Q, on the other hand, is having significantly less trouble with coming to terms as to how he currently has a slightly drunk double-oh agent standing in his flat at arse-o’-clock in the morning. Without waiting for a reply, Q starts the vacuum up again and starts to clean the patch of carpet next to Bond’s feet. The vacuum nozzle bumps against Bond’s patent leather shoes a few times and Q grunts, a clear sign that Bond should move.
(or, that fic where Q has insomnia and Bond tries to be helpful)
…I have a million things that should be continued, but this happens and yeah welp
So, a lovely anon asked for:
Bond attends a dinner with Q’s family.
So when Q finally emerges from the kitchen wielding yellow rubber gloves, an edition of The Telegraph from last month and a Tesco plastic bag, he’s only vaguely surprised to hear his mum ask James to show her his gun.
And I accidentally (…this word seems to show up a lot whenever I write about 00Q) made this a chaptered affair because I’m out of funnies at the moment. Other anons, do not fear, your requests will be filled as well! My ask box is still open to requests, so send away if you have something you’d like to see ficced~
a 00Q drabble that yet again, was/is supposed to be part of a larger work.
“Stamina training, because god knows you don’t get out of that chair enough,” James says by method of excuse when Q is lying pinned under him, gasping for breath and arms boneless atop James’ back. “Saving your sorry arse gives me enough of a workout, thank you,” Q sighs back in return, James rolling off him almost regretfully. There are scratch marks down his back, a stark red against the muted whites of old scars.
“Blood pressure levels, thanks.” Q breathes in a deep lungful of air and listens to James settling in beside him, the rustle of sheets strangely comforting in the near dark.
“And to think I was running through Barcelona under the impression that you actually cared.” A hand is snaking, scratching lightly against his hip and Q swats it away, half playful and half dead tired. There’s a coup to prevent in eight hours. Q hasn’t slept in almost thirty six.
“I do care. What would I do with all the equipment coded to your specifications if you died? Give them to 003, perhaps?”
James snorts and leaves Q’s hipbone alone. “You and I both know 003 has bricks for brains, half of the equipment would be wasted on him.”
“But at least he brings back some things still intact, which is infinitely more than you can ever aspire to.” Q pushes at James’ foot with his. “Look, we’re talking work again. Can you remember the last time we didn’t do that?”
“Well fifteen minutes ago I think we were having a very heated discussion on where you wanted my–”
Q rolls his eyes in the dark and finds out with great pleasure that even hardened spies with multiple kills under their belts are still not quite unaffected by pointed jabs to the ribs.
- (also also also, I just finished my exams today! Which means, requests are open~ send me ideas and I shall try to deliver :D)
Q is barely starting on his first mug of tea when James wanders out of the bedroom, hair sticking up at odd angles from sleep. “That’s tea in there,” he warns James when the latter goes to pick up the pot on the table and James almost physically backs away from it, scowling the whole time. Q’s apartment means Q’s rules of course, which in turn means that there will be no coffee within the immediate vicinity.
“There’s juice in the fridge, but you might want to check the expiration date before you get that,” Q continues on as he turns back towards the screen of his tablet and there’s the sound of James wrenching the fridge door open, apparently more than ready to take his chances with week-old orange juice.
”You would imagine–” James mutters as he pours himself a glass of juice and sits down across Q, “–that when the British Empire chose to collapse over a beverage, they could have chosen one that didn’t taste like watered down mud.”
“Only to your plebeian taste buds,” Q retorts calmly. Swipes his finger across the screen and makes a face at the developments in Southeast Asia as he takes another sip of Earl Grey. “What will it be next, James? Insulting the queen? Murdering her corgis, perhaps?”
There is an almost undignified snort from James’ end of the table. “After you’ve been around them, you won’t be so adverse to that last suggestion.”
Q can’t help but smirk into his mug. The act of making sure that every other field agent had been unavailable to accompany the queen to the Games is still, quite frankly, one of the most brilliant moves Q has ever seen throughout his entire tenure with MI6, even if James begs to differ.
“I was picking dog-hair off my trouser legs during the entire opening ceremony,” James continues on darkly and Q tries to school his expression into something a bit more appropriate, if not sympathetic. “And don’t even pretend that you don’t know what happened to the pair of John Lobbs I was wearing that night.”
- so I meant this to be the opening of what was supposed to be a srsbzns, angsty 00Q fic but then uh clearly got…distracted. Whoops.
Q doesn’t need to be able to see Vesper’s ghost to know that she’s there. He knows, from the way Bond’s eyes lose their focus just before Q steps into Bond’s arms, that she’s watching it all from right behind his shoulder and maybe Q didn’t read enough horror stories as a child, but all it makes Q do is bite down onto Bond’s lip in fierce defiance. He is mine now, he wants to tell her.
Possession, if one would be as crude as to call it that, of a different kind.
It’s a lonely job sometimes (the clouds don’t talk back no matter how much Sherlock does and he knows they’re listening), but Sherlock doesn’t know anything else, so perhaps that makes it alright. Besides, when twilight falls and he’s got the last of those blasted, flighty cirrus swirls penned up over their respective areas, at least there’s John to talk to. Before John, Sherlock hadn’t thought much about stars.
(Or, that fic where Sherlock is a cloud herder and John is a star.)
It’s better this way, Q tells himself and draws professionalism around him like a shield, even though it’s nearly the last thing he needs right now. If Q can keep a straight face and steady hands over his keyboard keys when James is evading death suspended above or hurtling towards major world cities, surely…surely now…would not be a problem. Q wills his hands not to shake and they don’t, because Q is Q and he knows self-control like the back of his hand, like the numbered lines of his own computer codes.
I’m sorry, I whisper to Daniel Craig’s face as I write another line of 00Q fanfic.
my life is officially over and this is the afterlife, where I write schmoopy fanfic for a movie I haven’t even seen yet
Yunho has been here.
Jaejoong can never explain how he knows this, but there’s just a knowing that comes after so many years and even if that quiet little voice at the back of his head keeps him up most nights, it’s not something he thinks he ever wants to give up. He will find Yunho, one day. When the clues run out, when the world stops being this big. When Yunho finally decides to come home. Whichever comes first.
Yunho is out there and this is what pushes Jaejoong off the curb of every new city, into the crowds and abandoned buildings, weaving through traffic and navigating by skyscrapers one day, stars the next.
writing exercise. for the life of me idek why I have a post-it on my file saying “he has been here” .___. does Yunho even exist here?
art by 豆腐メンタル
“Stop crying,” Nezumi murmurs and Shion can only sniff in response, tears still streaming as he somehow finds purchase in the softened, cotton-clad angle of a shoulder blade, the curve of Nezumi’s neck. “You’re so embarrassing, seriously.”
Some part of Shion is thinking, this isn’t happening, this isn’t real, how am I going to deal with waking up after this?, but the seconds lurch past and Nezumi isn’t letting go. Shion isn’t waking up. Everything, from the press of Nezumi’s fingers against his arm to how Nezumi’s worn-soft sweater feels against his cheek, all of this is real.
Nezumi is here, warm and solid and real and Shion is holding him, being held in return.
Nezumi is home.
/words cannot describe just how much I love this fanart and trying to capture this moment in words is close to impossible and I’m not even doing it an ounce of justice but urghhh god my feelings ;A;
Shion hasn’t slept through the night in years, the bay windows of his bedroom flung as wide as they will ever go to let in summer air and cold rain, to let in lost things seeking shelter. There had been a moth stuck to his curtain once and Shion had watched it struggle from under his covers for ten long minutes, finally getting up at four in the morning to let it go.
”Careful next time,” he remembers murmuring as he gently helped one wing free, moving on to the other that had somehow inexplicably gotten caught in the coarse fibers of his curtains. Shion had smiled as he watched it leave after that, cupped hands unfolding to let it follow some dizzy, invisible path back into the early morning.
Sometimes, on particularly bad nights when the rainstorms are violent enough to make the glass panes in his windows rattle, Shion sets out the fluffiest towels he has onto the expanse of floor, laid into comfortable looking piles just inside of the balcony. Come morning, if he’s really lucky, he’ll find stray birds hiding in the warmth, sparrows startling sleepily back into the air whenever Shion draws closer.
It makes him feel a little better to know he has helped in some small way and Karan never questions him whenever he raids the linen closet for more towels than one person should need each time. Karan thinks she understands, even if Shion himself might not.
Moths, birds, Shion has seen even the odd stray cat or two, but he finds it increasingly strange that he has never seen any mice. Don’t mice need shelter, too? Or are they small enough to find places where the rain can’t get them? Quick enough to always get home in time?
Maybe mice aren’t that bothered by the rain?
Shion smoothens down the towels he has for the night and watches the rainclouds start to gather just above the bare bones of newly risen buildings, finds himself realizing that he thinks about mice more often than he’d like to admit.
The nights that Shion does manage to sleep for more than two hours at a stretch, he dreams of waking up to Nezumi caught in his curtains, or maybe curled up in one of the towels he had set out. “Help me,” Nezumi will drawl as if it’s the most natural thing this side of the world to get entangled in someone’s curtains. Or perhaps “Join me,” he’ll say from where he’s lounging on the pile of towels, wind from some dream-storm blowing strands free from the messy knot he’s pulled his hair into.
Shion will cross the room in silent wonder then, hand coming to rest on Nezumi’s arm or maybe his fingers will curl around the circumference of Nezmi’s wrist, thumb against a pulse that’s as real as breathing.
“You’re back,” dream-Shion says. “You’re really back.”
The Nezumis he dreams of always look the same, wearing mismatched clothes like a badge of honour from all the wanderings he’s had and hair longer than before he left, smile still unchanged from the first time they ever met.
“Of course I’m back,” Nezumi scoffs. There will be a rush of air then, the breath knocked out of Shion’s chest when Nezumi tackles him to the floor or pulls him into the curtains as well and they end up onto the rain-splattered balcony. Either way, Nezumi will be a comfortable, just the right side of crushing warmth above him in the end and Shion, without any shadow of a doubt, Shion will always ask: “What took you so long?”
And Dream-Nezumi? He just gets this sad look in his eyes each time, the one that makes him seem as if he has something he needs to say, but just can’t.
“You know I-…” he starts and this is the part where Shion will wake up, curled around an empty space with the blankets fisted up to his chest and a tired little smile on his face.
Come mornings, Shion always wants to say that no, he doesn’t know, but dream Nezumi and probably real-life Nezumi just aren’t the kinds of people who’ll give that any sort of consideration. “Find out for yourself, then,” Shion imagines Nezumi telling him with this insufferable grin. “Aren’t we all always learning?”
The idea makes him smile and Shion will somehow make it out from under his covers, a little more ready that morning to see what he has to help set free this time around.
(One day, Shion will wake up from that dream to the sound of Nezumi’s voice drifting in over the first beats of wakefulness, an amused “Well it looks like someone is sleeping just fine without me around,” that snaps Shion’s eyes wide open.
And Nezumi will be there, perched on the balcony just like before, but this time with the sun to his back and not wind and rain and moonlight, brilliant sunshine threaded through his hair with a smile at the ready, a bagful of books at his feet and Nezumi will be there and Nezumi will be there and just…and just, Nezumi will be there.)
a/n- clearly I still have…a lot of feelings in my system about these two ;A;
ff.net / livejournal