Chapter Text
Moneypenny looks rather tired around the eyes lately, and that stack of paperwork on her desk grows taller by the day. Faceless black-suit-and-ties treat M’s office like a revolving door, in and out at all hours. Mystery lingers over the administration of MI6, and Bond, with a keen nose for secrets, is quick on the scent.
“Come get a drink with me,” he dogs Moneypenny one evening, draping himself across her desk to mumble sweetly at her ear. She’s stayed late again. Fingers drumming on the keys, it’s nearly impressive how her words-per-minute rate never even stutters as she ignores Bond’s sultry advances and his hot breath on her ear.
“This may come as a shock, but some of us actually have to do our paperwork to stay employed,” she says, and swats his hand when it makes a move toward her wrist. “Don’t you have a bunker somewhere to infiltrate?”
“Not unless you’ve changed addresses since I last stopped by.”
This time, she finally pulls her eyes from the screen for the express purpose of glaring up at him.
“You’re not subtle, you know.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
“Not about that, James.” She pushes back from the computer to look at him properly, sizing him up with a single, swift motion of her dark eyes. “I know what you’re really after, and if you were anyone else, I’d take it personally. I’m not some mark you can get a few drinks in, then kiss all the secrets from.”
Bond knows that, and really, it’s nearly muscle-memory that he’s here, trying to sweet-talk things out of Moneypenny rather than just ask her like the good friend he’s supposed to be. He realizes how it seems. He looks appropriately chastised for a moment, but moments are short-lived things. He pulls himself from the desk, shoulders and spine all too straight to be fully ashamed. His hands slide into his pockets where they can do less damage to his few tenuous friendships.
“If you don’t need the drink, I suppose I can’t interest you in a confessional, either?”
Moneypenny snorts.
“You wish. Although,” and there it is, Bond notes, that moment of playful deviancy that flashes across her expression, “rumour has it, you’ll be given clearance once the red tape is cut. You should feel special. It’s not every double-oh that’s being brought in on this one.”
Bond perks up at that.
“Why am I getting clearance?”
This time, it’s Moneypenny’s turn to lean over her desk and draw him in with a hand cradled on his jaw until their foreheads nearly touch.
“Because you’re a nosy bastard,” she whispers, as if the insult passes for seduction. She leans back then, pleased with herself. “Your talent for uprooting secrets precedes you, and as M puts it, you ‘never let anything go.’ He’s decided keeping you in the dark would be to our disadvantage, he’s that sure you’ll find out the truth eventually.”
Bond saunters around the desk now, visibly pleased that his reputation has worked out in his favour for once. Moneypenny stiffens. She studies him—particularly the grin he’s suddenly boasting. His hand slides to the chair behind her head, gripping the plush leather as he leans in, tilting the whole chair back on its hinges until Moneypenny is stretched out beneath him. She matches his look, unflinching, like she always does.
“Miss Moneypenny, you already know what I’m going to say.”
Moneypenny sighs and rolls her eyes, then puts a voice to his exact thoughts: “Why not make eventually tonight?”
This time, his smile tempts her into matching it.
Moneypenny leads Bond to the basement levels of MI6, where the long, windowless halls are dark and silent. Bond lifts a ribbon of yellow caution tape for her to duck beneath. These floors have been cordoned off for remodelling for the better part of four months and the neglect shows, some hallways still coated in a faint sheen of dust from the work. In the interim, Q-Branch has shuffled into disjointed offices in the upper levels, but it’s left the large department in a bit of a mess, and much of Bond’s equipment has been dated or second-hand with the workshops out of order.
Moneypenny guides them with the light from her phone and swipes them through several sets of newly installed glass doors.
“Q-Branch is going to be off-limits?” he asks as they descend into an old stairwell.
“Only parts. They’re still debating as to how the introductions are going to go, if they’re to happen at all.”
“. . .Introductions?”
The question drifts away, left unanswered by anything but the click of Moneypenny’s heels. She leaves Bond staring after her on the stairs.
They reach a security level not designated by a floor number. Suddenly, Moneypenny tosses a hand onto his chest and holds him back.
“James,” she says, “I need you to promise me to keep an open mind and a closed mouth on this one.”
He studies what little of her expression he can see.
He doesn’t detect any shame or uncertainty in her face. No regret for what MI6 is doing down here in the dark and the dust. Whatever this is, Moneypenny does not seem to doubt it, and Bond decides, for now, to trust her judgment. He nods.
“Alright,” she whispers, and it’s almost with a thrill of excitement.
She cards through the final door. Not glass, this one, but reinforced steel.
“Bond, meet the new Q.”
Even with only dim lights giving off any illumination, Bond can sense the room is cavernous, as big as one of their parking garages, filled wall-to-wall with the most complicated machinery Bond has ever laid eyes on. Rows and rows of servers blink in unison, pouring a faint heat into the otherwise cold and dim room. The apparatuses overhead remind him of an assembly line but far more complex. Every tool imaginable seems to be in this room, and that’s only what little he can see. It’s like the workshop of a madman, a space designed for a whole factory of workers—but there is only one person, or at least, the silhouette of a person standing there in the middle of the open floor, as immobile as the rest of the machinery.
Bond’s instincts bristle.
The person does not move. Does not acknowledge them as they approach. Bond half expects it to be some cardboard cut-out, but Moneypenny’s phone light catches his face for a second and Bond is stunned to see it is very much a person—
“Good evening, Q.”
A person who suddenly animates to life at Moneypenny’s greeting. His green eyes light with an uncanny awareness and a pleasant, polite smile spreading across his lips, so fluid and natural, even Bond recoils at the abrupt change. The lights in the room activate, illuminating the workshop in a crisp, sterile glow.
“Good evening, Miss Moneypenny. 007,” Q adds, offering a nod to James as though they should know each other. “How can I help?”
Bond cannot tear his eyes away. He circles Q as though taking in a piece of perplexing art, inquisitive eyes roaming up and down. He's thin, dressed in a smart jumper and spectacles, with a soft, young face. He could pass for a university student. “An android? I thought this sort of tech was outlawed. And it never looked like—” like this, Bond’s gaze says when his words fail to. Even he, an agent trained to detect nuances in people, cannot easily differentiate this from any other living human. The machine-in-skin even breathes, though perhaps the rate of it is too measured, too perfectly on cue.
“Then you understand our need for secrecy. Q is state of the art. Self-learning, some argue self-actualizing. He finished his own programming and has administered himself hardware and software developments over the past year, at a rate faster than any of his developers could match. He’s to be the new heart of MI6, running everything from down here.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Bond murmurs, though it’s hard to determine if that’s a criticism, given his renown fondness for dangerous things. “And you think it’s a good idea to station something like this in the middle of an intelligence agency?”
“Better we turn him loose on the world before the world turns him loose on us,” Moneypenny reasons, though Bond suspects she’s paraphrasing Mallory. That sounds like M, always do unto others before they do unto you. “And there are safeguards in place. You should see the documentation that went into the security measures, protocols that even Q cannot access—”
But Bond is not listening to Moneypenny’s explanations of how securely bolted down and padlocked the program is. He judges Q himself, meets his gaze and sizes him up at once, just like he would any person. Q, it seems, does the same. Their eyes meet, and Bond is stunned by how real those eyes are, their multitude of hues, the little veins of green and that given them depth and light, the intelligence behind the look more real than artificial. And they both know, in the depth of silence that passes between them, that Q could be extremely dangerous if he wanted to—that if there are safeguards in place, it is because Q has allowed them to remain.
Paradoxically, the hard line of Bond’s shoulders settles into something more relaxed. That Q is willing to show that hand for him provides some sense of comfort.
“May I?” Bond asks him suddenly, extending a hand as though to shake.
Q, good natured, offers his hand up, and Bond clasps it in a delicate grip. He’s surprised to feel a gentle, natural warmth emanating from the faux skin, which is soft and dry, but covered in the perfect, tiny grooves of fingerprints and palm lines. Blue, bloodless veins snake gently along the wrist and vanish into his arm. Bond lifts the man’s hand and inspects it, running his thumbs over the perfect ridges of his thumb and palm. He’s enraptured by the convincingness of it all.
Q spends the inspection quietly telling James the list of complex materials and methods used to emulate his skin and body heat.
Moneypenny grins. “You like him,” she says, drawing out each tiny, accusing syllable.
Bond gives her a look.
“I like that I’m almost retired. Get these in the field, and the whole game changes.”
“A 0-casualty year,” Moneypenny agrees, more seriously. “It would take the human element out of it, but that’s the dream for the future. It’s still far off. Q will pave the way for that sort of progress, won’t you?”
Q nods gently, “I do my best to be an example for my kind.”
“His answers are remarkably intelligent,” Bond murmurs. Q’s mouth quirks into a cheeky grin.
“That’s because I am remarkably intelligent, 007. Kind of you to notice. Would that I could say the same of your observations.”
Bond turns his affronted stare on Moneypenny. “I'm sorry, did the robot just sass me?”
“Oh, you two will get along splendidly. M wasn’t sure if you’d want to break him down to scrap or sleep with him, but I think I know which way you’re leaning.”
Bond gives the android another once-over. He’s too human. All this talking around him and about him is taking on a colour of rudeness that Bond finds unsettling.
“Hardly an appropriate way to discuss a new co-worker,” Bond chastises, light-hearted.
“Bond is right. It's in violation of MI6’s interpersonal communication standards to discuss your fellow employee’s bedroom habits, Miss Moneypenny,” Q agrees solemnly. Bond is half-sure he's still joking, if such a thing is possible.
“Apologies, Q,” Moneypenny smiles, but it all feels like a game, like playing with a new toy in a way they shouldn’t. Bond steps by him and gestures to the machinery in the room.
“This is your workshop, then?”
Q follows, joining in-step with Bond.
“It is.”
The mechanical appendages overhead whirr into activity and begin a smooth, flawless assembly process. Bond marvels quietly as Q operates it all like a conductor, as if it is all a part of himself, as natural as bending his own index finger.
“Who submits the designs? Q-Branch?”
“Several of the designs are my own, but yes, if engineers in Q-Branch also pass along projects, I can work on them as well.”
“You self-design tech? You have an imagination?” Bond presses.
Q seems to consider the question.
“I…can determine that which might be useful in a situation that is otherwise unorthodox or unheard of, yes. I do not know if it constitutes an imagination as you understand it, however.”
“Lie to me,” Bond says abruptly.
Q blinks.
“Pardon?”
And even that fascinates Bond—is Q genuinely in need of more information, or has his programming dictated that he should simply act confused in response to unexpected requests? Does he calculate the likelihood of probable responses that results in surprise if the answer is in too low of a percentage?
Is the misunderstanding genuine or a ploy to convince people to find him more relatable?
“Lie to me,” Bond insists again. “Invent something. A story that isn’t true.”
“Yesterday, I went to the market and bought some tea. They had my favourite on sale and I may have bought too much, but it’s always good to keep the tea drawer stocked.”
“You keep a tea drawer?”
Q hesitates, as if determining if they are continuing with the charade. Bond’s passive expression is interpreted as a yes, and Q continues,
“Of course. At my house.”
“Tell me about your house.”
“It’s a two-story terrace house, early mid-nineteenth century, near Waterloo Station. It has all the usual dressings. I converted the spare bedroom into an office that I don’t use often enough as I should, and there's more than enough room for me and the two cats.”
“Two cats,” Bond repeats with a note of interest. “Why two cats?”
“Some people say they do better with a companion, though—”
“No, I mean—in the story, why did you give yourself two cats?”
Q gazes at him for a moment.
“You asked me to invent something that wasn’t true.”
“Right, but in this invention, you chose to have two cats. Is it because you like cats?”
Q freezes, almost a glitch more than a reaction. “I. . .well, I’ve never seen one in person, but. . .”
"James," Moneypenny says, her voice a low warning, but he doesn't heed it. This is what Bond does, a necessary function of his work. Understanding people's motivations and desires, constructing their sense of self from seemingly superficial choices and preferences. He is compelled to try to understand, to read the android and see how deep that intelligence goes.
"But you think you'd like to own one, if you could."
The lights in the room seem to dim for a moment, power diverting. The machinery overhead stutters. Q stares in silence, his eyebrows pinched into a concerned frown.
“Uhm.” The android reaches up and adjusts his glasses. A self-soothing gesture if Bond has ever seen one. “I suppose I might like their companionship, yes, though I wouldn't call it ownership.”
"Because you don't like the idea of a living thing being owned."
“Bond,” Moneypenny interrupts sharply again, shaking them both from the moment. The intensity of the light returns, the machinery humming along smoothly again. “We made our introductions, now let's go before someone catches on." With a brisk 'Goodnight, Q,' she seems to shut the program down. The man's demeanor changes in a snap. He features arrange and his posture straightens. He nods pleasantly.
“Goodnight, Moneypenny. Bond.”
Once again, Q goes unnaturally still, his eyes close and face slack, the shut-down sequence completing as the whir of the assembly line overhead silences, and the lights dim into the same, familiar darkness. Bond’s eyes are not adjusted now, and the darkness seems more total than before.
“Come on,” Moneypenny fusses at him, her phone light spilling across the walls again. “You’re not supposed to ask him overly personal questions.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s a complex piece of machinery, Bond. A cute one, granted, but apparently the programming can get overwhelmed if you make it too personal. The amount of training seminars we’ve had to go through just to interact with him, and the first thing you decide to do is poke around where you shouldn’t. . .I should have told you not to, but then you'd have done it out of principle.”
But Bond is frowning, thinking, his eyebrows drawn into that studious line that would spell trouble if it were not so dark that Moneypenny can’t see it.
“So,” she finally says, as they ascend the stairs together. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m glad youth is behind me. The future is going to be too complicated for my tastes.”
Moneypenny clicks her tongue at him.
“He's amazing and you know it. Honestly, James, always such a traditionalist.”
“Not always.”
When they reach the top level, returning the world of artificial office lights, Bond swings Eve into his arms. She has too much dignity to yelp, and her glare quickly follows her surprise.
“Well thank you, Moneypenny, for giving me a bunker to infiltrate. Even if it wasn’t the one I was hoping for.”
She scoffs at him and gently pushes him away, settling back on her feet.
“Lay off, charmer. And remember to act surprised when they take you down there in some official capacity. I'm not having my job on the line because you want to make some clever little quip.”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” Bond promises, too solemn to be serious, before they part ways.
Moneypenny never feels him lift the key card from her pocket or leave his own in its place, but she’ll piece it together once the champagne arrives on her desk tomorrow.