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Q had never been the sort of person to look forward to the holidays. Previous Christmases had been spent rather alone, what with his parents having been dead for over two decades and Q having no extended family or brothers or sisters with whom to spend the holiday. Often, he would get enough takeaway on Christmas Eve to sustain him a few days and ensconce himself in his flat to catch up on telly. New Years he usually spent in a similar fashion, with only himself and his cats for company. For some, it might seem pitiable, but Q didn’t mind it. It was nice to have a few days to himself, even if he sometimes did feel a pang of longing when he heard people laughing and singing outside while on their way to one social event or another.
So every December, Q never got into the spirit of things as others did: no decorations or tree in his flat, no showy Christmas caps or gaudy, light-up cardigans to wear to work. But this year, there had been an unanticipated change to his routine.
And that unanticipated change was James Bond.
They had been together for almost a year now, quite steady despite what Q had anticipated at the start. He honestly had thought it would be a brief affair, something to calm the simmering sexual tension between them that had started from the day they first met. But a one night stand turned into a series of one night stands until it was almost every night that Bond was in London, and Q figured he would just save them both the time and cleared out a drawer for Bond, some space in the wardrobe, and that had been that. Somehow they had fallen so easily together that it was nearly impossible to recall what life had been like before James Bond had infiltrated his life and his bed. Bond had all but moved into Q’s little one bedroom flat months ago and apparently had no intention of leaving.
But the most surprising thing of all was that Bond loved Christmas.
Q would have thought that after everything that had happened to the man over the course of his life, that he would have felt similarly about the holiday as Q, but it seemed that Bond looked forward to Christmas. Starting on the first of December, some small holiday-themed items began appearing in Q’s flat: red and green chequered hand towels in the kitchen, a pine-scented hand soap in the bathroom, and a luxurious white cable knit throw for the sofa. Then the biscuits and sweets began to appear, all in red and gold packages adorned with bows from the fancy shops in Mayfair. And soon there were gourmet teas on the counter in holiday flavors of gingerbread, peppermint, and chestnut. Q allowed it, because the items were small and rather delicious, and Bond seemed happier than Q had ever seen him before.
So for the first time in a long time, there was a wreath on Q’s door and fairy lights in his window. Bond had even done up the small balcony with garland and ostentatious red bows that could be seen from the street. Q thought he might find it hateful, but it was rather nice to see the decorations on his way out in the mornings and to see his flat lit up at night when he returned from work.
But if there was one thing that Q was not about to concede to, it was a tree. He found the entire idea of the Christmas tree strange and a bit wasteful. After all, what reason was there to cut down a perfectly good tree only to bring it inside for a few weeks to let it die in your sitting room? He brought this up every time Bond winged about the topic, which was quite often the closer it got to December twenty-fifth.
“But Q,” Bond said petulantly, “it’s Christmas.”
Q made the mistake of looking up from his computer. Bond stood against the door frame of his office, looking devastating in the navy suit that Q had a particular weakness for. Perhaps Bond had selected it for that specific reason, but Q would not let him win this argument just because the sight of him made his mouth a little dry.
“And it’s ridiculous,” Q said, returning to his screen to not be tempted by Bond’s handsome silhouette. “If you want to look at a tree, just go to the park.”
Bond came into the office then, a certain bounce to his step that Q had never seen before.
“Let’s go, then,” Bond said. “They do fairy lights at Regent’s Park every year.”
“Have to take a rain cheque, I’m afraid,” Q said.
“And why is that?”
Q procured a folder from the stack on his desk and held it out to Bond.
“This just came down from Mallory,” Q said. “You’re off to the Cayman Islands.”
“Oh,” Bond said, taking the folder with clear disinterest.
“Don’t sound so disappointed. It’s a balmy 29C there now. I think half the staff would kill a man to be in your place,” Q replied.
“Then let them take my place,” Bond said, coming round to Q’s side of the desk.
Q glanced at the open door to his office somewhat nervously. They were so close that it could only be construed as inappropriate were someone to walk by. Of course, Bond was often inappropriate and rather tactile in public, but even more so since they had become lovers and his desire had been reciprocated. Q knew that sometimes Bond did not even know he was doing it, which is why he preferred the privacy of a closed door, which prevented any awkward glances or questions from his staff.
“Or better yet, why don’t you come with me?” Bond suggested.
Q blinked, not thinking he had heard correctly.
“What?”
Bond shrugged with one shoulder, as if the suggestion had not been odd.
“Think of it as a holiday,” Bond offered.
“It’s not a holiday if there’s a potential to be shot at,” Q reminded him.
Bond’s grin was all teeth.
“Not a holiday if there isn’t a potential to be shot at.”
“We have vastly different definitions of what constitutes a holiday, don’t we?”
Bond laughed, leaning in close. Q could feel his heat through his clothes. He glanced at the open door again.
“At least with me it wouldn’t be boring,” Bond said.
Q turned away to hide a smile. Bond had him there.
“I see that,” Bond said, suddenly very close. If Q turned his head, they would have been close enough to kiss.
“See what?” Q asked, playing coy.
“That smile.”
“I’m not smiling.”
Bond kissed him behind the ear, and Q couldn’t quite hide the shiver that followed in its wake, nor the second when Bond’s hot palm moved over his upper thigh.
“So you’ll come with me,” Bond said, not asked.
Q gently pinched at the back of his hand and Bond withdrew with a feigned hiss of pain.
“Absolutely not,” Q replied.
“Because you’re afraid of flying? Or of being shot at?”
“Because I have too much work to do,” Q said, “and I have the cats to worry about. And because--”
Q glanced again at the open door for a third time. His paranoia was not unfounded; they did work with some of the best spies in the world, after all. And the last thing he wanted was any of this to be overheard.
“Because what?” Bond prompted.
“Because people will talk.”
Bond seemed to contemplate his words for a moment before speaking:
“Would that be so bad?”
For some reason, the question made Q’s heart beat hard and fast in his chest. He felt rather silly about it, because he was an adult, after all, and it wasn’t fair that Bond could make him feel like a teenager with a crush.
“Well, we are trying to be discrete,” Q reminded him.
“We don’t have to be,” Bond said.
Q felt a flush crawl up the back of his neck at the suggestion.
“Easy for you to say,” Q said hurriedly, “I’m your superior, so I’m the one that gets in trouble if this makes it out. Fraternisation at this level isn’t a slap on the wrist, you know.”
Bond shrugged one shoulder, rather nonchalantly. But Q knew him well enough to know it was all for show. Contrary to his posture, he was tense, almost nervous, and it showed in the way that he absentmindedly flipped through his mission folder to give his hands something to do.
“We could make it official,” Bond said.
His voice was soft, softer than Q had ever heard before, and something hard caught in Q’s throat at the vulnerability there. Bond had been through so much in his life that it was remarkable he could ever open himself to anyone again, that he wanted to, and that he wanted to do that with Q, of all people.
Despite the open door and the knowledge that anyone could walk in at any time and see them, Q reached for Bond’s hand and twined their fingers together. It was a fragile moment, but one that Q was not keen on having when they were at work and Bond only had a few hours before he was off on his next assignment.
“Let’s talk about it when you get back.”
“But if we do it now, then you can come with me,” Bond said, with emphasised petulance. “A Cayman Christmas.”
“I would love to run away with you and possibly be shot at, dear, but you know that if I leave, London would fall,” Q replied.
Bond sighed, but smiled with his eyes in a way that told Q he was forgiven.
“Of course, love,” Bond said, and kissed the back of Q’s hand.
It was silly, but Q felt himself blush, just a little, at Bond’s gestures of affection. But then all of that affection left him when Bond dropped the next few words:
“Also, I got a tree.”
“What?”
“It was delivered this morning,” Bond continued, picking up his file folders and making for the door before Q could make a grab at him.
“What?”
“Had to move the bookshelves a bit, hope you don’t mind.”
“James Bond, I’m going to kill you.”
Infuriatingly, Bond blew him a kiss from the doorway and was gone before Q could get out another word.
00Q00Q00Q
When Q arrived home that evening, it was to a dark, empty flat that smelled of pine. He had forgotten over the course of the day--what with all of his end of year meetings, an urgent medevac for three agents in the Middle East, and an unexpected burst pipe in TSS that required all hands on deck to prevent damage to their servers--about the Christmas tree Bond had ordered.
It smelled lovely, Q had to admit, and went to turn on the lights to have a look, only to be distraught by the sight before him. The tree lay on its side across the living room floor, its branches were torn and mangled. The base had tipped with the tree, spilling water onto the floor, surely ruining the laminate in the 12 or more hours he had been away.
As Q made his way through the house and turned on lights, he saw green needles scattered everywhere and tufts of tree branches that had been chewed up and spit out. He found the culprits--his fat tabbies Flotsam and Jetsam--at the foot of the bed, grooming as carefree as you please. Neither animal paused to give him the time of day, Flotsam going so far as to lick his own arsehole to show just how many fucks he gave, and Q went, dejectedly, back into the living room to clean up the mess.
But first, he snapped a photo of the devastation and sent it off to Bond.
This is why I didn’t want a tree, Q wrote.
While mopping up the water, Q heard his phone trill from the kitchen. It was only after he had finished with the mop and righted the tree that he went to check on his mobile.
I’m sorry.
To some, the words on the screen may have seemed rather empty, but to Q, they meant quite a lot. Bond was not the sort to apologise, and even less so the type of person to put his admission of wrongdoing in writing where it could exist in perpetuity. Faced with a genuine apology, Q found he did not feel as aggravated as previously.
You can make it up to me later, Q replied, and sent it off before he could doubt himself. He was not very good at the flirting part, but he did try every now and then.
He made a quick sandwich for dinner and then hoovered the house, getting every last pine needle that he could see. It might have been a little vindictive, but Q felt some glee when the sound of the machine sent his cats fleeing for the safety of the closet. After cleaning up, he showered and changed into pyjamas, then went into the kitchen to snack on some biscuits and make some tea. It was coming on 2300 by that time, but Q thought he might watch a bit of telly before going to bed.
While waiting for the kettle to boil, he checked his mobile, where he found another message from Bond:
Dinner at Clos Maggiore when I get back.
It was not a question, and Q had to look up the restaurant because he had never heard of it. When he pulled up the menu, his brows went into his hairline at the neighbourhood and the astronomical price of the plates.
What’s wrong with our dosa place? Q asked, because it was better than flat out refusing.
His mobile rang a moment later.
A photo of Bond filled the screen, one that Q had snapped when they had been out at the tiny pho eatery around the corner. It was a nice picture, Q thought, with Bond looking softer than he ever did at work in a comfortable navy blue pullover. He wasn’t quite smiling so much with his mouth as his eyes, and that somehow made the photo all the more endearing to Q. Perhaps that was why Q answered instead of letting the call go to voicemail.
“You never let me take you anywhere nice,” Bond said, in lieu of greeting.
“You don’t have to take me anywhere nice,” Q replied
“But I want to take you somewhere nice,” Bond said.
It was the same sort of tone Bond had used earlier, when he said that he wanted to make things official, and Q was suddenly very glad that they were miles apart instead of in front of one another, because he felt the corners of his eyes sting a bit. Q had long ago given up all attempts to not get attached to Bond, knowing that his affection for the man was inevitable, as it had been from the moment they met. But then Bond would go and say something tender, and with such earnestness, that Q couldn’t help but fall deeper in love with him.
Q pressed his knuckles into his throat to quell the hard, shivering thing there, and when he could speak without trembling, he did, softly:
“But I don’t have anything to wear.”
There was a brief beat on the other end, as if Bond had been holding his breath, and when he did speak, it was with a bright enthusiasm that Q had never heard before:
“Don’t worry about that, just say you’ll let me take you to dinner.”
Q smiled.
“I’ll let you take me to dinner.”
They may have been far apart, but Q could tell that Bond was smiling too when he said:
“Then it’s a date.”
00Q00Q00Q
The next day, Q was diligently taking a working lunch in R&D when Moneypenny appeared in front of his workstation. Focusing on a new design for a money clip that could double as a miniature explosive had most of his attention, but Q did make a sound at her in greeting all the same. It might not have been words, but Q did at least try. It was more than he could say for Eve, who bypassed all normal salutations and launched in directly with:
“Did you see the email?”
“Hm?”
Q did not look up from his soldering. Eve, always a good sport, did not chastise him for his bad manners and let him continue on without demanding his full attention.
“The holiday email,” she elaborated.
“Was it flagged as important?” Q asked.
“No.”
“Then I didn’t see it.”
Out of his peripheral, he caught Moneypenny walking round his workbench, a flash of blue and gold before she was out of sight entirely.
“We’re doing a charity auction this year at the holiday party,” Eve continued, her voice directly behind him.
Two years of working with pesky Double-Ohs had made him immune to the discomfort of a trained killer standing at his back, and Q did not even flinch at the tap of her nails against the edge of his chair. He held his tweezers carefully in his left hand and the soldering gun in the right as he went to seal the bottom half of the clip. Q even managed to hum at her in response to prompt her to continue on.
“We’re going to auction off dates with staff members for the charity of their choice.”
“Good,” Q said offhand, watching the solder bubble and then harden perfectly. He would still have to buff it out so it looked more professional, but it was a good base all the same.
“You think so?” she asked.
“Yes,” he agreed.
Honestly, Q had lost track of the entire conversation. He had stopped to compare the seal on the bottom half to that on the left side, which looked as if it might have set with a small air pocket. It left him worried that the lateral solder had been too sloppy and might affect the integrity of the entire piece. If it didn’t explode properly, or when the agent wanted it, what good would it be?
“So I can auction off someone from your department?” Eve asked.
“Sure.”
Q frowned at the clip in his hand as he pulled down an extra magnifying glass to observe the seal. The seal was definitely flawed. He couldn’t possibly send it out into the field.
“Can it be you?”
“That’s fine.”
“Really?”
Her surprise made him pause. Q looked up at her through his magnified glasses. He had a torch in one hand and a defective grenade in the other, but he felt that this conversation had somehow ventured into far more dangerous territory without him realising.
“What?”
“Nothing at all,” Eve said cheerfully, telling him all he needed to know.
“Wait, what did I agree to?” Q asked.
She smiled, somewhat mischievously.
“Q-Branch participation at this year’s holiday party,” she said, with clearly false innocence.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“And what else?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Eve...”
“Ta, darling!”
Q should have been more suspicious, and wanted to be, but then his phone rang, demanding his attention, and by the time he looked up again, she had already disappeared.
00Q00Q00Q
Q did not give the exchange with Moneypenny more thought over the course of the next few days, as he had far too much on his plate. Both Bond and 006 were out on assignment, plus a good handful of other agents spread out across the globe, which demanded a certain amount of attention from both Q and his staff. They also had to perform their usual quarterly maintenance on the servers and firewalls--doubly so with the waterline break near their server room recently--not to mention finishing the reports on end-of-year projects, and all on a skeleton crew with most of TSS out on holiday.
So Q was getting in early six days a week and staying late every night and was sometimes far too exhausted when he came home to clean up the flat that had been destroyed during his shift. After the second time he had come home to find the tree on the floor, he had secured it with bungee cords to prevent it from falling, but Flotsam and Jetsam were still climbing it daily, tearing tufts off to drag about the house and hide in inconvenient places, like the insides of slippers. Q swore that if he got jabbed by a pine needle between his toes one more time, it would be too soon.
By mid-December, Q was running off very little sleep, far too much tea, and only subsisting on whatever sweets were deposited in the lounge on the daily by the remaining staff members trying for festivity.
“I hope that isn’t your lunch.”
Q looked up from his tablet to see Eve standing in the doorway of the break room, arms crossed over her chest in disapproval at the plate of biscuits and brownies on the centre of the table in front of him.
“I’m just grazing,” Q assured her, as he took a bite of a biscuit covered in red sugar sprinkles.
“You need something green.”
“I’m eating that one next,” Q replied, pointing at another biscuit on the table, this one covered in green sugar sprinkles.
Eve made a sound, and then disappeared, only to reappear in his office fifteen minutes later with a salad and a sandwich from the canteen.
“Eat this, your body will thank you,” Eve said, putting both containers down in front of him.
“Yes ma’am,” Q said, and made a show of dumping the entire contents of his dressing packet onto the salad she brought.
It was actually rather good compared to the meals of pure carbs and sugars he had been eating for the past week or so, but Q was not about to admit this.
“Question,” Eve said.
“The answer is no,” Q said.
“You don’t even know what the question is.”
“True, but my answer is still probably no.”
“It’s about cats.”
Q leaned back in his chair.
“I’m listening,” Q replied.
“Where did you get Flotsam and Jetsam?”
“Oh, up at Cats Protection,” Q replied, before taking a bite of salad. He hummed thoughtfully as he chewed and then swallowed. “It’s been a while. Not sure if they’re still around, but I’ve got a card somewhere. Nice people. Really took care of the cats there. Why? Someone you know looking to adopt?”
“Something like that,” Eve said, far too sing-songy for Q’s liking.
Q felt a stirring suspicion at her evasive maneuvers.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“That makes you seem even more guilty of something.”
She winked.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“Tell me now,” Q said, but she was already up and out the door.
He considered following her, but the salad was rather good, the sandwich still hot, and with so many pressing emails to look at and a meeting in a half hour, Q figured he would let it slide until tomorrow.
00Q00Q00Q
The email went out the following day at lunchtime, which meant that everyone was already talking about it by the time Q got out of his meeting at 1300. He hadn’t read the email yet, of course, but knew something was amiss by the way his team was whispering when he arrived in branch, and then went silent upon seeing him in the doorway.
“What’s happened?” Q asked, already on high alert, a traitorous clench of his heart hoping it was anyone but Bond who might be in trouble.
His staff said nothing, going back to their screens in a hurry, and Q wondered if maybe he had misread the situation entirely, perhaps having caught them gossiping about a new meme or something. But then R appeared from the lounge with his Scrabble mug in her hand like she sometimes did when things were bad, and Q felt a gnawing worry in his gut.
“What’s happened?” he asked again.
She handed over his cup.
“You should check your email,” is all she said.
Q tucked his tablet under his arm and took his tea into his office, closing the door behind him for privacy should he need it. He pulled up his inbox and began browsing through his most recent emails, whether they were flagged as important or not. There was nothing that appeared alarming, or at least, that was what Q thought until he reached the mail entitled: 2018 Holiday Party.
It was all rather normal, giving the date and time of the event, the mention of the Secret Santa should anyone want to participate in gift giving, and a sign-up sheet for the biscuit and sweets exchange. Then, at the very end, there was a section about the MI6 Charity Auction. Instead of doing a raffle for themed baskets or other items as they had in the past, they were trying a silent auction. But instead of prizes, they were auctioning off people.
And Q was one of them.
His photo was in line with eleven other employees that would be auctioned for charity. It was the horrible picture of him from his ID badge, the one where he had been told to take his glasses off to cut the glare from the flash of the camera, which had resulted in him squinting and frowning slightly. Compared to the other portraits there--all of which were personal photos with much more flattering lighting--Q looked rather pale and drawn.
Below his photograph was a small, vague bio that did not reveal his true name or age, only his gender and chosen charity.
He scanned the photographs, recognising most of the people by sight if not by name, and skimming their biographies. Most of them were robust, with their favourite foods, their hobbies, and why they had chosen their particular charity. And then, in the mix, there was Moneypenny, looking lovely in her photo with her natural hair framing her face. Q almost couldn’t be mad at her in that moment, but then he caught sight of his own photograph again, and angrily closed out of the window.
Then he picked up his phone and dialed her extension, jabbing the numbers perhaps a tad harsher than necessary.
“This is Eve.”
“You’re dead to me.”
She laughed.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Eve said. “It’s for charity.”
“I don’t care. I want out,” Q said.
“You agreed.”
“While distracted. This is exploitation.”
“Oh, Q,” she said, “it’s just a harmless thing.”
“Harmless thing?” Q repeated.
“Yes, a harmless thing. The money all goes to charity and you get to go on a date--”
“A date?”
“Yes, it’s one of those date-for-charity sort of things.”
“Eve…”
“You’re single. What could it hurt?”
Q knew he couldn’t refute it, because then Eve might start digging around trying to find out more, and the last thing he needed was her poking her nose into his private life. He enjoyed having something--someone--outside of work, even if people would never believe it if he told them.
Perhaps his silence had gone on too long, because then Eve added:
“Maybe someone you like will win the auction.”
She said it in a way that Q didn’t like, as if she knew more than she was letting on, and it made him immediately nervous.
“I’d rather not do it at all,” Q told her.
“Too late now, I’m afraid,” she said, not sounding at all contrite. “It will be fun. I promise.”
“I doubt it.”
Eve laughed and then rang off, effectively ending the conversation. Q sighed through his nose and took a sip of his tea to calm down. There were worse things, he supposed, than being paraded on stage in front of all of MI6. Like Brexit, or the bubonic plague. Or bloody pine needles in his slippers.
His phone rang again, and Q picked it up with a short:
“This is Q.”
“I’m bored.”
Q wasn’t sure how he did it, but the sound of Bond’s voice never failed to improve his mood. He glanced at the clock. It was just coming on 0800 in Grand Cayman.
“Oh? Not enough shooting for you?”
“Not even remotely.”
Q huffed a laugh.
“So I’m guessing you don’t need any assistance at this time?”
“Can you make time move faster?”
“Not a Time Lord, but I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.”
Bond hummed on the other end of the line, and it made Q feel like just for a moment, they were side-by-side, Bond leaning over his shoulder as he worked.
“Everything alright?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”
“No reason,” Bond said, and then: “you just sound sad.”
“I’m not sad.”
“Do you miss me?”
His voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something else there. Q switched off the recording device, a gentle click over the line to tell Bond that their conversation would remain private.
“Yes,” Q said.
“I miss you, too,” Bond said, and it was so sweet that even Q couldn’t keep himself from smiling. “I’m looking forward to our date when I get back.”
“I am, too,” he said.
Q traced his finger round the rim of his cup, debating telling Bond about the ridiculous date-for-charity auction. Bond might have a laugh at it. Or he might become incredibly jealous. Either way, Q didn’t want to distract him with something so inconsequential while he was in the field, and decided to keep it to himself.
“We’ll go on Christmas Eve,” Bond promised, “and then go see the lights in Regent’s Park.”
They both knew it was not wise to promise such things when the field was so unpredictable, but it was nice to have something to look forward to; maybe something to encourage Bond to be a little less reckless and a lot more aware of what he would be losing should he die unexpectedly.
“That would be nice,” Q said, and tapped at his cup thoughtfully again. Before he knew it, the next words came of their own accord: “I have a gift for you, too.”
“Oh? I thought you didn’t do Christmas?”
Bond sounded intrigued.
“Trying something new this year,” Q replied, “so you’d better come back in one piece.”
Even far apart, Q could hear the smile in Bond’s voice when he responded.
“Of course.”
00Q00Q00Q
The day before the holiday party, Bond went dark.
Q had expected it, but that didn’t make the situation any more palatable. It never did when Bond decided to handle something on his own. Q knew that he could do it without his aid, that he had been doing it for years before he had become Quartermaster, but worry still kept him up that night. He hoped that Bond would send some sort of communication, via text or email or even carrier pigeon, but Q heard nothing the next morning. The local papers reported no destruction to property, either, so Q was hoping that was a positive sign.
Still, Q was not one to just sit idly. He gathered the CCTV from Bond’s hotel, the target’s hotel, and the airport, then started a sweep of facial recognition software to see if he could spot him in any of the crowds from the past 12 hours. He also put out an alert for Grand Cayman news, watching popups in his lower right-hand screen throughout the day reporting ideal surf conditions and random celebrity sightings, but thankfully no strange deaths of unidentifiable male tourists.
Near 1800 that evening, Moneypenny distracted him when she appeared in his doorway wearing a red dress and matching spiked heels that could kill a man. She boasted cheerful gold jewelry round her neck and wrists and brass-coloured clips in her hair that shimmered with bright faux diamonds.
“You look nice,” Q said.
She just smiled and turned in place to show off her excellent figure, revealing the garment bag she had been carrying over her shoulder.
“What is that?” Q asked.
“Something for tonight,” she replied, and then looked him up and down with something like pity. “Can’t have you dressed like that, after all.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re still at uni.”
Q looked down at his rumpled attire with a frown.
“Does it matter?”
Eve sighed.
“Would it be so bad to look nice for an evening?”
“I look nice.”
She held out the garment bag.
“It’s for charity,” she said.
“Really ribbing me with the charity thing, aren’t you?”
“It’s just to enhance the guilt, darling,” Eve said, hanging the bag on the hook at the back of his door when he did not rise to take it.
“You’re a monster,” Q said fondly.
She smiled as she unzipped the bag, revealing a bottle green waistcoat and matching tie, as well as a rather smart-looking black dinner jacket and trousers. The outfit was posh, perhaps more so than anything Q had in his wardrobe at home, and certainly too upscale for a company party.
“Please tell me you hired that out?”
“You need a good suit.”
“Eve...I can’t possibly--”
“And you can wear it more than once, you know,” she said, raising her voice over his protests.
Q sighed.
“It’s too expensive,” Q said.
“You make enough money,” Eve reminded him, and put her hand on her hip. “If you’re so worried about the price, I’ll send you the bill.”
“Please,” Q said. “It’s very nice, truly, but I couldn’t possibly--”
“Yes, yes,” Eve said, waving him off. “Now hurry up and get changed. I’ll wait for you outside.”
She stepped out of the office, leaving him alone with a terribly perfect suit and no other choice but to do as she asked. However, before he did so, Q did another check for Bond. His facial recognition software had picked up nothing in the past few hours and the news was still rather quiet. Q knew he shouldn’t worry, but it was second nature to him now. And what if they had jinxed everything? Making all those plans they might not be able to keep?
Q swallowed hard, trying not to think on it. He already had a dreadful evening ahead and did not need to feel even worse. So he pushed that persistent worry to the back of his mind the best that he could and got dressed. Everything fit perfectly, almost as if it had been tailored. He even did a quick glance at himself in the small ensuite toilet in his office to see how he looked. Surprisingly, he pulled off the black and green rather well, looking both appropriately festive as well as sophisticated.
“Should I even ask how you know my measurements?” Q asked, as he stepped out of his office.
Eve stood there, typing away at her phone, but looked up at him when he appeared. Her smile brightened at the sight of him in his fancy suit and Q actually felt a little embarrassed at her attention.
“A lady never reveals her secrets,” she said.
He let her fuss at him for a minute--fixing his hair, straightening his tie--and allowed her to lead him out of his branch by the elbow. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of R and his cheerfully-dressed staff, who waved as he departed.
“Eve, how many people are going to be at this thing, anyway?” Q asked, feeling suddenly, terribly nervous.
“Everyone that is in London, probably,” Eve said, as she dragged him into the lift.
“Great,” Q said miserably, thinking how much he would rather be at home, trying to fend off his cats from destroying the remains of the Christmas tree.
“It’s going to be fun, I promise,” Eve said, leading him out of the lift when they arrived at the main floor.
The lobby had been done up in garlands and lights and bows, all red and gold and white. Two women from HR handed them drink tickets and sent them in the direction of the canteen, which had been transformed for the party. The usual tables had been pushed to the edges of the room, laden with festive decorations and food, as well as the presents for the Secret Santa exchange and hundreds of biscuits that had been prepared for the annual exchange. A bar had been set up in the corner near the entrance, already with a long line of people waiting for beer and wine. But what commanded the room was the stage that had been erected at the furthest point from the entrance. Q gripped at Eve’s arm, perhaps a bit too tightly, because she actually flinched.
“Do we have to go on stage?” he asked.
“Of course,” Eve said, and then patted his hand, “but only for a minute at the end, don’t worry.”
“I suddenly remember I have a very pressing emergency to attend to, excuse me,” Q said, and turned to make his exit, but Eve grabbed onto him before he could escape.
“It’s just for a few minutes and it’s for charity,” she reminded him.
“Fine,” Q said, and went to the bar.
He usually did not drink, but made an exception for tonight, and stole off with his wine for a quiet corner. On his way, he ran into Tanner, dressed to the nines in a tuxedo. He had some holly wrapped in a shiny bow tacked to his lapel.
“Looking sharp,” Tanner said.
“The same to you,” Q replied.
“I’m emceeing the event tonight,” Tanner explained, and then, “thanks for volunteering, by the way. Honestly, never thought you’d go for it.”
“Well, about that,” Q began.
Tanner looked sympathetic.
“Eve tricked you, didn’t she?”
“Terribly so.”
He laughed and then led Q away from his desired corner and back out into the heart of the party.
“It’ll be great, I promise,” Tanner said, bringing Q to the table where the silent auction bids were taking place.
It had been set up rather plainly, but efficiently. The rules were posted in plain black and white next to twelve notepads laid out in front of the twelve photographs. Q cringed at his own, which he spotted at the end of the table, and pointedly looked for Moneypenny’s photo instead. Her notepad was almost completely filled with bids. The pads next to hers were rather full of bids as well, and more people were clamouring to the table to put their numbers down.
“It looks like it’s going well,” Tanner observed.
Q glanced once more at the end of the table at his photo, noting that people were not elbowing each other out of the way to get to his notepad. He felt two parts relieved and one part disappointed that he was not so desirable, though he was honestly not surprised. It still surprised him that Bond had ever pursued him to begin with, what with Q not having much in the way of physical attractiveness. At the start, Q had joked about it often, saying that Bond had hit his head one too many times, or that he needed to get his eyes checked. But then Bond would get very serious and kiss him without any trace of artifice or confusion, and it made Q feel as if there might be something more to his attraction after all. Eventually, Q stopped saying such self-degrading things aloud, though from time to time--like tonight--he thought them quite loudly. It made him wish that Bond was there with him more than anything else.
“Mm,” Q offered, and downed his drink.
“Alright?” Tanner asked.
“Fine. I’m going to get some air.”
Politely, he extricated himself from Tanner and escaped the room, finding a seat just off the main lobby to relax away from the holiday cheer and music. He wondered if he might have enjoyed himself had he not been forced into this charity auction, but then realised that he might not have come at all. Every year, he avoided the holiday party like the plague, disliking the noise and the festivity, all reminders that he would be going home alone to a dreary flat while everyone returned to their homes or the homes of their loved ones filled with colour and light. Q wondered why, for the first time in so many Christmases, he felt so achingly sad about it all. And then, he saw with clarity just how cheerful the flat had been with Bond in it, with his Christmas hand towels and tins of biscuits, the brightly-coloured wreath on the door, the twinkling fairy lights in the windows.
It was what he had been missing all these years. Who he had been missing.
All this time, all Q wanted for Christmas was someone to come home to.
He didn’t cry, what with too many years of stifling British propriety preventing him from doing so in public, but did rub at the hard lump in his throat until he felt the desire dissipate.
“There you are!”
Q looked up at the sound of Eve’s voice. She was flushed at the cheeks with merriment, and Q had honestly never seen her look lovelier. He wanted to tell her this, wanted to smile and try to not ruin her mood, but her expression sobered the moment their eyes met.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her, hoping that his eyes weren’t red.
“Is it Bond?” she asked.
“What about him?”
She came and sat on the bench next to him.
“He’s disappeared, hasn’t he?” Eve asked.
Q did not have to reach for his mobile to know that there had been no sighting of Bond, despite his surveillance. If Bond did not want to be found, then he would not be.
“As usual,” Q said, trying for nonchalance.
Eve put her arm around his shoulders.
“He’ll be fine,” she said. “He’s impossible to kill, you know. And I know that better than anyone.”
For some reason, that was exactly what Q needed to hear, and he laughed.
“Don’t let him ruin your Christmas,” Eve said, and squeezed him gently. “And, who knows? Maybe it will be a Christmas miracle and he’ll return with all of his equipment intact.”
“That would be a miracle,” Q agreed.
She squeezed him again and then stood up.
“Come on, then,” Eve said, pulling him from his seat. “It’s almost auction time.”
Q groaned.
“Don’t remind me.”
“It’s for a good cause!” Eve reminded him, kissing him on the cheek.
She led him by the elbow back into the party, which was now loud with music and talking and laughter. The biscuit and sweets exchange was underway, what with the Secret Santa exchange having already been completed, and while that was ongoing, the auction was closing up. The photographs had been taken down and the pads collected. As Eve led him to the area behind the stage with the other auctionees, Q spotted a small group of people reviewing the bids and writing the final amounts on little cards to hand off to Tanner.
“Excited?” Tanner asked, as he passed them on his way to take the stage.
“Yes,” Eve said, just as Q said:
“No.”
Tanner laughed and went onto the stage to talk about the auction. For such a small, unassuming man, Q thought he was rather good at it: energetic and quite funny. Q could even forgive him for going along with the whole mess, as it seemed he was having a great time of it.
“And now, our gracious volunteers,” Tanner announced.
He then called them up one by one in alphabetical order, announcing their name and rank. There were group cheers for each volunteer, and Q was rather flattered that his own department cheered the loudest for him when he was called onto the stage.
The rest of the event was rather straightforward. Tanner would call up a person, give a little more information about their charity, and then reveal the highest bid and the name of the bidder.
Abbottson, the head of Accounting, went first, and was purchased for a whopping £350 by her wife, who blew her a kiss from the front row. The next few volunteers were purchased by friends or lovers at around the same price point.
Eve’s auction was the most exciting, what with her winning bid topping out at over £1000. Her bidder chose to remain anonymous, which had the entire room already formulating gossip about who it could have been. When she stepped back into line, Q leaned back behind Peterson and whispered:
“You’re a hard act to follow.”
She just winked. Q knew he would have to take her to lunch to find out more details about her mysterious bidder.
“Our Quartermaster is next,” Tanner said, grabbing Q’s attention.
He stepped forward to Tanner’s left side. Standing before everyone brought a sudden rush of self-consciousness. What if no one had bid on him? What an embarrassment it would be to not be bid upon, or worse: to be bid upon out of pity, or as the butt end of a joke? In that moment, Q wished that he would have the foresight to have worn his prototype smokescreen cufflinks so he could have made a dramatic and unseen exit. It did not help that Tanner opened the envelope and was silent for a few beats too long, that he covered the microphone to ask someone offstage a question. Q felt a shameful blush creeping along the back of his neck, one he hoped stayed clear of his cheeks as over a hundred curious eyes focused on him while they waited for Tanner to return.
“I’m sorry about that,” Tanner said, coming back with his previous enthusiasm. “We just had to make sure this figure was correct.”
There were a few laughs from the crowd, but Q wished he could disappear through the floor at that moment.
“The winning bid for our Quartermaster is,” Tanner said, and then paused for such dramatic effect that Q thought he himself might have to strangle the man.
“£5000.”
An excited titter of excitement moved through the crowd at the obscenely high number, but Q scarcely heard them.
“I’m sorry, what?” Q asked, directing the question to Tanner.
“£5000,” Tanner said again, to both Q and the room, and then read off the card. “The winner is…Clos Maggiore?”
The whispers only increased as excitement and gossip began to spread about the mysterious bidder with the faux foreign-sounding name, but Q could only scarcely hide a smile behind his hand.
“Tough act,” Eve whispered to him, as he fell back with the other volunteers.
She had a smile that said she knew everything, and Q didn’t quite know what to make of it. So he didn’t say anything. He was already scanning the crowd at the fringes, sweeping at the corners of the room, and there, just at the exit, Q spotted him. It seemed impossible that Q had ever missed him, what with such an intense blue gaze focussed upon him. He felt overheated, then, in a way that had nothing to do with the too-hot lights beating down on him from above.
It was only after the last few members of their group were auctioned off--at far, far less than £5000--that Q managed to sneak away before Eve or Tanner or any of the others could stop him to ask questions.
He went to where he had seen Bond near the exit of the canteen, but did not find him there, and continue out into the lobby. There, he found Bond was waiting for him, already in his overcoat. He had Q’s satchel over his shoulder and his coat draped over his arm expectantly. Q felt a rush of relief to see that he was unhurt, and that the only difference to him since their last meeting was a golden suntan. Q shook his head.
“You prat,” he said fondly.
Bond tried for an offended expression, but didn’t quite manage it.
“And here I thought you’d be happy to see me,” Bond said.
Q smiled despite himself, and let Bond help him into his coat without a fuss to show that he was indeed happy to see him.
“£5000?”
“You’re worth every penny.”
Again, Q couldn’t hide his smile.
“You didn’t have to show off,” Q scolded gently.
“Of course I did,” Bond replied.
Then he leaned in and kissed Q’s cheek, right there in the middle of the MI6 lobby, where anyone and everyone could see them. And Q turned, just so, and kissed him back, this time on the lips. Bond made a soft sound of surprise at this, and again when Q tugged at his tie.
“You’re lucky I like you,” Q said.
“Just like?” Bond asked.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They were close enough to kiss again, but then there came the sound of someone quietly clearing their throat nearby, requesting their attention. It was Eve, grinning widely at the two of them.
“Bond,” she said.
“Eve,” Bond answered.
There was a moment between them that Q did not quite understand, and then they both reached out and shook hands.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Eve said.
“And with you,” Bond replied.
Q looked at them with sudden realisation.
“You two were in on this together?” Q asked, and then sighed. “Why am I not surprised…”
“I wanted to support charity,” Eve explained, and then nodded at Bond, “and he wanted to take you to dinner in a nice suit.”
“And it is a nice suit,” Bond agreed, smoothing his hand down Q’s arm.
“You’re both terrible,” Q mumbled, somehow not mad at either of them.
Perhaps Bond sensed this, because he kissed Q on the cheek again, and Q felt overwhelmingly too happy to push him away.
“Now, off you go,” Eve said, looking at her mobile. “Your reservations are in half an hour.”
Bond offered his arm to Q.
“Dinner?” he asked.
Q slipped his arm into Bond’s with a smile.
“Starving.”