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Saturday pub nights were some of Q’s favorite, even after more than two decades of marriage. James always insisted dinner was his treat (though Q made sure to buy the first round), and they would sit by the fire, saying everything and nothing at all. Q had so many memories of James in their corner of the pub, and even now with his hair so pale blond it was white, with more wrinkles on his face and hands, Q still loved him more than ever.
Q wasn’t as young as he used to be either. His hair was fully shot through with silver, moreso at the temples, and he had his own set of wrinkles and lines from years as Quartermaster for MI6 and then years of marriage with James Bond. But he was happy.
So when the loud drunks at the bar got offensive and rude, Q was less than pleased.
They’d been sharing a cottage pie and quietly reminiscing when James had brushed some food from Q’s lip which Q promptly licked off his thumb. It was a close intimacy born from years of acceptance and pleasant pub experiences (even if they weren’t allowed at Quiz nights but once a year- they were undefeated). But tonight there were visitors in town, and they were getting louder and drunker with each passing moment, so when they saw James and Q, the leader made a gagging sound and said, loud enough everyone could hear, “Why don’t you get out of here, you fuckin’ faggots?”
Q could tell by the set of James’ jaw and the hint of steel in his eye that James wasn’t happy either. There was a mad gleam there he recognized from their Six days, and Q knew better than to talk James down. Instead they both stood, men heading well into their twilight years, and faced the offending group.
“I’m sorry, I’m rather hard of hearing,” James said, his tone perfectly even and almost playful. “What did you call us?” He cupped one ear with his hand, and Q had to fight back a wave of laughter that threatened to bubble up.
“You heard me. Fuckin’ faggots,” the leader repeated. Spit flew from his mouth, and his eyes showed nothing but revulsion and hatred for James and Q.
“That’s what I thought you said,” James replied. He took two steps forward and decked the ringleader.
The man’s head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back into his friends. James shook out his hand and flexed his fingers as Q joined him. “I can keep the others off you. He’s been favoring his right leg. Use it.”
Q saw James’ smirk, and together they moved as one. The ringleader swung at James, and his two cronies moved for Q. The regular patrons watched as James and Q took the three men down in less than ten seconds. Q sidestepped the two men and tripped them before turning quickly and smacking their heads against the floor; they were out cold. James moved with the agility of a much younger man out of the way of the leader’s swinging fists. A single uppercut and a well timed kick to his right knee sent the man sprawling.
Q watched as James picked up his pint, drained the glass, and handed the bartender a twenty-pound note before wrapping his arm around Q and walking out into the night. The moment they left the pub, Q turned and pulled James into a kiss. “I will never understand why you are so sexy when you fight.”
James smirked and deepened the kiss as he held Q close in his arms. “It’s because you know what else I can do with my hands.”