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It's a little known fact that Q enjoys baking. Though, enjoy might be a strong word.
He mutters, swears, glares and threatens in a way that he doesn't to his subordinates or the field agents purely because he's a professional, and that's what the baking is for in any case. As the youngest department head in MI6 history, Q has a reputation to uphold, and despite sneers of him being "a stroppy little shit", being in full possession of his nerves regardless of who's threatening him is practically a job requirement.
Thus the equally high quality kitchen to go with the high quality home lab and workshop he spends an arguably equal amount of time in.
Very few people know this, obviously.
Q's never been the "people" type even before he joined Six as a lowly call centre drone. But Moneypenny's been round his, seen the proof in the pudding so to speak, and she had still been skeptical about him having a hobby that didn't involve the full scope of nerd culture, cats, or engineering in the capacity necessitated by an intelligence agency.
Not that it's really all that different. Baking is essentially chemistry anyway, just edible, if the job's done decently enough, and Q's never quite been satisfied with being just decent at anything.
(Probably why his stint as a lowly call centre drone hadn't lasted long at all, but another story for another day.)
Nonetheless, Q supposes that no one associates him with the kitchen or any kind of culinary prowess based on the fact that he's never seen to consume anything but tea while at work.
(He's heard whispers that it's because he subsists off of human souls, but he can never get a word in otherwise because they tend to flee when they see him coming. Ah, well.)
He'll challenge anyone to stomach solids when they're getting ulcers from working with the most dangerous men, women and others that the United Kingdom can churn out, though. When Q's on the clock, all that matters is the mission at hand.
They say he's cold for it, and he might be.
He is a monument, after all. He has to be.
He is one of too many cogs in the machine and he cannot falter, too many people need him.
But only when he's at Six, only when he's the quartermaster.
After work is when he lets the other stuff filter through: the anxiety, the guilt, the self-doubt; this is the time to be human. So, he stands in his immaculate kitchen at two in the morning, baking up a storm in a dozen ways just so his brain will stop playing games of probability with his conscious.
This time it's because Double-O-Three's got four cracked ribs and a black eye, Double-O-Eight almost blew up, Double-O-Two loses more weapons on the field than Double-O-Seven and Accounting wants Q's bollocks for it, and speaking of Double-O-Seven, the insufferable man is still missing with a pending KIA status to boot.
Which is probably appropriate timing for him to waltz into Q's kitchen, breezy and unaffected as always.
It isn't the first time he's done it, and with the previous M's warnings of Bond's -- shall we say -- severe lack of boundaries, Q had forgone the trouble of coming up with counter measures to prevent the agent from accessing his home. It was too much paperwork to clear Bond every time he did it, and after the last incident (which no one is legally allowed to bring up again), Mallory had stated, red faced, that he didn't care if Q and Bond have a spat, it was a security risk otherwise.
Q has a sneaking suspicion that the new M thinks there's something going on between him and Bond, but it's not Q's fault. He's about eighty percent sure that Bond is incapable of having a relationship with anyone without them wanting to kill him or sleep with him. Q relates too much to both to entertain it with anything more than a brisk flick of his wrist as he adds the cream to the mixture a tablespoon at a time.
Studiously, he ignores Bond's prowling as he transfers the completed buttercream mixture into a piping bag, right until Bond swipes an index finger through the bowl's remains.
He exhales slowly through his nose, and aims a flat look the other man's way only to have Bond lick the offending digit salaciously; his expression innocent.
Q could stab him.
Another noisy exhale later, Q turns for the wire tray on the counter and starts to dress the shells.
Bond is kind enough to wait until Q's completed at least a dozen of the macarons before he stomps over Q's inner peace with a cheerful, "How very French" and taking a bite. He's doing it to be an arsehole, the way he pauses to savour it, all fluttering gold lashes and absent little smile, even as he drawls, "A little heavy handed on the almond flour, don't you think?"
Q can't hide the abortive twitch in his shoulders, and he knows it from the way Bond's lips quirk in victory. Still. He effects a serene look and says, "It's the Cyanide."