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Contrary to popular rumour, it doesn't start with the kitschey souvenirs snatched from various locales around the world.
It starts with a scarf.
It's cold out and Q hadn't had one on which was ridiculous for a number of reasons. The first, being that it's the middle of winter. And the second being that the man's a bloody scarecrow; one gust of wind and MI6 would be down a quartermaster, nevermind the fact that he'd probably catch pneumonia immediately upon leaving the walls of Vaux Hall.
That they'd had to rendevous somewhere outside does not help matters any.
So Bond gives him his scarf.
Not that Q accepts it, merely blinking in a bland sort of askance, brow arched as if to say and then?
They're standing outside of some pub near the Tube, an innocous location as can be for an emergency mission brief, and after the casual exchange of Bond's travel documents, they look for all the world like a pair of strangers considering a cig after a pint.
Albeit better dressed, in Bond's case.
Not so in Q's.
The quartermaster would fit right in with the corporate drones inside if he'd bothered to comb his hair, get his suits properly tailored, and stopped wearing that awful anorak. As it stands, with his doeful eyes and elfin face, it's as if he'd taken an older brother's clothes to play pretend, forgoing appropriate winter attire with a petulant declaration that he wasn't cold at all, actually.
Though the tinge of a blush at his nose, and the winter chapness of his lips says differently.
Bond tsks, turning Q to face him, removing his scarf and affixing it round the younger man's neck. His smirk is just barely bitten back at Q's unimpressed expression. "You'll catch your death, and then where will I be?"
After a stiff moment, Q eventually notches his chin, a silent assent at Bond's fussing, and says, in that same bland tone, "Doing exactly what you want, I imagine."
Still, he doesn't try to unwind the material once Bond is happy, growing more approving the longer he looks at him, of the picture Q makes in something of his. Q rolls his eyes, and drawls, "Am I to your satisfaction then, Mr Bond?"
And that's when it really starts.
Because the grey of Bond's scarf brought out the flicks of green in Q's eyes, and despite Q's impassive expression, there'd been the suggestion of a chuckle curling his red mouth and a pinkish flush at his cheeks -- from the cold, he imagines -- and Bond had liked the look of it.
"Quite."
And Bond rarely ever finds a reason to deny himself the things he likes.
But that level of honesty comes later.
Thus, the souvenirs.
Though, he thought after purchasing the first, that it was only the once that he would because the mission he'd given Q the scarf really had gone balls to the walls, tits up in every language Bond knew, and if Bond had regrets Q had probably aged a decade in three days.
Bond could practically taste Q's relief after, his startled laugh at the porcelain cat alone had been enough to pull a smirk from Bond's tired visage.
Thereafter, Bond made it a point to return from missions with snowglobes, and fridge magnets, and the taxidermied remains of the smaller creatures he has almost fallen prey to. Almost always delivered with a coquettish flutter of lashes, and an arch, "Came across this and thought of you."
Q scoffs at them all, "This doesn't get you out of the weapons you've lost, Double-O-Seven, now what did you do to my gun?"
To himself, Bond admits it's a test as much for Q as it is for him, and whether it is a pass or fail hardly matters when Bond savours Q's minutest of reactions: the climb of his brow, the wrinkle of his nose, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, that elusive curl of his lip.
It's no surprise at all that Bond pays attention, he always is, but when he catches himself considering what to bring home based off what expression he'd like Q to make, well. That's a different matter entirely, isn't it?
Still, Bond will choose the ugliest things he can find on missions that are ridiculous because he knows Q will have a sense of humour about it, giving Bond an eye roll and a snort, in that order. When Bond makes the best choice at the time, Q will bark a laugh, and Bond will try harder the next time just to hear it again.
He chooses things that Q will actually like on missions where Bond can hear the strain in Q's voice over the comms, taut with tension. Usually it'll be teas. Sometimes books. A fine whiskey or wine, when the area is accomodating.
Once, a painting.
"Happy anniversary," he says in Venice, and for once, he isn't thinking of Vesper.
Over the comms, Q hums. "Three years since we've met, isn't it?"
Bond smiles against the sunshine. "You might be my longest relationship yet, Q."
"Do try not to stand me up then, will you?" he says, solemn. A worrier to the bone, his Q.
And while he had referred to the mission, Bond thought of after.
When the mission is done, and Bond is home, and Q is there with his quick mouth and his clever eyes. And.
Bond doesn't do that.
Hasn't.
Not in years.
Maybe, not in ever.
As a Double-O he's trained to live moment to moment, has to. This was the sentence he choose, and life has always been unforgiving, on missions there is never a gurantee. After is a luxury no one has, least of all him, but Bond indulges because the thought of Q allows for nothing less.
He has gifts to shop for, has Q's reactions to turn over and put somewhere safe, and the uncomplicated thrill of discovering where Q's gifts will next live -- on his desk, the grand shelf he had eventually put up (to house relevant reading material, or so he'd said), the wall behind his desk, or the side tables bookending the couch. From what Bond has seen, most live within the close and personal confines of Q's office, except for Bond's scarf.
It hangs on the back of Q's chair in the heart of it all, Bond knows, when it isn't hanging round Q's neck.
He hasn't ever asked for it back, and Q has never offered.
Besides the painting, he doesn't think Q has ever had the same reaction to anything else which is how the other gifts come to be.
The gloves -- thick leather with a decadently soft lining within -- are more obviously thoughtful than the others, more personal too and Q knows it, going by his complicated expression before he says, "I own a suitable pair of mittens."
"You do," Bond says, agreeably, "You're welcome."
Q huffs, but his cheeks are pink and the gloves pair perfectly with the scarf.
Bond is pleased enough with himself at Q's easy acceptance that he isn't quite prepared to see Q actually wearing them: the contrast against his skin, the way the supple leather hugs his delicate wrists, and Q's meticulousness in removing them finger by finger.
When next Bond returns from a mission, Q squints at him. "Is this some critique on my fashion choices?"
He shrugs. "Well, you can stand to look older than twenty, spots aside." And, innocent, "You do have that meeting with the accountants later, best to look the part of department head, don't you think?"
If Q has questions about why Bond knows his schedule, he doesn't voice them, only sighs and begins the process of removing the tragic anorak and equally tragic cardigan beneath it. Bond makes no move to leave, and in fact, steps closer to pop up Q's collar and do up his tie for him.
"I know how," is the mildly irritated response which Bond barely hears because Q so readily welcomes him into his space, notching his chin in acceptance as if he hadn't complained a second ago.
Bond's mouth flicks in a smile, and at this distance there's no hiding the darkening of Q's blush, the widening of his pupils.
When Bond is done, he doesn't step away, just tilts Q's chin up.
There's something delicious about the way his throat bobs against Bond's knuckles, something sultry and breathless in his quiet murmur, "Satisfied?"
And just like that, Bond recognizes the way the persistent tenderness he's had for Q grow teeth, and thinks, oh no, not at all. Because this - this, Bond knows what to do with, and the fact that it's only come after all this time is not something he's at all prepared for.
Not when the familiar teeth of desire only softens at the way Q winces against his growing nerves for the meeting ahead, curls in fierce protectiveness at the thought of those pencil pushers putting Q so ill at ease, and bares in a snarl of triumph when Q returns with victory in the silver sharpness of his smirk.
It's probably best that Bond is due for a longer mission than usual soon, though it doesn't explain the coat he leaves Q with, on account of "not needing it in the bowels of Central Africa".
"Cleaning out your closet?" Q quips, raising his brows in bemusement. "I'd expect you to go for something more tailored at least."
Bond tsks, "Spoilt, aren't we?"
His brow arches, his voice turning just this side of petulant, "You can't blame me for becoming accustomed when you bring me things every time you come back from a mission, can you?"
Having wrestled with the words for days after his revelation and not finding them satisfactory, Bond can only shrug and hold on to the minutest hope that Q will let it go.
He doesn't, of course.
"Why are you giving this to me now?"
"Do you not want my gifts anymore?" Bond asks, only marginally feigning the hurt.
"You make it sound like I expected them."
"Don't you?"
Q frowns. "The last time you gave me a gift before a mission you almost --"
"In my defense, it wasn't like it was planned," Bond is quick to interrupt. Death is always a partner he has cause to pick up when he rides to the calls of war for queen and country, but that time had been particularly awful... Still, "There's no need to be superstitious."
At that, Q scoffs, accepting the coat with an efficient flick of the wrist. "I hope you're aware, I am not some valet service."
"That implies I've gotten my scarf back from last time."
He flushes. "Well, if you wanted it back --"
"I much prefer it on you." Bond's gaze lingers on Q in his coat; a looser fit as he expected, so much so that it swallows him nearly whole. An illusion that it's all the young man is wearing at all. "Or off, if you'd prefer."
Flush darkening, Q huffs. "I hope you don't think this absolves you of any expectations."
"Expectations," Bond echoes, innocent. Then, "Ah, my equipment. Right. Well, you know, I can't promise you anything regarding that."
Q scowls, his cheeks endearingly bright. "I am well past any expectations regarding that."
"Then I can't imagine what you could mean, dear Q."
"Git."
"Now, now," Bond tsks, trailing daring fingers over the coat's lapels, parting the fabric and tracing the white buttoned down shirt beneath. Gratified by the shiver Q just barely suppresses, Bond thinks oh yes, I know what to do with that, and purrs, "If you want something darling, you need only ask."
Audibly, Q swallows before lifting his chin high enough to meet Bond's gaze head on and say, "Come home, James."
And, oh - oh...
It's Bond's turn to withhold a shiver, and with a lingering touch of his thumb along Q's lower lip, he says, "I hope you know that I fully intend on spoiling you."
Stroppy, wonderful, covetous Q answers that with a bite, and a greedy glimmer in his eye, "Promises, promises."