First off, I know, I know, I have other things I should be updating. But then I finally watched Skyfall, and... well... it's a problem. So here, for your enjoyment, some one-shots on our favorite Quartermaster. This first chapter is my own prompt. (That's right, I prompted myself.) Other than that... I would love suggestions. I'm not looking for romantic prompts this go-round, since I feel like that's all I ever write, but anything else is fair game!
Of course it was raining. Walking home from a perfectly horrid day, in London, what else did he expect? Q muttered irritably into his coat collar, pulled up uselessly against the wet, and hunched his shoulders a little further forward in an effort to protect his ears. He tried to watch his step, but his wet hair hung down between his eyes and his glasses, and his glasses were fogged from breathing into his collar.
When he planted one foot firmly into a puddle as deep as his ankle, then took another step before he could stop himself, he decided to call it quits. He made a dash for the first lit door he could find, shoved it open, and slipped inside. He breathed a sigh of relief at the quiet and the warm, yellow light. Being out of the rain made him more aware of the way that everything clung clammily to his skin, but he didn't mind that as much as he minded actually being pelted with an army of water droplets.
He glanced up around the shop, a little tourist boutique, and nearly ducked back out into the street. Only supreme force of will and the hammering of the rain on the store-front glass prevented him. If there were places in this world that Q was not meant to inhabit, they were tourist shops, with their cloy little cards and key-chains and who knew what else.
But it was very wet outside. So Q decided, with the greatest of reluctance, that it might be worth having a look around, at least until the rain eased up or he could feel his feet again. He meandered through the maze of wall-shelves and turning stands, eyeing stuffed animals and Union Jack t-shirts with equal disdain. He found a rack of key-chains, and checked, as he always did, for the letter Q. There was a Quince, and a Quentin, and a Quinn, but no Q. He shrugged. It had bothered him, briefly, having to change his name so suddenly and completely. But then he had realized that if he really wanted a key-chain he could just make his own, and then had felt much better about the whole affair.
A row of mugs in the back corner caught his eye. He wandered that way, wondering lazily if yet another mug was a good idea. Most of them were pretty standard fare: "I LOVE LONDON" and such. He shrugged them off and turned to the t-shirts, and something caught his eye.
It was a scrabble letter. The Q, with a neat little ten point score in the top corner. The most difficult letter to play, and the most rewarding. Q's mouth quirked up in a smile at that. That irony had not escaped him when he had taken over as Quartermaster. And there it was, printed neatly on the side of a mug.
He plucked it from the shelf, inspected it closely. It felt nice and weighty in his hand; the kind of mug that could survive MI6. He already had a mug at MI6. It was silly, really, the kind of thing that got for one's birthday; a gag gift, turned sentimental. It wasn't something that one bought for oneself. He chided himself for frivolity and replaced it. He gave the t-shirts a once-over for good measure, and upon noticing that the rain had eased, steeled himself to leave.
Then something occurred to him.
Q was never going to get a mug like that for his birthday, because no one bought him birthday presents.
He bought the mug.
So? Thoughts, feelings, impressions, criticisms? Prompts (please)? Let me know!