his tone questioning.

”Well, I rarely do. Only for special occasions.”

And that, Q thinks even as he carefully chooses another biscuit from the tray, must be why Bond is always so successful with his missions: he knows exactly what to say and do to reach his goal. Right now, said goal seems to be getting into his Quartermaster’s good graces, and Bond is already more than halfway there.

Not that he’d ever admit it out loud, but Q is a firm believer of always acknowledging the facts. And right now, the fact is that Bond is clearly up to something. What that something is, only he knows, but if nothing else the biscuits have awakened Q’s curiosity and established a deeper connection between the two of them.

Q eats his biscuit and watches as Oscar jumps onto the table to headbutt Bond.

*

Later, when Bond has finished his tea (and eaten all of one biscuit because Q wasn’t going to let him leave without getting at least a taste of his own creations) and Q is again alone with his cats, he suddenly remembers that not all shortbread recipes use white sugar; he can clearly see that the one for Bond’s biscuits certainly didn’t.

He glances at the remainder of the biscuits innocently sat there on the kitchen table and shakes his head, amused but also touched, then reaches for one and bites into it. They’re delicious, and Bond baked them just for him, so he’ll take full enjoyment from that fact. And if he just so happens to reciprocate the gesture sometime in the near future, well, it’s only to show Bond that he, too, can play this game.

***

Thank you for @midrashic for the beta.

[castillon02]

Effects of Retirement 2

Notes: Bond’s first retirement trip after Spectre. Technically a prequel to Effects of Retirement, showing the first pic from Bond’s POV, but you don’t need to have read it. For the mi6cafe prompt ‘Spirits.’ 

“What do you usually do when you’ve finished a mission?” Madeleine asked while James drove them back to the hotel they’d been staying in. He listened carefully for any breaks in the purr of the Aston’s engine, but she ran as smooth as butter and felt silky and solid beneath his hands. Q had done a fine job of restoring the old girl. 

He and Madeleine had needed their few weeks of recovery in the hotel, as much as he hated to admit it. Time for the cuts and bruises to heal, time for the bloody brain damage to be assessed, time for Madeleine to stop waking in the night with memories of violence, time for Bond to stop drinking himself to sleep in order to prevent the same thing. 

They did a lot of walking around London. Madeleine caught up on her professional journals. Bond made a lot of scrambled eggs and read a lot of suspense novels. Reading gave him a headache now, and he was much slower at it, but the brain was plastic, Madeleine had said after assessing Bond’s neurological functions. Her professional opinion was that all Bond needed was some retraining. 

Bond had had lots of injuries. He knew about retraining. If he sometimes threw a book at a wall because the words were too slow to make sense, he always picked it back up again and managed to stare the thing into submission. 

Now they were hale and healthy, ready for adventures beyond a book’s pages. As much as he wanted to take his new-old Aston for a spin around the country, he also wanted...well, the usual. “I tend to go somewhere tropical,” Bond said. “Swim, drink, have sex. Relax.” 

“Let’s do that, then,” Madeleine said. “A transition. You still have time to decide where you want that transition to lead to.” She eyed him. 

Bond ran a hand down his whiskery jaw. “I always need mission specs after the tropics,” he confessed. “But they don’t need to be Six’s mission specs. I just need to learn how to set my own parameters.” He’d never been good at being his own boss. 

Madeleine nodded. “We can work on that,” she said. 

*** 

The first thing he and Madeleine did in Freeport was make their way to the beach and order the fruitiest rum drinks they could find. The second thing they did was people watch. 

“She’s cute,” Madeleine said, nodding at a dark-haired tourist with a perky little arse that she obviously didn’t mind showing off. 

The sex last night had felt like goodbye, but even so, James stared at her in disbelief. “Did you just skip the breakup and go straight to wingmanning me?”

Madeleine shrugged. “If you don’t want her, I’ll try my luck,” she said. “Maybe you’re looking for something else?” She glanced at the bare-chested bartender; he had a swimmer’s muscles and a pouty pair of lips. Not bad at all. 

“Maybe,” James admitted. “Here, take a picture.” He handed his mobile to Madeleine. “To James Bond, retired.” He held his fruity glass in the air as if in a toast and heard the ‘click’ of the photo being taken. “I’ll have to send it to Tanner; he’s running the book on when I’ll be back, and he says he wants proof that I’m doing things that aren’t killing people.” 

“Hmm,” Madeleine said. “Sounds like a man of little faith.” 

“Or a man who knows me too well,” James said, trying not to sound bitter. He’d been in this place before. Every time after a mission, there came the thought: why go back? Why do it all over again? And every time, he returned to Six like a homing pigeon, because he needed a purpose and he was shite at coming up with one himself. 

Madeleine smiled. “Have you bet on yourself yet?” she asked. 

“What?” 

“You’re a man who doesn’t like to lose,” Madeleine said. “Especially when you gamble. I think that if you bet on yourself, you’d figure out a way to keep from losing.”  

“That’s not a bad idea,” James admitted. He could probably talk Tanner into it. He raised his fruity glass again. “To mind-tricks, then.” 

Madeleine tapped her pineapple ring against his. “To new beginnings,” she corrected. “Full of possibility.” She glanced again at the perky tourist, at the bartender. 

James let his eyes linger on the square line of the bartender’s jaw, the smooth curves of his pronounced pectorals, the flirtatious glances of his dark eyes---all very beautiful, but also very different from what he’d have fancied if he were home. (Tall, dark, nerdy, witty; he had a type.) He would never go for this if he were in London; times were better now, but he’d been raised not to take a big gay shit where he ate. 

Of course, he wasn’t in London, and he wasn’t exactly employed any longer. What was anyone going to do? Fire him? Try to blackmail him at the job he no longer had? Call him a slur so that Bond had an excuse to ‘accidentally’ trip them into a wall a few times? 

“I think I’ll get another drink,” James said, knocking the rest of his glass back in a long, sweet swallow. He walked towards the bartender with purpose. 

It was time to start living life for himself instead of his country. 

***

[mi6-cafe]

31 Days of Bond

31 days of Bond! Consider this your inspiration for the month and if you use any of these, tag your work as #31DaysofBond for us to find and reblog. Whether you join us for one day or for all 31, we hope you have a fun-filled December with Bond fandom! 

What can you use the prompts for? 

Art

Knitting

Writing

music videos

headcanons

photography

anything else your genius brains can think of

In case you prefer a text form, full list of prompts are below the cut.

1 sneaky 2 secrets 3 baby it's cold outside 4 snow 5 cookies 6 hot chocolate 7 stars 8 happy new year 9 travel 10 lights 11 gingerbread 12 time 13 flowers 14 bells 15 technology 16 over the comms 17 he didn't come 18 stuck 19 creation 20 unexpected beauty 21 disaster 22 naughty 23 too many people 24 scarf 25 ugly sweater 26 boxes 27 trials 28 twist 29 midnight 30 toast 31 resurrection

[dassandre-00qpidsarrow]

Celebration by Dassandre

“24 Years of Christmases” - Chapter 17

December 24, 2033

With its rugged cliffs and crystal blue waters, Martinique was always more beautiful than James remembered.

Four days ago he and Q had been kicked out of Q-Branch and their home in Barton Street by well-meaning colleagues, friends, and family who had noted it had been over three years since Remy and Bond had taken any kind of holiday and even longer since they’d gone away without the family in tow.   A belated gift to celebrate James’ 60th birthday, the couple had been given the choice of tickets to Gstaad or Martinique; they’d chosen the warmer climate as the cold was increasingly problematic for Q’s hands and leg.

“Do they need another sex holiday?” Sherlock had asked John when they’d dropped James and Q off at Heathrow.

“I’d say they’re past due.  Married 15 years and only the one.  We’ve had four,” John had countered then rolled his eyes when he saw Sherlock’s mouth start to curve at the memories.  “Yes. Well, that’s him sorted in his Mind Palace for the next half hour.” John shook Q’s hand and gave James a warm pat on the shoulder.  “Enjoy yourselves. Kids will be fine. Come on, you,” he’d said, taking Sherlock by the elbow and steering him to the passenger seat. “Back to town we go.  You promised Hamish and Will some time at St. Bart’s later today.”

Though their visits through the years had been far fewer than they’d liked, he and Q often spent their first days back just reacquainting themselves with the island, the Holmes’ family estate -- well-tended now by the Gaillards’ grown children, Adèle and René -- and Fort-de-France itself.

James and Q had left the house early enough that morning to get to the market before things got too crazy.  Their mission: to hunt down the corossol Adèle forgot to purchase for the Christmas Day sorbet her mother, Olivia, so loved.  

They had spent the rest of the day wandering through the narrow streets, in and out of the shops, each man finding last minute gifts for each other, for their hosts, and for the children for when they returned to England.

Waiting for Q to finish up in a nearby shop before joining him for a late lunch, James was sat at a table beneath a large, white umbrella on the patio at Lili’s Restaurant:  one of their favourites as it afforded excellent views and simple, but delicious local cuisine.

Though it was the first time they’d been apart from their children for Christmas, it had taken the men only a one day on the island to realise how desperately they’d needed this respite.  

2033 had been challenging.  An uptick in worldwide terror threats early in the year had meant strings of days when Q was unable to leave his branch, swamped as he was with missions and kits and tech and the day-to-day management of his branch.  James, too, had found himself increasingly tied to Six when Mallory insisted on running training classes of recruits back to back, citing the need for more agents in the field.

Home life hadn’t been much easier.  Mir had turned 13, and ‘The Parent’s Curse’ that he and Q had thus far managed to largely avoid descended upon their life in full force.

“This wasn’t me. You’re the one expelled from school for seducing a chambermaid.  I was a model child growing up,” Remy insisted the night they’d received a call from Lestrade who’d intervened after a pair of PCs picked up Mir and group of her schoolmates outside a club in the West End after she’d managed to bypass the security protocols -- again -- and sneak out of the house.

Along with those from her fathers and Pearce, the lectures she’d earned from the stream of visitors the next day -- Sherlock, John, Eve, and Alec had each given her rather detailed warnings specific to their viewpoints and experiences -- had efficiently curtailed Mir’s overt rebellion, but the next six months became an exercise in patience for James and Q in dealing with an extremely passive-aggressive teenager.  It might have gone on for months or years more until Master Cha -- the hand-to-hand combat instructor at Six -- suggested Aikido as a way for her to channel her teenage angst.

James and Q had spared no expense in sending Master Cha and his wife on a long, weekend holiday to Edinburgh as a thank you for saving their sanity.

Andrew and Will were eight.  And, well, eight-year-old twin boys with Qs intellect and James’ penchant for finding trouble around every street corner ...   So, yeah.  Difficult year.

James took a sip of the Ti punch he had ordered and hummed appreciatively.  Tasty, though not as potent as Olivia’s recipe of which only two glasses were necessary before Q started stripping off his to dance -- awkwardly -- on the balcony of their room.Life’s simple pleasures.

Pushing aside the numerous shopping parcels he’d sat on the ground when he’d arrived, James was about to lean back in his seat and stretch out his legs when the chair opposite him was pulled from the table and sat upon by someone who was most certainly not his husband.

“James Bond,” his guest said, sculpted eyebrow climbing high on the relatively unlined forehead.  “How is it you’re not long-since dead?”

“Clean living,” he replied amiably, though he felt not the least bit friendly. James shifted his weight and scooted forward slightly in his seat. Whilst he didn’t think he’d need his weapon, one never knew about these things.  Easier to grab at the Walther holstered at the small of his back this way.

The snort was light and delicate and wholly derisive.  “Hardly that, I should think. You were a drunken, emotional wasteland when last I saw you.  Thought you’d throw yourself in front of the first bullet to be fired your way and have done with it.”

“And when last I saw you, you were fucking someone new every night before returning to share rooms with the man you claimed to love.  So now that we’ve caught up on the past, to what do I owe the distinct displeasure of sharing this table with you, Madeleine?”  

You can read the rest of the chapter here ...

Chapter 17

[hummingbee-o0o]

00Q

31 Days of Bond

15: technology 16: over the comms

(because you know they would)

[solarmorrigan]

(I really wanted to do all of these but this month didn’t pan out. I finished about four, so I thought I’d at least start posting what I have. Happy Winter Solstice!)

-Sneaky-

Bond regarded Q for a moment in the dim glow of the bedside lamps. “You were the sort of child who would try to peek at what your parents got your for Christmas, weren’t you?”

Q took half a moment to look sheepish before shrugging. “I was.”

Bond smirked, apparently vindicated, then leaned over and confided, “So was I.”

“That surprises me not at all.” Q cut an amused look at him.

“But you shouldn’t bother trying to find what I got for you this year.” Bond continued, settling rather smugly back against his pillows, “You have to admit you’re a bit outclassed here. You can’t sneak around me.”

Q gave a short ‘hm’ in response. “I don’t really have to, actually.”

Bond glanced over, immediately suspicious. “Why not?”

“James.” Q gave Bond a look that was best described as ‘oh please’, “You did all your shopping online.”

[jaimistoryteller]

Relationship: James Bond/Alec Trevelyan

Characters: Q (Whishaw), James Bond, Alec Trevelyan

Additional Tags: Mild Angst, Supernatural Elements, Magic

Verse: none

Challenge: 31 Days of Bond Flash Fics

Summary: Alec’s no sure about the situation he finds himself in.

[spiritofcamelot]

On Creation

For 31 days of Bond #19 - Creation

Late at night, minion 34, aka Gwen, wondered about creation. Sometimes it was the typical musings about whether or not there was a god. (She sent a poll around the branch and the top result was a write in answer stating that the only supreme power that mattered was the quartermaster.)

Other times she wondered about the creation of the universe in a more scientific sense. 13.7 billion years ago was such a long time ago, how could astronomers confidently say anything about the creation of the universe. (Turns out they can’t and wow do they have some weird fringe theories.)

But most often she wondered about the creation of computer code and how to make the fucking program do what it needed to do. And who the hell created such asinine error messages that didn’t tell her a damn thing about where or even what the actual error was. She would like to create a poison to give them and ask them to diagnose the error in their body system.

Read the rest of my prompt responses here