Fic: Comfort, Vicariously
Title: Comfort, Vicariously
Author: deHavilland
Rating: G
Genre and Spoilers: Skyfall
Pairing: Bond/Q
Word Count: 1,242
Warnings: None
Summary: Q works late.
* * *
He stares at his computer monitor until the image of the wire frame schematic starts to swim before his eyes and it’s about twenty minutes after that, when the lines of code finally blur together completely that he glances away from the screen. Next to the keyboard is a stack of department petty cash reports that his assistant’s been trying to get him to sign all day and maybe it would be a good idea to finally get started on that. The assistant went home hours ago - everyone went home hours ago - but now’s as good a time as any to leaf through Q Branch’s expenditures.
It’s not a part of the job that he’d been explicitly told about during the interview process. Designing things, hacking things, coding things; yes, yes and yes. Running a full department and signing off on employees, payroll top sheets and budget reports? Not quite so much.
At the very top of the pile is the PC report for the department’s cash float and he sets it aside, not entirely ready to examine the attached pages of receipts from every single Q Branch purchase of the past month. Underneath it there’s a bevy of invoices, a New Employee Request form and a Statement of Amended Contract. A closer glance at the latter reveals that it’s for one of the interns who’ve been working with the branch for the past couple of weeks. There’s a sticky note on it in Bill Tanner’s slapdash handwriting that reads - if Q’s interpretation of the messy scrawl is accurate - “not your signature, confirm, pls.”
Not his signature indeed. Q raises the page to examine closer, leaning back in his seat. The intern in question had the brains to write up and produce their very own contract extension, but not the smarts to think that Q’s signature might be something other than a neatly printed “Q” on the signature line.
He does, however, like this particular intern. Pulling a blue pen off of his desk - he’s suffered enough headaches from MI6’s miserable accounting department about why original signatures must always be signed in blue - he puts down his own next to the fake. A neat “GB” for himself and then an overlying circle and dash to form the “Q” of his job title.
The dash is done bottom to top. A simple thing, really, but if someone a little smarter were to try and forge his signature, they might miss the way that the weight of the line starts at the bottom right and gets lighter towards the upper left.
Or perhaps he’s just fastidious like that.
Before continuing with the rest of the paperwork, he turns back to the computer, bringing up a window that’s been minimized almost all day. The map surrounding the circular mark in the center of the screen inches around it, updating once a second or so to indicate the movement of the target. Bern, Switzerland flashes slowly past and when Belp Airport appears finally on the edge of the screen, Q, satisfied, turns back to his papers.
His signature goes on the invoices after a quick glance at the vendor. Nothing out of the ordinary here; car purchases from Ford and General Motors, a sizable order of fibreglass, the usual incoming surplus of ammunition. Each of these passes through his fingers with a seal of approval until it’s only the PC report left and he rakes a hand through already mussed hair. This should be particularly interesting.
To begin with, he circles three budgeting codes in red - wrong. Whoever’s filed this one keeps coding taxis as petrol. Q might not be here for the paperwork, but that doesn’t mean he’s not good at it.
Leafing through the attached pages of receipts, he pulls out one that suspiciously consists of wrapping paper and scotch tape. If it weren’t December, he might not have questioned it. But the department will not be paying for someone’s Christmas gift-wrapping while he’s the head of it. He draws out a question mark in the margin before leaving a note for his assistant to fix the top sheet and bring it back corrected.
The whole pile is neatly stacked back together, pages fastened together into a tidy group with a bull clip and deposited on his assistant’s desk for his arrival in the morning.
By the time he returns to his own work station, the map on his screen is flashing a question mark; target lost. No matter, really, a quick few taps on his keyboard brings up the flight information for SkyWork flight SX500. Departed. Expected arrival time: 4:34 AM.
He sits in silence for a moment, contemplative. The tea in his mug has long since congealed into an undesirable mess and while he has plenty of time to put on another pot, he’s not so sure he wants to this late.
A glance at his phone shows no new messages, no emails, no texts, no missed calls. It’s a little disheartening, thought not at all unexpected and he flips the device face down to avoid the desire to continue glancing at it as the hour and a half left until 4:30 ticks slowly past.
He sets back to work on the wire frame, altering the design with broad strokes of his keyboard keys, lines of code appearing across the screen to dictate in which direction each plane of the geometric shape should be warped. It’s nothing especially thrilling, more of a pet project, but one that Q’s eager to see to its completion. He’s going off of a hastily sketched idea, scrawled down on a restaurant napkin days ago. Artist he’s not, so it’s always nice to see crude drawings turned into true-to-life three-dimensional schematics with the help, as ever, of his computer.
Such darling, useful things, really.
4:34 AM comes and goes, and the SkyWork flight shows up delayed. “Weather problems, circling the airport,” is the official report when Q takes a moment to investigate further. Even here at his nice work station, the thought of being caught in a shuddering tube of steel high over London makes him cringe. Not for the last time does he thank the fact that as department head, he’s considered too valuable to be spared on a field assignment.
When the plane finally lands, his computer emits an irritated little bleep to inform him that the GPS map is back online and he glances at it, smiling to see that the target’s returned, now at London City Airport. Twenty minutes then, a half hour if there’s traffic, but it’s late and that’s unlikely.
He’s just finishing the final touches on the wire frame when the doors leading into Q Branch’s main research room slide open of their own accord. Q has his back to them, but the system would have announced some sort of security breach if there were anything to be concerned about. He keeps his eyes on his screen until the sudden footsteps stride close enough that they’re stopping behind him and there’s a warm chin resting heavily against his shoulder.
“Miss me?”
Q doesn’t bother turning to look at the agent, instead leaning forward without dislodging him to close down his computer. Before he exits the window, he can see that Bond’s GPS tracker now displays him as being here within the SIS Building.
“Not at all. I suppose you could say I’ve been with you the entire time.”