Chapter 1: "Just Around the Corner"
This is the first prompt fill for MI6Cafe's 2019 Last Drabble Writer Standing challenge. The prompt is "just around the corner" and the word limit is 100.
Q blinked, rooted to the spot, his own Walther clutched tightly in his fingers. It just couldn’t be.
James had turned the corner a few feet in front of him, all cocky stride and poised gun. Q could practically see the exit. Then there was a shot, a thump, and a splash of blood so close that it landed on Q’s shoes.
He didn’t scream, like he thought he would in his worst nightmares. Instead his mind was stuck on a loop of Jamesohgodnothisisnothappening as he watched the rapidly growing puddle of red, and realized he’d forgotten how to breathe.
Chapter 2: "Just One Shot"
This is the second prompt fill for MI6Cafe's 2019 Last Drabble Writer Standing challenge. The prompt is "just one shot", the word limit is 200, and has to be 7 paragraphs exactly.
This is it, Bond knows. There is no turning back.
He adjusts the sniper rifle and looks once more through the scope. The action is redundant and a bit obsessive, not exactly something 007 is particularly known for. It’s fitting, however, in lieu of his new persona, one that has crept into his subconscious without a by-your-leave. MI6 has betrayed him, betrayed them both, and they’re simply not willing to play anymore.
On the other side of the scope sits Mallory in his fortified office. The window is triple-reinforced, but Bond knows the bullet will penetrate it like spun sugar – Q invented it after all. He will have three minutes to get to the car, fourteen to avoid all the roadblocks. Once he gets outside London proper, where Q is patiently waiting, they’ll be free.
His earpiece crackles. “Now or never, James,” the familiar voice prods, and Bond smirks. He can almost see the green eyes through the camera perched above. Won’t be long, darling, he thinks, and the smile grows wider. It won't.
Bond doesn't look away this time. His hand is steady on the trigger, the aim perfect. His heart leaps at his throat.
Just one shot.
Chapter 3: "Resurrection"
“Really, Bond?” Q sighed. “It hadn't even been a day.”
Each of the safehouse’s security measures had been breached, starting from the foyer all the way to the bedroom. Bond stood just inside the walk-in closet, where the entrance to the panic room was, and Q in front of it, looking cross.
Something could be said of the irony of being caught by someone prone to disappearing while trying to disappear. Q sighed again. So much for his foolproof plan. And it was foolproof, mind you, with a perfectly staged attack and a perfectly convincing corpse. He wasn't even going to be gone that long – maybe a few weeks – and then he’d be back. It would be no worse than what a certain double-oh liked to pull on a regular basis. Everything was going swimmingly according to plan.
“R found some discrepancies,” Bond shrugged. “Thought I’d follow them.”
“Right, of course,” Q spat. He really should’ve specifically locked R out beforehand. It would've probably spared him the indignity of being found – alive – when barely 20 hours had passed.
Even with minimal lighting he could see the twinkle in Bond’s eyes, exuding mirth and arrogance. Q wanted to kill him.
“Care to explain?” Bond asked.
“To you? Not particularly.”
“I promise I can help.”
“Oh, suddenly an expert in international hacking ploys, are we?”
“No,” Bond smirked. “But luckily I know someone who is, and who, despite his efforts, won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”
Chapter 4: "Gentlemanly"
Q watched Bond come toward him from the ocean. His chest glistened under the sun, and his pair of tight black swimtrunks somehow skirted the line of obscene and straight into sophistication. It contrasted sharply with other alphas, all eager to show off their bulges and purposefully dripping sweat onto any omegas that caught their eyes. A bunch of crass, disgusting idiots. Q had no patience for that lot.
“Don’t like the water?” Bond asked as he plopped himself onto the towel Q was currently sunbathing on. Q snorted. It was bloody nine in the morning; the water wouldn’t be warm until noon.
“Some of us actually need to work to get a tan going,” Q replied.
“Wouldn’t you just burn?”
“Ah, that’s where you come in.” He sat up, handing Bond a bottle of sunscreen. The alpha said nothing as he poured the lotion onto his hands. He spread it onto Q’s back, kneading the muscles as he did so. Q could feel his warm breath on the side of his neck. He wanted Bond to come closer, to soak in the man’s spicy scent. But the salt of the ocean had washed off most of the alpha’s pheromones. It left Q’s head completely clear, something he secretly wished weren’t so.
On the terrace above, Eve let out a loud sigh as she slumped on the table.
“For heaven’s sake, just fuck already,” she griped. “Watching them pretending to be civil is giving me a colossal migraine.”
“You know that’s not how Bond works,” Tanner answered beside her. “He has to make sure Q’s ‘in his right mind’ when he asks. Being a gentleman and all.”
“Bill, look over there and tell me,” she deadpanned. “Which part of that omega’s demeanor says he wants a gentleman to you?”
Chapter 5: Omegaverse Setup
This is not at all related to the Omegaverse drabble in the previous chapter. I had the idea and figured I should at least write a pseudo-setup. Not sure if this'll expand any further than what I have here.
Q first presented at the age of 14. Textbook normal, by all standards. He was in the middle of the supermarket, looking after his younger brother while his mother shopped, when a surge of warmth flared up from the base of his spine. He remembered falling to his knees, the sudden onslaught of scents overwhelming his senses. There were yells of surprise and gentle, helping hands, one pair caressed his engorged scent glands and Q moaned like he was in the throes of heat. Technically he was, although the concept was still purely academic, up until then.
He woke up in an omega hospital a few hours later. His parents were talking quietly to the doctor, his brother sat by his bed, reading. There were two additional nurses in the room with them. Q had been given a mild dose of suppressant commonly prescribed to taper off the unpleasantness of the first heat. It was a traditionally homey scene, of a family dealing with their omega child’s condition in a safe, controlled environment. There were many others going through the same process all around them in the other rooms.
Except Q’s family had all been alphas for the past five generations. Alphas who married alphas, who begot alpha children, who then went on to become central figures in the upper echelon of society. Q had been writing code since he was eight, was due to start university the following year. Several governmental organizations were already keeping tabs on him, while the handle Q was starting to make its rounds in the gray hacking space. He was going to burn just as brightly as the rest of his family, might be the brightest of them all.
His father had not looked at him once since he’d come to, and his mother’s smile was the stilted one she reserved for work engagements. Gene mutation, the doctor had explained. A fractional of a percentage when both parents were lineage alphas. His brother stole wary glances at him while holding a teen book about omegas and heat. He was seven then, the same age as Q when he took apart his first computer and put it back in better working order. A framed photo of the result was still hanging in the family living room.
His parents pulled him from his boarding school the next week. Too risky, being surrounded by mostly alphas, not to mention the scandals already circulating. Q had never before heard his father raise his voice, or seen his mother shatter a teacup onto the marbled floor. They also filed a withdrawal request with the university he was enrolled in – it had historically only accept alphas and the idea of an exception was laughable. He could theoretically continue his lower education in an omega primary, or be home-schooled, until he came of age, but everyone knew it would be an utter waste of four years. Something Q was absolutely not willing to do.
So he did the only sensible thing he could think of, and ran away from home.
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, 21-year-old James Bond sank himself into a pretty redheaded omega on a cheap motel bed. She was a soft, accommodating thing, drawing his knot out twice before he had to leave for his ship at daybreak. He barely made it back without being discovered – again – by his superior officer. His beta mates gave him his due ribbing, called him a knothead and a breeder and all the usual shit. James just laughed it off. Later he and the handful of alphas on board congregated at mess, trading bull stories like cigarettes. Most of them also routinely snuck out to bed an omega or two. No one wanted to go into rut stuck in a confined space at sea.
The ship’s cook was the only omega around. He was sixty, could make a mean stew out of field rations, and acted like everyone’s mother. James liked him, usually swung by after-hours to help with random kitchen duties. They’d talk late into the night; the cook had spent his life on various waters, met and fed all kinds of people, and had the sharp memory to spin endless yarns out of everything he’d seen.
James asked him, once, about fated pairs, to which the omega only cocked his bushy eyebrows and said, lad, I didn't reckon you be the kind to believe in children’s tales. James smiled back, a bland, expectant one. He didn't ask that question often precisely because of this reason. Who’d think an alpha stud would be interested in sentimental picture-book drivel? They wouldn't be wrong, either; James wasn't interested. He believed, because his parents were proof – of the mythical fated pair.
He was old enough by the time they died to remember all the signs. The expression they wore whenever they looked into each other’s eyes. The way they smelled not of two people permanently bonded but of one cohesive entity. The fact that his mother had never gone into heat, nor kept any medication in the cupboards, although James was sent to a neighbor’s house for a couple of hours a few times a month. (But it was hours, not days, like it was with all of his classmates’ parents.) He’d play with the kids and listen to them talk about the stupidity of ‘one true pair’ and pretend to agree, knowing he’d get made fun of otherwise.
After he was orphaned he was kicked around the foster system until he enlisted at sixteen. He had never met anyone nor heard anything remotely like what his parents had. Asking the cook was a natural gamble. The man had traveled further than anyone James had known, after all. But he, like everyone else, thought it was a joke, a passing fancy skimmed from some moonstruck omega that James had bedded. He did not disabuse the cook of that notion. It was always the same reaction, everywhere, every time.
Later he’d categorize whatever his parents had as a fluke. It was real enough, but James had given up on finding out anything about it. He was a practical child, grown into a more practical adult, and there were more pressing matters to think about than whether a miraculous lightning would strike twice.
Chapter 6: "The Second"
Rating's been bumped up to M.
“Oh god, no more, please…”
Q fell back on the mattress, landing on the pillow with a heavy thump. He was covered in sweat and come, and the sheets beneath was too disgusting to be worth contemplating. Blearily he stared at the alarm clock on the nightstand. Was it really only one o’clock in the afternoon? He and James had been in bed since the agent had returned from a mission last night. They had done absolutely nothing hence except fucking and dozing off in between.
“Enjoyed yourself?” a voice rumbled beside him. Q rolled over and groaned. He was sore and tired and more than a little sleep deprived, but the whole affair, he had to admit, was thoroughly and immensely satisfying.
“It’s more like you enjoyed my humble self, isn’t it?” Q quipped, to which James gave a half shrug. “And to think that I pegged you as an exclusive philanderer of the fairer sex and would balk at a good old-fashioned cock-sucking.”
“Why is that?”
It was very hard to resist an eye-roll. “Until now I’ve only seen you bed women on missions. And off. It’s hardly a surprising conclusion.”
James’s eyebrows went up. “And off?”
Fuck, did he say that out loud? Must be the residual endorphins messing with his filter. Q cleared his throat. “I keep an eye on all of my agents. Some more than others. Occasionally I’d catch them on camera – in public, mind you – and…sometimes…I’d see – you know, James, a deserted back alley is never as deserted as you like to think!”
He did not expect James to laugh out loud at his fluster, even less for the blond to roll over, half-caging him in. Q looked into the bright blue eyes, mesmerized by their mirth and the faint lines creasing the corners. James smirked.
“Would you believe me if I said that you’re the first man I’ve ever been with?”
Q glared him like he was one of the cats strutting all innocent-like in front of a piece of blatantly destroyed upholstery. “Not on your life,” he said, earning a chuckle from the other in return, and a slightly shake of the head.
“Smart,” James replied. He paused for a moment, expression suddenly sobering. “What if I said you’re the second?”
Q scoffed. He leaned back, waiting for indications that this was the continuation of the joke. When none came he frowned, then bolted upright, green eyes widening when the realization hit.
“You’re serious? No, wait – really? I’m actually ….” Heat flooded his face when memories from last night resurfaced. “Why, that’s, I’d never have guessed from what we did that you’d only slept with a man once.”
“One man, Q, not once,” James rebuked. “Although I’ve always been a fast learner.”
Q made another incredulous noise. It was too early (or late) to think more on the implications, so he pushed them aside, thoughts centering on the half-hard erection he was now sporting. Swiftly he climbed into his lover’s lap, felt calloused hands firmly gripping onto his bare ass, and grinned.
“Well, James, considering that I’m merely your second venture into the…lesser known, I’m sure there are plenty of things still for us to try.”
Chapter 7: "Mission Report"
Written as part of 007 Fest for the prompt "I don't care if you're an angel. You're still a jerk." Wings!AU. Everybody has wings of some sort, but there's no magic.
“Did that really just happen?” Q asked, his voice came out high-pitched from pure shock. “Did Bond really just throw the bomb down the open stairwell?”
He didn’t believe his eyes. Not even with the crystal clear footage present from the augmented camera, plus the roomful of Q-branch specialists acting as fellow witnesses, plus the ever watchful and (somewhat) unbiased account of Eve Moneypenny as she leaned over him, her eyebrows raised in an imitation of Q’s own surprise. M’s voice was an irritated crackle on the intercom, while Tanner, who was viewing the large projector screen, simply let out a tired sigh.
“Seems like it,” Moneypenny confirmed. Her tone was calm, but Q could sense her irritation from the way her glossy black wings fluttered behind her. They sent a pile of forms flying off a nearby desk, startling several of his minions. “How long did they say the timer was?”
Q quickly pulled up the relevant footage. “Thirty seconds,” he answered, as the terrorists on screen boast how it would level the entire city block while waving the device around like a drunk with a flag. Sometimes he really wondered how these people became successful criminals. “But it was designed to detonate on impact, which would mean….”
“Right about now.” Tanner supplied from the other side.
The entire room held their collective breathes as they watched Bond take down the terrorists one by one. His movements were sure and unhurried, and Q could swear he was deliberately showing off to the cameras whenever he came into view. Five seconds passed, then ten, and when a full minute had lapsed and everything was still intact save for the bad guys’ bones, the room burst into relieved and confused chatter.
“How is this possible?” Q exclaimed. His could feel his own feathers standing on ends in agitation. “He doesn’t have magic – no matter what he bloody claims – that bomb was armed and ready when it went down.”
“Could be a decoy?” Eve hazarded a guess. “Or they were bluffing.”
“Highly unlikely,” he turned back to the footage, hoping to find some kind of indication of a sleight-of-hand. Otherwise Bond would double down on his alleged otherworldly origins and no one would ever hear the end of it.
Alas, it was too late. The telltale throat-clearing came from the comms a moment later. “Mission complete,” Bond announced. He was hovering right above the building, the bright Tuscan sun giving his magnificently white wings a quite, for the lack of a better word, angelic glow. “Requesting evac and cleanup.”
“What the hell just happened?” Q snatched up the mic on his desk. “How did you disarm the explosive?”
Bond smiled. He spun in the air, cutting a graceful figure against the steel blue sky. “That, my dear Quartermaster, would be telling.”
“I sincerely hope that’s not what’s going into your after-action report.”
“Give me a kiss when I get back and you’ll find out?”
“I – ” Q stuttered, his face lit up to the roots of his hair. The nerve of this man. “May I remind you, that it’s an integral part of my job to analyze mission specifics and part of your job to report them?”
“Hmm,” Bond hummed. He pretended to ponder for a moment before letting out a shrug. “Then all I can tell you is that it’s of divine –”
“Oh for god’s sake, you are not an angel, Bond! They don’t bloody exist. You’re just-”
“Gentlemen,” M’s stern voice cut through the racket. Bond immediately straightened while Q bit back a scathing retort. “It looks to me that the targets are neutralized and the threat has been contained. If we could wrap this up sometime in the next hour, it would be most helpful.”
“Yes, sir,” they both said in unison. Bond had the decency to look chastised as he landed back on the roof. Q went to his keyboard to deploy the requested units. He caught Moneypenny’s sly smile as she passed, and muttered under his breath, fully aware that the agent could still hear him through the earpiece.
“- just a colossal jerk.” he finished, and was answered by Bond’s laughter.
Chapter 8: "Trinity"
When the airport bulletins all over Europe began to glitch, Q was at home, packing. He’d already given away his cats, and the only things he was taking consisted of a single suitcase and his laptop. The train ticket Bond had sourced him sat securely in his pocket. He was cutting it a bit close, but there should still be time left before everything crashed. Literally.
In a remote part of Russia, Raoul Silva turned from the camera feeds to the man next to him. “Clever boy,” he commented, to which Bond merely smiled, as they watched the chaos unfold.
Chapter 9: "Lingerie"
This is the third prompt fill for MI6Cafe's 2020 Last Drabble Writer Standing challenge. The prompt is "slip", the word limit is 300, and it has to be dialogue only.
“Eve, hello. What can I do for you?”
“Hello my dear. Are you alone?”
“Oh, good. Don’t worry, nothing disastrous has happened, I just need your expert opinion on a minor personal emergency. Hold one sec, I’m going to call you back on video.”
“Video? Wait, what-?”
“Hello again. Sorry, have I caught you at a bad time after all?”
“Pardon my state of undress. I was just getting ready to go out.”
“Ooh, is it a date? Who is it? No one I know I hope.”
“Eve – your emergency?”
“Right, do change the subject. Well, no matter, here – gold or blue?”
“Gold, or blue?”
“Are those… meant to be worn on a moving body? The construction doesn’t look sturdy enough for, well, anything really.”
“You can come up with a detailed improvement plan later. Which one looks better?”
“No, on M. Of course on me. Tonight. Under a cocktail dress. Personally I like the gold one – makes my bosom look fuller, no? But the blue is a nicer color. And it works better with my shoes.”
“…It has to match your shoes?”
“What, you think I’m going to stand in a stranger’s bedroom barefoot. What kind of girl do you take me for?”
“Uh…right. Apologies. The gold one, then. The brown accents compliment your eyes. The overall structure is more pleasing on a feminine curve. And yes, it does make bosoms look fuller.”
“Excellent. Thank you darling. Now carry on with your evening. I shall go get ready myself.”
“Ahem, where did you find these anyway?”
“An absolutely adorable online boutique! Good prices, too. Why, thinking of getting one for yourself?”
“Oh, oh god. You are seeing someone. Oh it better not be–”
“Goodbye, Eve. Have a pleasant evening.”
“Q - Oi!”
Chapter 10: Another Omegaverse Setup
Yep, yet another omegaverse setup. But in this case I AM writing a fic based on this, so the info here is more like supplementary material. I want to try something a little different. Instead of alpha being the ruling class and omega the discriminated one, I'm dong one where they're *both* discriminated against simply because betas are the majority. I don't think I've seen a world like this yet, so let's make one, shall we?
In this world, Betas make up 95% of the population. They are biologically like us, and are what is considered ‘the norm.’ The other 5% are divided into Alphas and Omegas, roughly equal in number. Both sexes of alphas and male omegas are capable of penetration. Female alphas and male omegas have both sets of sexual organs; however, female alphas are only capable of impregnating others while male omegas can only get pregnant, and not both. Alphas go into rut every 3-6 months while omegas go into heat every 1-2 months, with females of both genders trending on the shorter end. Only male alphas have knots on the base of their sexual organs. Knotting can range from uncomfortable to excruciating for betas and alphas, but brings extraordinary pleasure to omegas, especially during their heats.
Both alphas and omegas are marginalized and discriminated against in society. Alphas are stereotyped to be dumb brutes with a pension for violence and fetishized as forceful and domineering. Physically they tend to be larger, with more muscle mass for both sexes. Their professions fall in the field of day laborers, military grunts, security guards and the like. There are, of course, astrophysicists and other notable intellectuals among alphas, but they are exceptionally rare and made even rarer due to general misconception of their lack of intelligence. Alphas are rarely put into leading positions for fear of being tyrannical, hot-headed, and incompetent.
Omegas, in contrast, are seen as weak willed and submissive. Like alphas, they are deemed as unfit to lead, but do not carry the stigma of lesser intelligence. There are many notable omegas in academia, as well as in engineering and programming pursuits. They may very well excel at their trade as long as there are someone else telling them what to do, or so the saying goes. They are seen as flighty and scatterbrained, as well as promiscuous. An omega in heat is often depicted, in pornography and other media, as a sex-crazed maniac who will indiscriminately sleep with anyone and enjoys it. The reality is nothing as dramatic. They do not go into a daze as if intoxicated, and many are very careful whom they choose to spend their heats with. It’s seen by omegas and alphas as a time for mutual pleasure and not exploitation.
Because of the various societal barriers, a good percentage of alphas and omegas take hormonal suppressants to function as a pseudo-beta. For omegas, suppressants regulate their cycles and act as reliable birth control. They can also eliminate the unique omega odor from their scent glands and physically shrink the size of such glands to more resemble a beta’s. For alphas the suppressants behave largely the same, some with the added effect of preventing a knot to form when aroused. Usually alphas take these when they’re in a relationship with another alpha or beta, with the aim to minimize the painful effect of knotting during intercourse. However, they also may cause impotence, which makes the trade-off something serious to consider.
All genders can bond. With betas it is more or less symbolic. They only have vestigial scent glands and therefore, most couples simply nip lightly on the neck or utilize jewelry as a substitute (piercings, necklaces, chokers, etc.). Some forgo bonding altogether, seeing it as something unnecessary on top of the convoluted rituals of marriage. Alphas and omegas, however, treat it as the same, if not more important, as traditional marriages. Bonding can physically alter heats and ruts, changing their intensity and syncing cycle durations. It’s not uncommon for the alpha’s rut to shorten to match the omega’s heat schedule, for instance, and the scents produced by both partners will change to indicate their bonded status.
MI6 has a strict no discrimination policy. And like most policies, it doesn’t really translate 100% into real life. All administrative hires are supposedly gender-blind, but very few non-betas have made their ways to the top executive positions. Of course, it doesn’t mean they don’t make it ever or are less competent when they do. Olivia Mansfield, the previous M, for instance, is an exceptionally shrewd alpha. Anyone who has harbored doubt of her capabilities quickly learned the error of their ways after a single meeting. Q-branch and R&D have a healthy percentage of omegas on staff, including leadership positions, but only a handful of alphas even in the lowest ranks. The field agents, subsequently, are mostly betas and alphas, with a token omega or two scattered in the midst.
The double-oh agents have a somewhat unique composition. There are only 13 of them active at one time. 001 – 0011 are all betas. 0012 is the designated alpha and 0013 is the designated omega. The reasoning is as follows: double-ohs are elite agents expected to be versatile spies in any situation. Suppressants, as sophisticated as modern medicine has become, are not magical cure-alls. There may come situations where an alpha agent might start to knot when he’s pretending to be a beta in the middle of seducing a target, and therefore raise serious suspicions. Same for omegas who might start slicking up in the presence of an alpha and blow their beta covers. The risk is too great where life and death is concerned, so the agency decided betas are the go-to gender. However, there are definitely cases where an alpha or an omega would be better suited for the job – sending an alpha to seduce an omega technician in a terrorist cell, for example. It makes 0012 and 0013 somewhat niche, but very necessary, hires.
Olivia Mansfield, however, has always thought that setup is bollocks. It limits the pool of already scarce talent, and she firmly believes that non-betas are actually more versatile when it comes to fieldwork. Betas cannot reliably fake being non-betas, especially when knotting is involved, but with the right type of suppressants non-betas can handle the reverse, the exact opposite of what the fools in Parliament preach. In addition, a lot of terror organization leaders like to keep non-betas as mistresses or bodyguards, leaving plenty of cracks for a seasoned double-oh to slip through. It’s prejudice, pure and simple, and as an alpha herself Mansfield has experienced plenty of it. She tries to change it during her tenure, and although not much has come to fruition through the official channels, she’ll be damned if she’s not persistent in her efforts.
But luckily, she seems to have stumbled onto a rare but promising opportunity, in the form of an agent numbered 007.
Bond & Q
Bond has been on alpha suppressants since his days in the navy. They were nothing fancy, just the generic brand carried by any navy physician, and didn’t really do much except prolonged his rut cycle by a few weeks. Having ruts while confined at sea was a nightmare, so he tried to time the doses to keep his schedule to twice a year. (Alpha suppressants aren’t as fine-tuned as omega ones, and so are much more unpredictable.) His rut was usually every four to five months. With suppressants, sometimes he’d luck out and stretch it out to six.
When he became an agent of MI6 his meds more or less stayed the same. They didn’t really send him out on that many mission before he was fast-tracked to double-oh for exemplary performance. When M called him into her office on the day of his promotion, he at first thought there was a misprint on the paperwork. 007? That’s a beta position, isn’t it? (It did kind of explain the presence of a doctor from MI6 Medical and the Chief of Staff being included in the meeting.) She stated her displeasure with the current system, and asked Bond to be a trial case. For all intents and purposes he has now become a beta – all of his files have been altered, he is in a beta-exclusive position, and the only people who are aware of it were in this room. “You are too good to be saddled with endless missions that only require a working knot,” she declared, to which Bond wholeheartedly agreed.
His new suppressants are specialized now, made exclusively in the MI6 labs as top secret R&D (and classified as such). It keeps his rut cycle at around five months, and shortens its duration to fifty hours, easily concealable by his usual habit of disappearing off the grid during downtime. His alpha scent is almost nonexistent, and the glands on his neck, if not in rut, are barely larger than a beta’s. He can achieve an erection when needed, although knotting is almost impossible outside ruts. It mean he gets less satisfying orgasms, but Bond brushes that off as part of the tradeoff - it’s a miracle he can still perform on such a strong suppressant in the first place. There’s also a booster shot he can take if he happens to go into rut at an inconvenient time. It’ll delay it for another day or so, which is usually long enough for him to get to safety.
The medicine is delivered on a strict schedule in the form of a shot every three months, no exceptions. For national security reasons Bond spends all of his ruts alone, sometimes resorting to outside drugs and alcohol to dampen its effects. It’s always a miserable experience and he hasn’t taken an omega to bed for a proper rut in years. Bond just sees this as another sacrifice for the Country and deals with it by gritting his teeth and trudging on.
Q has been on omega suppressants since puberty. The mother of one of his schoolmates was a nurse, through whom Q got a steady supply of high-quality meds since the initial presentation. Still, he disliked the various side effects – cystic acne being one of the most irritating – and switched brands throughout his teenage years. He always hated the fact that being an omega meant people underestimated him or saw him as nothing but a hole to fuck. So he avoided the whole hassle by pretending to be a beta, and should anyone come too close to the truth, well, there’s nothing that threatening to publicize all their digital dirty laundry couldn’t fix.
He became the Quartermaster through his own sheer brilliance. It’s hard to stand out amongst the bright youth of Q-branch, especially as a nameless beta. In truth Q-branch is a very merit-based place, so Q’s not 100% sure if he were an out-and-proud omega anything would change, but he has spent his whole life this way and didn’t want to make the change. He has the skills to lock and change his own files, so he did, with no one in MI6 the wiser. He is a workaholic, but timing his heats to a few off days has never been a problem.
His current suppressants are a concoction made from years of experimenting and tailored to his physique. They completely eliminate his scent, shrink his glands to beta size, act as hormonal birth control, and give him control as to when he wants to have his heats. The only side effects are the occasional cramps and night sweats. However, this doesn’t mean he can’t smell other alphas when they’re around. Sometimes he gets involuntarily wet from alpha personnel strutting by his desk, dripping pheromones all over and thinking he’s unaffected. After the third time he puts up a sign outside Q-branch reminding alphas that there are a lot of omegas working in the bullpen who like to continue to work un-harassed. They wouldn’t go into the secretarial pool and rile up all the omega girls in front of their executives, would they? The incidents lessened a few days after the sign went up, and eventually stopping being a problem.
His natural cycle is around two months and lasts three days, and Q likes to artificially keep it to that also. Eventually when he comes off suppressants – a long time from now, but it will happen – it will make the transition easier. His med is a daily white pill, with two transition yellow pills before and after his heats, and nothing during. Sometimes he spends his heats alone with various toys for company, and sometimes he invites in alphas whom he has carefully vetted in advance. No one from anything close to governmental agencies. They all gossip and the last thing Q wants is to be outed via an outside grapevine. There’s only one person who knows he’s an omega in MI6 – the Chief of Staff. Q has told Tanner himself, partly because he needs to inform at least one person at work just in case something happens – their profession is fairly dangerous, after all – and partly because they’re pretty good friends. Bill Tanner knows how to handle secrets like a boss, to which Q is very grateful.
Chapter 11: "A Dinner and a Chase"
Written for 007 Fest 2020. The prompt is "I swear I didn’t mean to run him over the first time, the second time however…" and features a rare pairing for funsies!
“Really, darling,” Eve said to her partner in the passenger seat as she tore down the street in her sleek silver Jaguar. “You could’ve warned me just what a menace you are in those heels.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Strawberry Fields said as she checked out their pursuers in the rearview mirror. “I’m just your average cushy paper-pusher.”
“Well, ‘cushy’ is a word I’d use to describe you, but definitely not for pushing papers.”
She saw Fields roll her eyes, but she also caught a glimpse of the small smile that followed. Really, Fields could be a formidable field agent (ha!) if she wanted, but instead chose to hide away in the Bolivian consulate’s archives. If she hadn’t been transferred back to London due to threat of Quantum, Eve Moneypenny would’ve never known of the redhead’s existence. And certainly wouldn’t have gone on a fabulous dinner with said redhead before they were rudely interrupted by men with guns sniffing after a certain notorious double-oh.
“They sure are persistent,” Fields pulled open the glove compartment, retrieving one of Eve’s emergency Berettas. “And very suicidal. Are we going back to Vauxhall?”
“Nope, thought I’d take an easy, scenic drive south. Want to go to Brighton for the weekend? I know the owner of a cozy little B&B right near the pier.”
Fields smiled again, and the fluttering feeling rising in Eve’s heart made her turn extra sharp as she squeezed the car into a narrow alleyway. The van behind them rightly missed them and plowed on down the main street. Eve grinned. They’d be in for a surprise. She jerked her head toward the passenger side, indicating for Fields to roll down the window and get ready to shoot.
“This is exactly why I left London,” Fields commented. “I would like my date nights to not be filled with car chases and shoot-outs, thank you.”
“Oh that’s only the case if you’re involved with Bond somehow.” Eve replied. Then she paused, and carefully said: “Were you also, by the way? Involved with Bond?”
“Why, Miss Moneypenny,” she didn’t see Fields’ smirk rather than heard it in her voice. “Jealous before we even had our first kiss?”
“Hardly. But that would explain our double rotten luck.” She swerved the car onto the main road just as their pursuers’ black van turned the corner. “See if you could get their front tires from this range.”
Fields leaned out the window and aimed toward the van. But she fell back after a moment, shaking her head. “Too many civilian vehicles in the way. I suggest we take it outside the city parameters.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Eve nodded. She glanced at the GPS on her dash and made a face. “Actually, I believe we’re only about a half mile away from Bond’s flat. What do you say if we just swing by and dump these guys on his front steps?”
“No objections from me,” Fields sighed. “If I had known all the trouble 007 would cause just by existing, I’d have tied his stubborn arse onto my car and hauled him onto a plane the moment I met him.”
“You know, I almost ran over him once, before we were properly acquainted. I swear it was an accident, but now I am seriously reconsidering its potential…”
Eve turned one last corner and saw Bond’s building coming up in the distance. She and Fields exchanged a glance. “Should we give him the courtesy of a warning?” Fields asked, to which Eve just laughed out loud in reply. The other van’s headlights bounced off her side mirror. They certain were following quite close.
“Well then, hang on tight,” she said, and pushed down on the gas.
Chapter 12: "What's in a Name?"
“Are those emergency flares?”
Q almost stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Almost. “No,” he answered Alec, whose current feed consisted of the mark, his friends, and a whole lot of trees. “It’s called fireworks. You know, things teenagers like to ignite while surrounded by endless kindling.”
Alec chuckled. “Remind me why I’m babysitting a bunch of brats trying very hard to kill themselves?”
“Because the PM owes his father a favor, and M hates you a bit more than James right now after Bahrain.”
“Oh hush,” Q rebuked, and almost kept the blush off his face, too.
Chapter 13: "Deck" x2
This is the second prompt fill for MI6Cafe's 2021 Last Drabble Writer Standing challenge. The prompt is "deck" and it has to be written from an outsider's POV. 150-200 words. I wrote two and couldn't decide which one I like better, so I kept both. (I'm not actually in the competition this year, just writing for fun.) They're tangentially related to each other and the previous drabble.
“You too, sir,” M bids goodbye to the MP before hanging up the phone with a sigh. Politics truly never ends. Wearily he eyes the Scotch on his bookshelf. Not tonight, he scolds himself, and gets up with an ache in his back. Perhaps a few rounds in the exercise rooms instead?
He hears them long before he reaches the actual rooms. Sounds of fighting permeate the hallway, punctuated by the ever recognizable laughter of his secretary. Curious, M bypasses the personal pods for the larger space reserved for group training, and stops short in surprise.
007 is standing on the center mat, surrounded by 001, 002, and 009. There’s a sizeable crowd gathered around watching. It looks like they’ve been at this for a while, judging by the wrecked state of their clothing. Utterly unprofessional, M reflexively notes, just as Moneypenny calls out: “Give it up, James! The deck is way stacked against you.”
“Since when did that ever mattered?” 007 retorts, just as 009 charges at his side. M, intrigued despite himself, steps in closer to observe.
Moneypenny gleefully watches as Ed – 001 – trips Bond up with a well-timed legsweep. 009 immediately follows, and soon she and Bill – 002 – effectively smashes Bond into the training mat. “Oh yes, this one,” Moneypenny grins, and clicks her phone camera.
Don’t say I never do anything for you, she types as she sends the compromising pic. A moment later she receives a custom-made raised-eyebrow emoji, complete with Q’s signature glasses. Let me guess, the follow-up text reads, he started it to prove something idiotic?
Not sure. Probably. They’ve already started before she dropped by, so Moneypenny missed the initial exchange. She’s determined to find out why later. But it was all three agents at once, I hear.
…A few cards short of a full deck, is he?
Q dear, that’s not a nice thing to say about blondes.
I was not talking about blondes and you know it.
She laughs again, and is about to ask how babysitting 006 is going when she glances sideways, and catches none other than M walking in the room.
“Sir! We, err –”
M holds up a hand and she stops midsentence. “Perfectly alright,” he declares, and proceeds to watch the commotion.
Chapter 14: "No Time"
“Now - if you don’t mind,” Bond said as he lifted up the window. It was a four-story drop. Even he couldn’t easily walk that off without some kind of help. A good thing he had Q on the line.
“On your right,” said the calm voice through the earpiece. “There will be a truck passing under with sheets of bubble wrap on its bed. Do try to land on that and not the pavement.”
True to his word, a blue truck pulled into view just as Bond got to the ledge. It cut the corner with such sharp agency that Bond suspected another double-oh was behind the wheel. Probably.
“Impressive,” he said, and meant it. He was rewarded with a dry chuckle.
“Mind the gap, 007. You only get one try. And remember: you owe me my equipment intact.”
“Every bloody mission,” Bond murmured, and leapt down.
Chapter 15: "The OT4 Goes on an Adventure"
This is the last prompt fill for MI6Cafe's 2021 Last Drabble Writer Standing challenge. The prompt is "Be careful what you fish for" and it has to be included as is. 300 words exactly.
“Only you, James. These things only happen to you.”
“Now that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it, Ms. Moneypenny?” Bond quipped as he waded knee deep into the Thames. “Plenty of Londoners get mugged on a daily basis.”
“Those muggers usually weren’t members of the Cártel de Sinaloa, mind you,” a very pissed-off Q cut in. “And the victims don’t usually choose to wave around a million-pound prototype like a trophy and then get in a scuffle that inevitably sent said prototype to the bottom of the bloody river.”
“To be fair, I didn’t really choose all that either.”
“Bond, you get one warning–”
“Boys!” Moneypenny threw out her arms, effectively keeping Q from actually taking a swing at the blond agent . “Less bickering, more searching. We’re all here on our own time and I, personally, would like to get home before we all freeze.”
“Is there a reason I need to be here?” Alec, who had been silent since they got out of the car, chimed in. “I’ll have you know I was having a very nice beer –”
“ –at mine, yes,” supplied Moneypenny. “It’s very sweet of you to drive us, and if you keep being sweet, I promise the reward’ll be well worth it.”
“Oh spare me the romantics. Just find the damn – ow!” Q jumped back, and would’ve certainly fallen had Bond not been there to catch him. “Do they throw anvils in the river now?”
“Be careful what you fish for,” Bond snickered, earning several very not amused glares until Alec called out:
“Oi, you chumps,” he held up a wet, silver suitcase. “I think I found it!”
“Thank the budget gods,” Q rushed forward. “You better pray that the watertight seal held.”
“I’ve done so for much less,” Bond said, and grinned.