Traffic and Rain

Title: It’s just so London
Author: dannyboy-to-thedoctor (salomonderial on ao3)
Prompt: rain, traffid
Rating: eh, not really needed. Would be ‘general’ on ao3
Words: 2,017

Usually, Bond had this thing about other people driving him places. But as the car was currently moving at around 1mph, and the London rain was so dense that you couldn’t see more than two meters in any direction, he was finding himself quite happy with being driven, if it meant he could hide in the back and pretend like he was getting some of the rest he’d been needing for the past week.

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For the MISSION00Q - Prompt, including … “having-to-share-a-bed”, 2 am, Lost and Running!


Q always thought of himself as sort of a self-sustaining island. Intriguing to watch as you pass by, but too mysterious to just set foot on it. Sometimes it is ok for people to visit, maybe even stay a little while, as long as they’ll eventually leave. On some occasions they are allowed to explore the beach, but they are never to set foot into the jungle shielding the very core. He accepts the people around him, even lures them closer sometimes, but he doesn’t actually need them to sustain himself.

Then comes the day James Bond drowns under his watch.


It isn’t even a very hazardous mission, it is barley average and it should have worked out fine, considering how often the two of them worked together already.

But it doesn’t work out fine and suddenly Q hears the room fill with Bonds harsh gasping breaths as he fights to stay above the water that threatens to swallow him whole. Q’s fingers fly over the keys, pull up satellite footage along with the temperature and the speed of the stream Bond’s gotten himself into, but he knows none of this will help, because his brain already calculated all possible outcomes, and none of this will help!

He more feels his breath start to mirror Bond’s as a wave of utter helplessness washes over him, a sort of helplessness he hasn’t felt since he was a kid and he nearly misses the fact that James is calling out his name.

“Q, Q, I-”



There isn’t even a tell tale gurgling sound. Just sudden silence.

“007, report!”

Q can’t believe how calm his voice sounds, even as he feels like his lungs are going to burst. He lets his hands fly again, sending a response team and contacting the agent closest to Bonds last location.  


It’s M this time, but even then nothing. The whole Q-branch seems to be holding their breaths. Q feels like it’s not only his breath that is on hold, but his whole existence.

There is this thing in his chest and it pushes and it pulls, compromising him and taking him out of himself and it leaves him helpless and small and hurt.

“Q? Is this Q-branch?”

It’s not Bonds voice. His screen supplies the name of the agent he contacted.

“Report that 007 is with me. He is unconscious but alive.”

As relieve washes over him, Q suddenly knows.


This is what it feels like when you are in love.


“I thought you hated flying?”

Bond’s tone is conversational as he leans against the frame to the shabby kitchen. The wood creaks and it’s no surprise considering how rundown the house is. They are in Marrakesh. James doesn’t understand why.

“I do.”

Q has his back to Bond and the room fills with the smell of strong black tea as he pours the water over the leaves. Bond still muses over the fact that the younger hadn’t even flinched when he walked through the doorway. Recognizing his pace or waiting for him. Maybe both.

“Then why not hide at your flat?”

“Sometimes one needs a bit of time alone, and that is a difficult matter if one is to be found easily.”

Bond quietly accepts his tea, giving Q a once over, while said one refuses to look him in the eye. James can see the exhaustion lingering around his thin frame, it’s in the set of his shoulders and in the rumpled grey t-shirt and the loose pajama bottoms. It bugs him that he doesn’t know what’s wrong and it bugs him even more that he can’t grasp why he cares.   

“M told me to get you home.”

He says quietly after taking a sip of tea. It’s strong and bitter and he knows that Q normally drinks his tea too sweet to stomach.

“Then go home and tell M that I’ll be back in a bit.”

It’s meant to be a demand to be left alone, but it sounds like a plea.

Bond stays.


Q doesn’t throw him out by force, but he also still doesn’t look him in the eye.

It’s been three days and Bond spends them trying to make conversation and walking around outside when the conversation making fails. He ends up getting quite a tan.   

At night he sleeps on an old mattress Q showed him. He’s wandered around the house enough to know that it’s the only available surface sufficient for sleeping, but Q still refuses to accept his offer of sharing or him sleeping on the floor.

He wants to tell Q that it will be fine, because he doesn’t sleep anyway. Not since there is this ache in his chest that keeps him awake, that pushes and pulls and that he can’t seem to classify. He wants to tell him, but then it seems like it’s something big, something too important to just say out loud and he keeps quiet about it.    

It’s on the fourth day at 2 am in the morning that he finds Q on the stairs to the first floor, sleeping the sleep of the completely exhausted. He picks him up gently and carries him to the makeshift bed. Q doesn’t even stir as he lies down beside him cautiously. That night James falls asleep without a problem.  


Q wakes up disoriented and warm and incredibly comfortable, which is just not right because he hates warmth and this warmth is different.

He tries to blink his eyes open and it’s harder than he expected, because everything feels soft and blurred at the edges. He hasn’t felt like this in ages, maybe never and that terrifies him a little. What really terrifies him though, is the sight he gets when he finally manages to open his eyes.  

Bond is right beside him, their faces mere inches apart and Q can feel his breath tickle over his own cheek. He has his head propped up on James extended arm and as he tries to flex his fingers he realizes that they are curled around the agents wrist.

There is panic rising in his chest, but the familiar push and pull is gone and that makes him panic even more.

Beside him Bond stirs and then slowly blinks awake. He seems surprised for a moment at their current position, both of them holding their breaths but then he exhales slowly and a smile brakes over his lips.

Q scrambles to his feet and bolts.


It’s dark again as Bond returns to the house. The tightness in his chest became worse with every minute he wasn’t able to find Q and he seriously considers calling M. He has the distinctive feeling that this is getting to big for him.

A relieved sight brushes over his lips as he finds Q on the stairs, not sleeping this time, but staring out of the window.


The voice of the younger cuts through space between them like a knife. James looks up to find the usually so sharp eyes purposefully on him for the first time in days. They look haunted.

“Stop right there …”         

James looks down again to find his feet on the stairs. There are only about three left between them.

“Stop and go home, there is no reason for you to be here.”

Q’s voice is quiet now, just above a whisper. James has the strange feeling that it’s time to draw his weapon.

“M sent me to-”

“Go home, I’ll come back eventually, even without you.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Because he really wants to know, he needs to know. Not knowing pushes and pulls, it compromises him and takes him out of himself and it leaves him helpless and angry and lost.

Q looks away again and Bond climbs up the three stairs and then falls down on his knees between the Quartermasters legs.     

 “Q …”

He can’t believe how calm his voice sounds, even as he feels like his lungs are going to burst. He places a steady hand on Q’s neck.

“Tell me what’s wrong …”

He is so close that he can feel Q’s breath hitch before he actually hears it. The younger obviously dreads the answer and James feels his pulse quicken beneath his fingers.

The silence becomes unbearable, making him so nervous he wants to crawl out of his own skin. He is not a patient man.

And then finally, as James presses his fingertips softly into his neck, Q takes a shuddering breath.     

“I’m in love with you.”

He says and his voice cracks and …Oh.

Q’s eyes are huge when he looks up and a wave of relieve brakes over James.

Oh, he thinks and he suddenly knows.

This is what it feels like when you are in love.  


James always thought of himself as sort of a self-sustaining island. Intriguing to watch as you pass by, but too mysterious to just set foot on it. Sometimes it is ok for people to visit, maybe even stay a little while, as long as they’ll eventually leave. On some occasions they are allowed to explore the beach, but they are never to set foot into the jungle shielding the very core. He accepts the people around him, even lures them closer sometimes, but he doesn’t actually need them to sustain himself.

Then comes the day he follows Q to Marrakesh.


For the MISSON00Q-Prompt “Betrayal”

warnings for violence, angst and slash!


“Step away from the computer, Q!”

White. It is so white around him. His suit is white.

“Why 007, so you won’t have to add yet another kill to your list? As if that would be a hardship …”

Brown. Q’s blazer smudges against the white. Brown on a white west.

“Step away, now.”

Red. Red blood pooling by his feet. Red like Q’s lips would be after kissing them.

“You really think I’m intimidated by this?”

Biting. Q’s laugh. The feeling in his own gut at the sound.

“But then again, you also thought I was playing for the good team … oh 007, boring after all.”

Cutting. The truth. The weight of the gun in his hands.

“Q, step away.”

Sharp. His pressed and urgent voice. The memory of Q moaning beneath him. 

“That’s not even my real name …”

And then quick and loud and painful. A bullet through his chest. Bond hitting the ground.

“Goodby, 007 …”



Bond wakes up screaming. It rips through the silence of the room and stirs the man besides him awake.


Q’s voice is muffled from cushions and sleep as he tries to turn on the lights to see whats wrong. He doesn’t get far. James grabs his face between both of his hands and hauls him closer.

“Your name!”


He can barley catch his breath before Bonds fingers dig deeper into his skin.

“Tell me your name!

The agent’s snarl is deep and harsh and Q feels fear rising in his chest, regardless of the unwavering trust he holds for this man. 

“I can’t, James you know I can-”

Tell me!

Bond’s fingertips will leave bruises he won’t know how to explain to M. Q finds himself pushing against arms he would normally clinch to. They don’t give an inch. The adrenalin pumping through James veins and his own sleepiness are fighting against him.

“James I can’t, plea-”

Rough hands shake him and he thinks he hears his jaw crack.

“Bloody tell m-”

Your hurting me!

It’s Q who screams this time and the bewildered sound of it loosens Bond’s grip on his face a fraction.

For a moment they just look at each other, the agents eyes so huge Q can see the moon reflecting in them. He looks shocked. Their panting breaths mingle together in the short space between them. Then Q shoves him away and skids off the bed.

His jaw stings and the sudden cool prickles against his skin. He goes straight for the door. There is a soft rustle behind him but the floor doesn’t creak and Bond doesn’t follow him.

Q turn’s the door handle.

“I dreamed that you changed sides.”

He stops in his tracks, his hand frozen mid motion. Oh lord, he has never heard James voice so small.

“They send me to kill you and I, I was pointing the gun at you, but you just … you wouldn’t react and I …”

Bond looks up and Q thinks that he has never seen him look so wrecked either. Bond buries his head into his hands and Q’s hand slips of the door handle.

“I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t even feeling betrayed, bloody hell, I only felt scared, god, I was so afraid I could actually pull the trigger …”

Bond pushes his hands into his hair and pulls as if he could pull out the images, tear away the emotions. Q feels something in his chest crack, like his jaw cracked before, because he knows, he read the file, read all of them, he knows about Vesper, about everything she did, read between the lines how much James loved her, and now he knows what this means, knows what it means that MI6 most lethal agent breaks down in front of him at the thought of having him in the same situation as her. He can’t breath.

“ … I was so bloody afraid that I could really hurt you … I’m sorry, Q I-”


Bond looks up startled. He looks so surprised Q isn’t sure if he was even aware that he was still in the room.


He takes a deep breath. It’s out now. Oh shit

“Sherrinford, that’s … that’s my real name …”

There is silence after that, silence that gives him the chance to think about what M would say, about what this says about him, and about them, that he has just given the last thing to James that he had to give.

He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know what M would say or what it means that Bond gets out of the bed and pins him to the door in a complete rush, crushing their bodies together in what should feel as rough as before, but feels so much more gentle and intimate. 

He doesn’t know, but James presses their lips together, mumbling his name, and nudges against Q’s hips until he wraps them around James waist.


Q can’t remember if he ever liked his name as much as he likes it when it falls from James lips, so he draws him closer with his legs and rocks his hips until his name turns into a moan.

In the end, non of them will know what all of this says about them, or what M would say, finding out, but at least they not know together.

Title: Expresso

Fandom: Skyfall

Character(s)/Paring: 00Q, James Bond, Q, Moneypenny

Words: 1,779

Warnings: stupidity, I do not know what I was thinking, I just wanted a coffee shop AU, therefore, coffeeshop AU, probably OOC which annoys me but well, hipster? I have nothing against them ok

Summary: Who on earth demands to be served tea in a coffee shop? It’s a coffee shop, dammit. 

AO3 | FF.net


I would say I wrote it for Mission00Q but in reality I just really wanted a coffeeshop AU, albeit no plot. James Bond in an apron, just saying.

Title: Layer Cake

Author: Romanochi/Wonderlandfromhell

Theme: Prompt: Q falls in love with one of his lecturers, Bond.

Q, in short, is a genius. 

No one knows, he majors in piano for God’s sake, and to everyone he’s nothing but another hipster musician who is sharper and older than he looks. It doesn’t really bother him, that they don’t know, because it’s so much easier that way. He can play the half-façade as well as second nature and just because he’s been able to hack into MI6’s security server and files since he was 17 doesn’t mean anything. Of course, he’s completed near most of his degree requirements, including academics and that leaves too much time on his hands. Even if he does spend most of his free hours hacking.

And so, more often that not, he ends up sneaking into lectures ranging from physics to calculus, computer sciences to engineering. And some philosophy or journalism, for when he gets bored. Most of the time, the professors and lecturers don’t notice. He’s just a skinny, mop-haired kid hunched over a laptop in the back of the room.

It’s the end of class and Q’s packing up in the back of the lecture hall, where he always sits. He always sits in the same place, second to last row, aisle seat. Today’s lecture hadn’t been half bad. Actually, the lecturer was never half-bad, witty and just a little to much of a Casanova to actually be considered modest. The students seem to like him, which is how Q had heard about him in the first place (from a friend, Eve, who knows anything and everything that happens on campus as if she runs a black-market gossip shop where one can sell their soul for a pricey bit of black-mail.) Professor James Bond, a ruggedly handsome man who is fairly young for a full on professor. He flirts as if it’s second nature but goes about his job with a determined efficiency. He is, if so to speak, the height of gossip material. And it’s him Q finds sidling up to his desk as he stuff his laptop into his bag.

“Um, sorry, can I help you?” he asks, when James doesn’t speak or seem to move away.

James eyes him curiously, as if he’s not so sure what to make of him. “I don’t seem to recall your name on my roll.” He says.

“Well, that might be because you don’t know my name.” Q quips back, easy and only the slightest bit nervous that he’d finally been found out.

James smiles. He has memorized the names of every one of his students and can match any name to any face. He knows that this kid is not one of his. He also knows that this kid has been coming to his lectures for the past week and if he thought that James wouldn’t notice, he was offended. Perhaps the rest of the faculty and staff were not as observant. Either that or this kid was sneakier than anyone gave him credit for.

“Care to share, then?”

Q blinks at James, surprise crossing his delicate features. “Q.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Q.”

Q’s eyes narrow in suspicion. One, because James looks entirely unfazed by the fact that the name Q had just given him was one fucking letter, and two, because he’s looks so damn smug.

“Likewise, Mr. Bond.” He replies uneasily.

James raises an eyebrow. “James, to you.”

Q hikes his backpack up onto one shoulder and after a moment of awkward floundering, manages to shuffle past James. The professor accompanies him down the stairs and to the door, stopping where his domain ends. 

“You’re welcome back, I won’t stop you.” He calls after Q’s retreating figure, “But I’m sure the office would rather that you actually enroll for this class.”

Q shifts to a stop and turns back, something between terror and confusion and absolute annoyance flickering across his face. James grins and Q immediately turns heel, fleeing down the hall. James can’t help but laugh, settling against the frame of his door and allowing himself to rest there before shoving off and going to grade papers. 

Slight Technical Problem

Title: Slight Technical Problem
Author: dannyboy-to-thedoctor (salomonderiel)
Theme: Humour, domestic
Prompt: “You’ve got another thing coming, if you think I’m sticking my hand in there!”

There was a problem.

Technically, it was with the equipment.

So, as was protocol when there was a problem with the equipment, Bond called the nearest technician.

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Be Here When You Wake

Title: Be Here When You Wake
Author: randomingoftherandomness (j_gabrielle)
Rating: G
Words: 548

“You’re supposed to be sick, and most definitely not working on anything of the top secret sort.” James said in lieu of a greeting.

Q merely smirked, not looking up from his laptop, dabbing at the snot running down his chin. “And you’re supposed to be in the jungles of Borneo until this Sunday.”

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Bad Spirits

Title:  Bad Spirits
Author/Artist: bubstepremix
Theme: Q invites Bond to Christmas Dinner.

James Bond can be, when cleaned up and dressed to the nines, drinking expensive drinks and driving expensive cars, one of the highest class. He goes to their parties, beds them, drinks their alcohol, smokes their cigars. Christmas in his childhood was quite the affair. Guests, what few relatives they had. Light and gaiety, a fire in the hearth. 

He hasn’t been much for Christmas, since then, but the expectations still stood. 

When he was invited, by Q, to Christmas Dinner, he still had those expectations in mind. They were illogical. Q’s flat is more of a closet (“more disposable income for the essentials”), and Bond knows that from first-hand experience. Q doesn’t have friends outside of the office. He doesn’t have family. There’s no party, or dining room table with the leaves. There’s hardly even dinner, and though Bond shows up in a sweater the color of a well-aerated Merlot, Q is in plaid he might well have grabbed off of his floor after determining it passed the sniff test. 

Bond it a bit appalled, but he isn’t surprised. There’s Cognac placed strategically next to eggnog, and a roast turkey Q probably ordered from someplace nearby and didn’t cook himself. French style green beans. Cranberry sauce that’s still shaped like the can.

James has to wonder how long ago it was that Q was microwaving noodle cups as regular meals.

(Last week, possibly.)

Q is unrepentant in the face of the agent’s bemusement and subtle derision. Not that Bond had had other, better plans. If he had, he wouldn’t have been there. Whatever working-with-benefits relationship this was, it certainly didn’t include skipping functions or work. Not yet. Weighing it out, Bond figures that Q’s apartment is at least more entertainment than a ritzy party. 

“There’s one of me. Why would make enough to feed five?” Q asks as he’s pouring Bond a drink. His plaid may be terrible, but his pants are a bit tighter than usual. Jeans, not slacks, and thankfully not also plaid. Bond watches with a certain sense of entitlement.

“I don’t think you made enough to feed anyone.”

“No one with money does.”

That takes Bond by surprise. It’s the first implication that Q’s resources aren’t a division head paycheck and benefits. How many patents has he filed? How diverse is his portfolio? Bond had never considered that Q might actually be incredibly wealthy, because he still wears like a grad student. The personalized security system, though, that must have cost. The myriad and costly furnishings of technology in the otherwise humble apartment. Q simply has priorities, and they just aren’t the same as Bond’s. 

“I think you just can’t cook.”

“I’ve seen you try to make eggs. Let he among us without sin cast the first stone.” Q rolls his eyes behind glasses and sets the drinks on the table. They go through them, and eventually, stop adding eggnog. The small turkey gets smaller, the green beans disappear, the cranberry sauce doesn’t have canned ridges by the time it’s gone. Q’s last trick is pudding. He puts it on the table almost relieved to have it out in the open and off of his shoulders. He’s clinging to family and British traditions he has to try to replicate, Bond knows, because he’s tried before. When he was younger and got back from one of his first missions, to spend Christmas alone and exhausted, cobbling together his own meager attempts at a normal family dinner completely without help or company. He’d felt that was tribute and rebellion enough. He’d never done it again.

“It isn’t on fire,” Bond remarks. Q looks startled, looks at the pudding as if to check. 

“No, you’re right. It isn’t.”

“Christmas pudding is meant to be set on fire. Something about keeping away evil spirits.”

“M'not setting the pudding to flame in here.” Q isn’t…hammered, to say. Pleasantly flushed, a bit zozzled. The healthy side of smashed.

“Never said you had to." 

James Bond is a gentleman. He can woo, and dance, and politely bow. He has charming little smiles. He’s a gentleman when he rummages until he finds some bourbon Q had forgotten he owned, worries only for a few moments that it was shacked up next to an industrial screen cleaner, and then douses the pudding. He puts an arm out to stop Q from diving to shield his pudding with his own body. It’s the one dish he probably made himself.

"James this really isn’t–!”

“Hush. Merry Christmas.”

Bond lights a lighter under an ending flow of alcohol, and the pudding blazes in moments. Q puts an arm up to shield his eyes. The little bit of Bond that likes watching things burn and crumble, and resurrect, gives a little pleased twitch. He smirks and blows the fire out. 

“There,” he mutters, and rubs the base of Q’s skull, fingers under his hair at his neck. Q’s mouth falls open a little and he relaxes at the massage that could easily turn debilitating pinch. He has to put his hands out on the table all of a sudden. “No more bad spirits, eh?”

“Especially since you killed the last of that horrid bourbon,” Q agrees.

The pun settles for a moment, and the men can’t help their laughs.

Title: In your world
Author: OfMadHattersAndHookedCrocodiles
Prompt: Scar (also, a bit of a crossover with The Hour)
Rating: K
Words: 917

Q used to smoke.

He was what, thirteen or fourteen, and his mother had just died in a car accident. He started smoking because he could and because, you know, since people die in stupid ways, smoking would make a big difference.

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Mission 00Q:

Title: untitled

Author: regenschirmchen

Theme: 2am, friendship, running

English is not my first language and this short fic is unbeta-ed! and I just realised my name is somehow fitting for this fic…Regenschirm is german for umbrella ;-)

It was raining when Q left HQ at 2am.

And of course he’d forgotten his umbrella. Not like rain in London was so unpredictable, but a certain 00 got himself into trouble somewhere in Garmisch and required his help. At 3am the day before. And therefore he had been in quite a hurry getting to HQ which had led him to not only forget his umbrella, but also his scarf and his keys.

Checking his watch he realised his train was leaving in about 2 minutes or he had to wait for at least half an hour. Cursing he zipped up his parka and sprinted to the closest underground station… just to see the train leaving the station. It really wasn’t his day.

Frustrated and dead tired he walked the stairs back up to the street in order to get cab, ust to see a very distinctive Aston Martin parked at the sidewalk.

“Need a lift?” said its owner.

“Shouldn’t you still be in Germany somewhere?” Q replied, rain dripping from his hair.

“The Germans took over. They are very picky about solving such problems on their own” answered Bond slightly annoyed while the Quartermaster got into the car.

“By the way” Q asked while fastening his seatbelt: “Have you got something with you to pick a lock without destroying the entire door?”