Work Text:
Being a father was an amazing thing that James Bond wouldn't give up for all the crazy missions in the world, but there were moments when he thought his daughter came straight from hell.
It was two in the morning, he was halfway to another meltdown, and the kid in his arms continued to squirm and cry. He had no clue what to do that would soothe her, but he was severely tempted to call someone, anyone, that might have even the smallest clue. He was an agent, dammit, a man that caused several deaths a week, but a six-month-old girl was capable of making him dissolve into frustrated tears in three minutes flat.
"You could be used to dispel all terrorism," James informs her, bouncing her a little faster as he continued to pace the room. "All I'd have to do is send you over to them and they'd be begging to make a deal in less than ten minutes if you keep this crying up." Of course, the baby could no more understand him than he could understand her. "I am an agent that has clawed his way to being the best, I've killed countless people, you know. How in the hell did I manage to get a daughter that's just as ruthless as I am?"
"Just lucky, I guess," Q states, shuffling into the living room of James' flat. His dark hair was rumpled and he only wore a pair of James' sweats, a sparse bit of hair starting just below his navel and disappearing past the waist of the pants. The slimmer man comes to stand next to James, staring down at Gwen with annoyance. "What's wrong with her?"
"If I knew that, I'd have it dealt with by now."
"Well, how do we mute her? We have that meeting tomorrow and I'm dead on my feet."
"She's a child, Q, not one of your computers." Despite his snappy tone, it was nice to know that he wouldn't be the only one falling asleep the next morning. M's meetings were well known to run long on Monday mornings, the older man droning on about at least three separate topics until the real point had been driven home. Last week's had started out with the renovation of the upper floors and ended with seventeen examples of why bringing your child to work with you was frowned upon (Gwen settled in M's arms and drooling on his fancy suit made it seem more like a suggestion, though).
"Have you tried rocking her?" At James' look, Q rolls his eyes and continues to list suggestions that James had tried at least four times by now with no success. Rocking, bouncing, talking, setting her in her car seat and setting that on the dryer while it was running, reading a dramatic monologue from Hamlet, reading Winnie the fucking Pooh; none of it helped to settle the infant.
"I'm all out of ideas, Q." James felt close to tears, like he was a failure since he couldn't get his own daughter to settle down. She'd been crying for the better part of an hour and his nerves couldn't take much more of this. "Could you hold her for a moment?"
"God no, I don't do tiny humans. They're too fragile."
"No more fragile than that bomb you helped to create last year."
"That's different! Bombs can de diffused, but children just keep going on and on. They're rather like Alec in that way." But James was running out of ideas and was certain he'd start throwing things if Gwen didn't get quiet soon. Not giving Q a chance to run back to the bedroom, James practically shoves the baby in his hands and runs for the kitchen. Maybe she's teething? He'd read up on that when she first started cutting teeth and had stored a few soft rags in the freeze for such an occasion.
It didn't take long for him to get the cold cloths, but the crying slowly dissipated as he moved, the house completely quiet by the time he'd come back to the living room. Waiting for him on the couch were the two people he loved most in the world, snoring loudly and passed out on his couch. With a smile, he sets the cloths aside and joins the pair, falling asleep soon afterwards himself.
He never noticed when Alec showed up after noticing the desperate text messages displayed on his phone, but he did give the other agent a black eye the next morning when he saw what was waiting for him in the meeting room. It was a picture of two men and an infant snuggled between them on the couch, their mouths hanging wide open and drool covering the blond man's silky pajama top.
But the baby, the little girl who'd caused so much trouble the night before, just giggled and pointed one chubby finger at the picture when they walked inside. She knew who those men were, letting out a series of noises that could be loosely translated as: There's my daddy and his boyfriend.
Yes, she may be the Devil reincarnated on some nights, but at least she was adorable enough that most people overlooked the sleep-deprived Q and 007.