My Fic: James Bond: Spy vs. Art: Gen
Jul. 3rd, 2021 04:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: Spy vs. Art
Fandom: James Bond
Pairing: 007/Q
Length: 1000
For: my Gen Prompt Bingo square O-1: Spy
Notes: Inspired by the scene where Q and Bond meet in front of The Fighting Temeraire at the National Gallery (London). I chose four paintings from the National Gallery's Director's Choice virtual exhibition.
Summary: Q and Bond talk about art and life.
“Winter is cold,” growled Bond.
“For those who have no warm memories?” added Q.
Bond’s fists were shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders were hunched. He twisted bodily, wrenching attention away from the painting, Monet’s Snow Scene at Argenteuil, and thrusting it upon his companion. He gave Q a look that said, patently and with no uncertain brushstrokes, what in the bloody hell are you yapping about?
“It’s from a film,” explained Q with a sheepish shrug. Then he looked back at the painting.
“White and grey and cold,” growled Bond.
“Not all.”
Bond gave a nod. “You’re right. There’s also a pair of bloody tracks.”
“Come now, James.” Q leaned closer to the frame and studied it intently. “There are pinks and violets on the left. And reds and blues on the right. Maybe there is a snowball fight about to erupt among mates. Do you remember those?” Q smiled at the scene.
“You had mates?” growled Bond.
Q turned his head. “Yes, and brothers.”
“I had a one-eyed badger.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long, thick moment, long enough for a grey sky to shatter into fractals.
At the very same moment, they dissembled into gravely, mirthful snorts.
“I love Monet,” said Q. “I don’t care if no one else does. Give me waterlilies. All of them.”
“Not in this winter.” Bond gave a mournful growl.
“Come on, James, let’s go get some hot chocolate.” Q curled his arm through Bond’s.
“With marshmallows?”
“With marshmallows.”
---
“Look at that idiot,” grumbled Bond. “Seeing the writing on the wall. Eyes popping out of his head.”
“Belshazzar’s Feast,” read Q from the plaque on the wall. “Rembrandt. It definitely does pack an emotional punch. The lights and darks. And it’s such a large canvas we’re drawn right into the drama. Stunning.”
“Poor bastard can’t even read it, can’t even read the writing on the wall. He’s got to get—”
“The prophet Daniel,” supplied Q.
“—to read it for him, but I think he knows what it means all the same.” Bond jabbed a finger at the central figure in the painting. “It’s means your doom, you stinking pile of—”
“Hubris,” offered Q.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” asked Bond dryly.
“His father Nebuchadnezzar stole the holy vessels from Jerusalem, and Belshazzar, King of Babylon, unwisely decided to have a feast using them.”
“King of Babylon,” echoed Bond in a ground-glass baritone. He shook his head.
“That’s refreshing,” said Q, still peering at the plaque.
“What?”
“Rembrandt consulted his friend and neighbour the rabbi Menassah ben Israel on the inscription. Belshazzar gave Daniel that gold chain for interpreting the words, by the way.”
“Didn’t save him, did it?”
“No.” Q sighed. “I can’t promise you holy vessels stolen from a holy city, but what about lunch?”
“Will there be writing on the wall?”
“I think the gallery’s proper restaurant has menus, but we can always go to the café if you prefer.”
“Tuna?”
“Tuna.”
---
“Enjoy it while you can, m’girls,” mused Bond with a dour smirk. “Chasing butterflies ain’t forever.”
“The theme does seem to be the fugitive nature of childhood,” agreed Q. “The Painters’ Daughters chasing a Butterfly. Thomas Gainsborough. Probably about 1756. The white cabbage butterfly that little Margaret and Mary are chasing, the one little Margaret is reaching for, is caught in a thistle.”
“Caught into or escaping into?” countered Bond. “Maybe it doesn’t want to be pinched by wee fingers.”
“Maybe,” said Q. His lips curved in a gentle smile.
“But they got something right,” said Bond after a long silence.
“Oh?”
“When doing something new, something you’re not quite certain about, something that might be dangerous or wonderful or both, something akin to capturing beauty between your wee fingers…”
One corner of Bond’s mouth twitched. Q waited.
“…it’s good to be holding hands,” finished Bond, his eyes lit with amusement.
Q slipped his fingers into Bond’s at once.
Bond squeezed.
“Shall we have a limonado at the café?” asked Q, failing to hide his slight breathlessness.
“Blast your limonado. We’re going to sit down and have a proper tea.”
“With the little…?”
“With all the little dainty cakes and tarts and savoury whatnots this pretentious place can conjure.”
And with a jerk, Bond curled his arm so that it draped along Q’s shoulders. He then pulled the other to him.
“I’m terribly fond of art, James.”
Bond kissed the top of his head. “I know. I'm fond of you.”
---
“James.”
Bond grinned. “Mm?”
“It’s beautiful.”
With one hand, Q held his mobile to his ear; with the other, he turned the postcard over for the hundredth time.
The picture was a simple still life: a white ceramic cup with water and a pink rose. That’s all. Zurbarán. About 1630.
Q had stood in front of the tiny painting often, but never with Bond.
“It’s one of my favourites,” he said.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m in the intelligence business, meaning it’s my business to be intelligent, Quartermaster.”
Q snorted and rolled his eyes, then he turned his attention back to the picture.
“It is so beautiful, yet it contains mistakes, too. I think I love it even more for that. The right handle isn’t opposite the left one, and the cup casts no shadow on the saucer.”
“I know that, too, but only because I read the plaque.”
“You read the plaque! You never read the plaque!”
“You weren’t there to read it for me!”
“You went to the National Gallery without me!”
“You were at that conference in Brussels.”
“You missed me, and you went to an art gallery!”
“And I even went to the gift shop and I bought a bloody postcard. And I had some cake, damn it.”
“James.”
“Oh, all right. I got the cake and ate it on a bench outside. Turns out, I can’t stand that café without you.”
“James.”
“Spy versus art. Sometimes, the art wins.”
“I’ll remember that.”
Fandom: James Bond
Pairing: 007/Q
Length: 1000
For: my Gen Prompt Bingo square O-1: Spy
Notes: Inspired by the scene where Q and Bond meet in front of The Fighting Temeraire at the National Gallery (London). I chose four paintings from the National Gallery's Director's Choice virtual exhibition.
Summary: Q and Bond talk about art and life.
“Winter is cold,” growled Bond.
“For those who have no warm memories?” added Q.
Bond’s fists were shoved deep in his pockets. His shoulders were hunched. He twisted bodily, wrenching attention away from the painting, Monet’s Snow Scene at Argenteuil, and thrusting it upon his companion. He gave Q a look that said, patently and with no uncertain brushstrokes, what in the bloody hell are you yapping about?
“It’s from a film,” explained Q with a sheepish shrug. Then he looked back at the painting.
“White and grey and cold,” growled Bond.
“Not all.”
Bond gave a nod. “You’re right. There’s also a pair of bloody tracks.”
“Come now, James.” Q leaned closer to the frame and studied it intently. “There are pinks and violets on the left. And reds and blues on the right. Maybe there is a snowball fight about to erupt among mates. Do you remember those?” Q smiled at the scene.
“You had mates?” growled Bond.
Q turned his head. “Yes, and brothers.”
“I had a one-eyed badger.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long, thick moment, long enough for a grey sky to shatter into fractals.
At the very same moment, they dissembled into gravely, mirthful snorts.
“I love Monet,” said Q. “I don’t care if no one else does. Give me waterlilies. All of them.”
“Not in this winter.” Bond gave a mournful growl.
“Come on, James, let’s go get some hot chocolate.” Q curled his arm through Bond’s.
“With marshmallows?”
“With marshmallows.”
---
“Look at that idiot,” grumbled Bond. “Seeing the writing on the wall. Eyes popping out of his head.”
“Belshazzar’s Feast,” read Q from the plaque on the wall. “Rembrandt. It definitely does pack an emotional punch. The lights and darks. And it’s such a large canvas we’re drawn right into the drama. Stunning.”
“Poor bastard can’t even read it, can’t even read the writing on the wall. He’s got to get—”
“The prophet Daniel,” supplied Q.
“—to read it for him, but I think he knows what it means all the same.” Bond jabbed a finger at the central figure in the painting. “It’s means your doom, you stinking pile of—”
“Hubris,” offered Q.
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” asked Bond dryly.
“His father Nebuchadnezzar stole the holy vessels from Jerusalem, and Belshazzar, King of Babylon, unwisely decided to have a feast using them.”
“King of Babylon,” echoed Bond in a ground-glass baritone. He shook his head.
“That’s refreshing,” said Q, still peering at the plaque.
“What?”
“Rembrandt consulted his friend and neighbour the rabbi Menassah ben Israel on the inscription. Belshazzar gave Daniel that gold chain for interpreting the words, by the way.”
“Didn’t save him, did it?”
“No.” Q sighed. “I can’t promise you holy vessels stolen from a holy city, but what about lunch?”
“Will there be writing on the wall?”
“I think the gallery’s proper restaurant has menus, but we can always go to the café if you prefer.”
“Tuna?”
“Tuna.”
---
“Enjoy it while you can, m’girls,” mused Bond with a dour smirk. “Chasing butterflies ain’t forever.”
“The theme does seem to be the fugitive nature of childhood,” agreed Q. “The Painters’ Daughters chasing a Butterfly. Thomas Gainsborough. Probably about 1756. The white cabbage butterfly that little Margaret and Mary are chasing, the one little Margaret is reaching for, is caught in a thistle.”
“Caught into or escaping into?” countered Bond. “Maybe it doesn’t want to be pinched by wee fingers.”
“Maybe,” said Q. His lips curved in a gentle smile.
“But they got something right,” said Bond after a long silence.
“Oh?”
“When doing something new, something you’re not quite certain about, something that might be dangerous or wonderful or both, something akin to capturing beauty between your wee fingers…”
One corner of Bond’s mouth twitched. Q waited.
“…it’s good to be holding hands,” finished Bond, his eyes lit with amusement.
Q slipped his fingers into Bond’s at once.
Bond squeezed.
“Shall we have a limonado at the café?” asked Q, failing to hide his slight breathlessness.
“Blast your limonado. We’re going to sit down and have a proper tea.”
“With the little…?”
“With all the little dainty cakes and tarts and savoury whatnots this pretentious place can conjure.”
And with a jerk, Bond curled his arm so that it draped along Q’s shoulders. He then pulled the other to him.
“I’m terribly fond of art, James.”
Bond kissed the top of his head. “I know. I'm fond of you.”
---
“James.”
Bond grinned. “Mm?”
“It’s beautiful.”
With one hand, Q held his mobile to his ear; with the other, he turned the postcard over for the hundredth time.
The picture was a simple still life: a white ceramic cup with water and a pink rose. That’s all. Zurbarán. About 1630.
Q had stood in front of the tiny painting often, but never with Bond.
“It’s one of my favourites,” he said.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m in the intelligence business, meaning it’s my business to be intelligent, Quartermaster.”
Q snorted and rolled his eyes, then he turned his attention back to the picture.
“It is so beautiful, yet it contains mistakes, too. I think I love it even more for that. The right handle isn’t opposite the left one, and the cup casts no shadow on the saucer.”
“I know that, too, but only because I read the plaque.”
“You read the plaque! You never read the plaque!”
“You weren’t there to read it for me!”
“You went to the National Gallery without me!”
“You were at that conference in Brussels.”
“You missed me, and you went to an art gallery!”
“And I even went to the gift shop and I bought a bloody postcard. And I had some cake, damn it.”
“James.”
“Oh, all right. I got the cake and ate it on a bench outside. Turns out, I can’t stand that café without you.”
“James.”
“Spy versus art. Sometimes, the art wins.”
“I’ll remember that.”