A boy.

Q.

Is a boy.

Barely out of college long enough to discover a nutritional plan beyond pot noodles and cups of tea, if the frame of his slim body and pale skin is anything to go by. Bond wondered absently if the boy before him still had his mother straighten his tie and comb his hair before he left for work in the morning. He inwardly corrected that thought as he took in the mess of brown waves. Maybe Bond could give him some grooming tips. Or buy him a comb at the very least.

Despite what Bond is thinking, his features maintain their well honed expression of neutrality while Q drones on - from behind the safety of his desk, Bond notes in mild amusement - about the latest developments in Division that he expects the Double-O's to do their best to respect by bringing them back to him in one piece or, if they can't manage that, at least in as many salvageable pieces as possible. Though he won't be holding his breath.

Dry. Deadpan. Wonderful. More British than the vision of Winston Churchill sipping a cup Earl Grey from a Union Jack mug. Bond can tell he's going to be bloody irritating. And while Bond isn't much of a one for following orders at the best of times (or the worst of times for that matter), it's at least a little easier to accept orders from a senior member of staff when that member of staff IS actually SENIOR…

"You'll find I'm not like your predecessors. Quartermasters are as subject to the rules of evolution in Military Intelligence much as any species subject to the requirements enforced by the demands they must meet in answer to being amongst the fittest of survivors."

He had foregone the safety provided by the barrier of his desk and stood in front of them, leaning his slight frame against it for support, though there was no sign of discomfort or unease as he faced Britain's finest. Far too cocksure for all of his twenty-something years, Bond thought to himself, making a mental note to find out more about their new Quartermaster and maybe unearth some chinks in the armourer's cool, calm veneer.

"I'll get this out there right now, so our future professional interactions are not subject to any misunderstandings. I know you don't like me. No doubt I remind you of some self-opinionated, jumped-up University graduate in need of taking down a peg or two…" He met each of the agents look levelly, lingering for just a fraction longer on Bond. "Liking each other, however, is not pre-requisite to getting the job done."

He sighed as he tilted his head down to allow his hand to meet his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. "If it's any consolation - and I'm sure it won't be taken as such - I see the Double O program as a necessary part of Q Division, an extension of the tools required to get the job done in the service of Queen and Country."

Bond felt himself bristle ever so slightly. Speaking of Queens, who does this Diva of Division think he is? Bond was visualising just how many pegs he would need to put the lad in his place. There was definitely a shift in the testosterone levels in the room, highly trained senses picking up on the change almost immediately. Apparently Bond wasn't alone in the line queuing for pegs…

Just the reaction Q was looking for, and expecting, as he turned his back and allowed himself the briefest of smiles. Geek of the highest order he may be, but that wasn't the only qualification he held that made him ideal for the position of Quartermaster. A degree and two years experience in practical psychology certainly afforded one an upper hand when dealing with the egos of field agents.

"But know this," he continued as he turned back to again face the agents before him. "I consider each of you as precious and important as any of the tech and tools I and my team slave over tirelessly night and day to make your job as easy as possible, giving our best to ensure the success of each mission in which you find yourselves. In short, the safe return of each of you is equally as important to me as any asset of Q Division."

And judging from the relaxed ripple that passed through the room, Q had struck the right balance in his comments and observations. With the exception of one. Because there always is one, isn't there, he thought to himself with an inward sigh.

His gaze fell on Bond as he concluded. "Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. I look forward to working with you." Bond held his gaze. Q could literally feel the battle lines being drawn between them as he raised his defensive walls and squared his slight body, returning the defiant gaze without a hint of being affected by the intimidation Bond was so evidently attempting to inflict on him.

Q realised, a little too late, as the other agents dispersed, that Bond was effectively perceiving their interaction as a challenge. M had warned him about the man's gung ho approach to field work and that Bond, while an exceptional agent endowed with skills and instinct that surpassed all his peers, was about as manageable as an oil-slicked cat. Q, at least, had some experience of cats, though judging by the look trained on him at the moment, Q was coming to the rapid conclusion that he may well be trying to pin down an oil-slicked tiger in their future interactions.

And as Bond turned his body away while keeping his blue steel gaze firmly fixed on his Quartermaster, neither man breaking the contact until circumstances finally demanded, little did Q realise that his final thought as Bond left his presence would, over time, manifest in more ways than one.