“Ah, there you are,” Q said over the earwig, his voice calm and collected. And why the bloody hell not? No one was shooting at him, after all. “Do be careful, 007. One’s coming up to your left — yes, that left,” he confirmed, as Bond turned — surprise, surprise — to his left. A quick double-tap took care of that one. The bullets were hardly louder than a whisper.

Speaking of...

“More?” Bond whispered, hoping the bloody earwig was sensitive enough to pick up the word. Of course, if it was, he probably had already blown out Q’s eardrums earlier, when he’d had a coughing fit. God, how he hated airlines. Cram three hundred half-washed, disease-carrying cretins into a plane... It was a wonder civilisation hadn’t collapsed.

“It looks like you’re clear. The container is —”

“The blue one, yes. I do recall the briefing.”

“There’s no need to get stroppy.”

Bond huffed in disagreement and ran — cautiously — to the blue shipping container he’d marked earlier. Despite Q’s reassurances, he kept an eye out as he moved with quick stealth. He reached the shipping container without incident.

Because he seemed to be alone, as he began picking the lock, he asked, “Did intel ever reveal what precisely I’m looking for?”

“Ah, yes. USB drives — that is, memory sticks. Small ones, concealed in children’s toys to get them through American customs.”

“Lovely. Very thorough, their Department of Homeland Security,” Bond said dryly as the lock yielded to his picks. The younger agents all used bump keys and lockpick guns, but once you deviated from the more common locks, such things were useless. Technology was no substitute for hard-won skill.

“Are you done yet?”

“Of course I am.” Bond pocketed the lock, intending to reapply it later, and cautiously pulled open the shipping crate door so he could peek inside. There was only one single pallet of wooden crates in the centre, lashed down with ratcheting straps. “Cargo spotted,” he said with grim cheer as he exchanged his lockpicks for a small prybar.

“Bond...” Q said in a certain softer tone of voice. Usually he’d reserve that for “James” and follow up with “Since you’re up, could you grab me another drink?” or “Can you pass me the blanket?” or “Could I trouble you for a backrub?”

Bond had never heard it over the comms before. It was oddly disorienting.

“What did you need, Q?” he asked, trying to sound professional despite thoughts of cuddling on the sofa or oil on pale skin.

“I recognise that we’re working with the American FBI on this case, but if you happened to acquire one of those drives...”

With a soft chuckle, Bond said, “Acknowledged, Quartermaster. Let me just pry open one of these cases...”

“Do be careful, 007.”

Careful. Bond huffed in amusement at the thought and worked the prybar into the front panel of the highest box, since he couldn’t reach the top without a step ladder. A bit of leverage, some wiggling, and the curved end slipped between the boards with a high squeal of nails coming loose.

“Got it,” Bond said in quiet satisfaction as he threw his weight against the bar. Nails flew and the boards groaned, and suddenly an avalanche of brilliant colours and soft pastels came tumbling from the box...

Leaving Bond knee-deep in what looked for all the world like candy-coloured tiny horses.

 

~~~

 

Q was glaring at the spreadsheet, wondering if he should just fire the programmer who’d coded it or actually slip his name to a Double O, when a riot of colour slammed down in front of him. He had to blink at it several times to recognise a rainbow sprouting from both ends of an improbably blue horse.

Slowly he turned and met familiar blue eyes, almost a precise match for the creature on the keyboard. James Bond — Q’s occasional lover, frequent nemesis, and most vexing agent — smirked in a very self-satisfied way.

“And this is...” Q prompted.

“Rainbow Dash.”

Q looked from Bond to the horse. The ‘rainbow’ part was self-evident. ‘Dash’ was more problematic, given that it was plastic. He was tempted to pick it up and move it, but it looked a bit hazardous to bare skin.

“And Rainbow Dash is on my desk because...”

“You wanted one. I was damned near buried in the bloody things. The least I could do was share the joy,” Bond said dryly.

“I’m sorry, 007. You’ve ended up in the most unlikely situations, but I’m not going to accept near-death-by...”

“My Little Pony.”

“It’s bloody well not mine,” Q agreed wholeheartedly.

Bond’s grin was infuriating. Unfortunately, it was also irresistibly charming. Even more unfortunately, the bastard knew it. “It’s a gift, for my favourite Quartermaster.”

“Your only Quartermaster.”

Bond ruffled Q’s hair and turned to leave the office. “The only one I want.”

“You forgot your pony,” Q prompted.

“Oh, he’s all yours now.”

“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with it?”

“Check its arse.”

Q turned to glare, but Bond was already walking out of the office. With an irritated huff, he turned back to the pony and somewhat anxiously lifted its tail. All he saw, though, was a seam from the plastic injection mold.

Suspiciously, he prodded at it, and the seam unfolded, revealing a small, hollow cavity and a sliver of black plastic. For a moment, he debated quietly calling for one of his explosives experts to bring in the portable X-ray machine, but surely Bond didn’t want to be rid of him. This was most likely safe, at least for certain definitions of ‘safe’.

He put the pony back down and dug around in his drawer until he found forceps. Cautiously, feeling vaguely like a child playing at being a veterinarian, he used the forceps to extract what proved to be a USB drive hidden inside the pony.

Q smiled. Perhaps this really was an acceptable present, colours notwithstanding. He’d have to find a suitable way to thank Bond.