2/2 He reaches for Q afterwards, tries to return the favour, but the man is quick (this time) and is already somehow away before he can get his slightly dulled hands to grasp anything at all. He simply sits on the edge of the bed, gives a smile that could be called slightly smug on anybody else.
It occurs to him, what with Q’s predilection for the absurdly baggy, that he can’t even see if the state was entirely returned.
A pity, but not one that he was ever trained to dwell upon. He simply sighs, forces himself up to a sitting position without a single shake and starts upon fashioning the bedsheets into some sort of toga. They’re in a hotel: at most it’ll be five minutes before he can steal other clothes off some dozy porter or from another room, and at least he has the shoulders to pull it off.
“Bond,” Q corrects softly, and points with the knife to a nearby closet.
You also wouldn’t expect, after something as unexpected (if fantastic, it must be given) as that, any other preparation. But yet, in the closet, there is absolutely everything needed: another pair of trousers, pressed and professional. Another white shirt, another soft jacket. Even another bow tie, pressed and slightly ridiculous in its little packet.
No underwear, though.
But, then, that can be taken as merely another unexpected thing. You get almost used to it after a while, what with the life. Everything is perfectly sized, perfectly fit as if somebody has watched for measurements and gone to the best tailor in the land. A little twirl is only polite after getting redressed, just a courtesy to show off how good the work truly is.
“007,” Q chides him, and hands him the knife in the most professional way possible.
Take an idea: a judgement, perhaps. There’s a boy in a museum, young and inexperienced – he claims to be able to help the safety of a whole country, and by the end of the first meeting that can almost be believed. Then take the boy standing in a lab, a little later but still young – he claims to be able to save the world and beat one of the darkest villains ever faced, and by the end of the second meeting that can also be believed. Then take the boy sitting in a hotel room, seemingly innocent on the end of a rumpled bed…
Now: anything can be believed.
The kiss is brief and dry, another courtesy. The door opens and closes smoothly, the note on the handle of the knife is only found about five steps down the corridor. There’s no way of knowing if a smile and a different kind of glint lurks behind: there’s only the mission, and that’s the only thing that can be taken.
no subject
He reaches for Q afterwards, tries to return the favour, but the man is quick (this time) and is already somehow away before he can get his slightly dulled hands to grasp anything at all. He simply sits on the edge of the bed, gives a smile that could be called slightly smug on anybody else.
It occurs to him, what with Q’s predilection for the absurdly baggy, that he can’t even see if the state was entirely returned.
A pity, but not one that he was ever trained to dwell upon. He simply sighs, forces himself up to a sitting position without a single shake and starts upon fashioning the bedsheets into some sort of toga. They’re in a hotel: at most it’ll be five minutes before he can steal other clothes off some dozy porter or from another room, and at least he has the shoulders to pull it off.
“Bond,” Q corrects softly, and points with the knife to a nearby closet.
You also wouldn’t expect, after something as unexpected (if fantastic, it must be given) as that, any other preparation. But yet, in the closet, there is absolutely everything needed: another pair of trousers, pressed and professional. Another white shirt, another soft jacket. Even another bow tie, pressed and slightly ridiculous in its little packet.
No underwear, though.
But, then, that can be taken as merely another unexpected thing. You get almost used to it after a while, what with the life. Everything is perfectly sized, perfectly fit as if somebody has watched for measurements and gone to the best tailor in the land. A little twirl is only polite after getting redressed, just a courtesy to show off how good the work truly is.
“007,” Q chides him, and hands him the knife in the most professional way possible.
Take an idea: a judgement, perhaps. There’s a boy in a museum, young and inexperienced – he claims to be able to help the safety of a whole country, and by the end of the first meeting that can almost be believed. Then take the boy standing in a lab, a little later but still young – he claims to be able to save the world and beat one of the darkest villains ever faced, and by the end of the second meeting that can also be believed. Then take the boy sitting in a hotel room, seemingly innocent on the end of a rumpled bed…
Now: anything can be believed.
The kiss is brief and dry, another courtesy. The door opens and closes smoothly, the note on the handle of the knife is only found about five steps down the corridor. There’s no way of knowing if a smile and a different kind of glint lurks behind: there’s only the mission, and that’s the only thing that can be taken.