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he's courting you, you dumbass

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For a dragon, Bond was unusually inept at keeping things. A pen off Q’s desk: “Oh, I must have dropped it.” A seven hundred thousand pound gun prototype: a shark ate it. The untraceable GPS for which Q spent five hours voice recording to annoy Bond: to be fair, Q could understand why Bond got rid of that as soon as possible, duck noises or no, but that soon was a bit insulting. The dragon had over a hundred percent equipment loss rate. (How did he get those uranium bullets?) Q was running out of excuses for M.

(Bond doesn’t have a hoard, people whispered. That’s why he can’t have a mate. He doesn’t have anything to gift.)

For a Quartermaster, Q was unusually oblivious. The pen that Bond acquired the first time Q truly smiled at him, three years ago: “Oh, thank you Bond. What was that, Vivian?” The gun that Q had concealed a protection charm on: mistaken for enemy tech and dismantled. The...other pens. The biscuit. (A new one.) Well, Bond was looking forward to a long term commitment of wooing his Quartermaster anyway. As long as Q didn’t find out about the GPS.

Q clutched his newly recovered umbrella as he slid into the passenger seat. Before Bond could say anything, Q reached out and woke up the GPS.
In Q’s smooth, unmistakable tone, the GPS said, “Quack quack.”

Q cleared his throat. Bond tensed.

“Yes,” Q said, in his Quartermaster voice.
Bond stared at him. “Yes?”
“Yes, let’s share your hoard. Which is mine. Yes.”
Bond tried to speak around the happiness expanding in his chest. “Dragons make a new hoard when we…partner.”
“Do you want to make a new hoard with me?”
“God yes.”
That kiss was the first in their hoard.