Chapter Text
It was November, and London was becoming colder and wetter by the day. With the rapidly changing season, Q was feeling a little worse for wear – anaemia wasn't a joke at the best of times, but in the Autumn when the weather was grey and miserable, Q began to wrap up warmer than he usually did.
Q-Branch wasn't the warmest part of MI6, especially considering they were underground in old war bunkers, and it most certainly wasn't at the top of the list of priorities to heat the place. At the end of a long day at the office, when most of the lights had gone out bar his and he was the only person left, Q donned his navy blue parka, and with a satisfying zip, he began the walk to the tube.
Soon he arrived back at his flat, surprised to find the lights and heating were both on. His two cats, Mog and Tiger, came trotting down the hall to greet him, their paws patting gently against the wooden floorboards. He bent down to stroke them, placing his satchel on the floor as he nudged the door shut, hearing the automatic locking system working behind him – being forgetful was something that could be rectified with very simple technology.
His attention then returned to the fact that the lights were on in the flat, and that his glasses were beginning to steam up from the warmth emanating from the radiator. There were only two people who could possibly in his flat: the first was Eve, who he knew had an evening planned with her 'friend,' (who had actually been her lover for weeks now, he'd merely been curious) so it couldn't possibly be her. The only other person was Bond. This was much more likely.
He took his coat and boots off, leaving them by the front door before padding down the hallway in thick fluffy socks to reach the kitchen, where Bond was sat at the table reading something on his tablet, which he had grown surprisingly fond of using. He looked up, his blue eyes locking onto Q, an unusual and almost menacing smile breaking across his lips - smiles were always the warning sign for him asking something of Q, something that Bond knew others wouldn't give him.
"Q," he said, voice rumbling in his familiar baritone, "good day at the office?"
The Quartermaster smiled in spite of himself, "yes, I suppose it wasn't too stressful in the grand scheme of things. I wasn't looking after you for a start," he replied in what was an attempt at a joking tone of voice, but sounded more tired and serious. He was still wondering why 007 was in his flat exactly, and what he was meant to do about it. Secretly, he didn't mind at all - the agent was extremely attractive, and as a lonely twenty-something with a stressful job, what could be better than coming home to someone tall, blond and muscular with a voice that was really too enticing?
"Harsh. I'm not always that much of a pain am I?" Bond jibed, eyes following the smaller man as he went to the cupboard across the room for a glass of water before grabbing the pill jar from the counter.
"No, Bond, you're not, but let's just say that most of the time you are. Damaged equipment isn't something that me and my minions can easily forgive," Q mumbled tiredly before taking the iron supplement in his hand, swallowing it quickly, "we worked hard on that gun, for it to be in the state you brought it back in - an amazing feat in itself for you - was a shock to us all, honestly..."
The Quartermaster sighed, tapping the rim of the glass absentmindedly with a calloused fingertip, before turning back to the agent, "why are you here exactly Bond?" he questioned, pushing his fringe out of his eyes to look at Bond properly now his glasses had demisted.
"Well, I was hoping for an entrance that wouldn't involve a tirade of loosely veiled sarcasm and complaints, but I must say I didn't set my hopes too high," Bond smirked, "it's almost a given with you these days. But even so, I brought a present that I hoped I could share with you," he gestured behind the man to the kitchen countertop.
Turning around, Q finally spotted the two litres of scrumpy cider on the counter, eyebrows knitting together in confusion, "you're a whisky man usually, aren't you?" he asked, when in fact he knew that Bond was a whisky man - he had seen him drink it enough times on missions. Well, maybe not just on missions, but that was besides the point.
"Yes, but I thought it would be nice to have a change," Bond said, standing up from his seat with the tablet still in his hand, "and I may have found the YouTube app on here."
Q was surprised that Bond had used the tablet for using something as mundane as YouTube, "what have you been watching?" Q asked before he could think, but then it suddenly clicked. The cider, waiting in the kitchen... "You've been watching cooking videos, haven't you?" he chuckled, taking the tablet off of the agent and quickly swiping into his YouTube history, noticing video after video of different meals, drinks and snacks.
"Well, you probably already know that I can't cook, so it is nice to be able to watch someone who can," Bond smiled, a proper smile that didn't seem menacing or forced for once, "and I was hoping you might be able to help me make something," he admitted sheepishly, stepping closer to the Quartermaster to stand beside him.
"Something that involves cider?" Q was unsure he was going to enjoy what was about to happen, knowing his body was always uncooperative with alcohol, and the strength of this cider was mildly disconcerting, "what were you planning to-"
Before the slim brunette could ask any more questions, Bond tapped one particular video with the tip of his finger, Q watching as Jamie Oliver came onto the screen and began to talk about how the winter season was brilliant for mulled cider. Part of him wanted to protest that it wasn't winter yet, and neither was it Christmas, but the other just let it be, and continued to watch the video.
He smiled as the video finished, turning to look at the agent, "you want to make this? It really doesn't seem like your usual tipple," he stated, looking at the list of the ingredients. He knew that it wouldn't be hard - he had everything they would need, and he knew he shouldn't even try to put it off because he would end up doing it anyway.
"I thought it would be nice," the agent said, hand touching the Quartermaster's shoulder, before giving it a gentle squeeze, "shall we get started?" he asked, going to the cupboard closest to him to find ingredients.
Q found this sudden and rather dramatic change of attitude in the agent disconcerting but fascinating at the same time. Of course, he wished that 007 would sweep him off of his feet and take him to bed, but he knew that from the amount of women he had done exactly that with on his missions, that it was highly unlikely that it would ever happen.
They had known each other for longer than Bond had known the majority of the women he had been with in an even remotely romantic capacity before, so Q had somewhat given up hope. Moneypenny had tried to encourage him to say something, but he thought her happiness with her lover was painting everything else the same rosy shade as her relationship.
Shaking himself out of his thoughts, his attention returned to the task at hand. He shuffled towards the cupboard where he kept the spices, pulling it open and looking up at the star anise which were, sadly, on the top shelf. Usually he would have no qualms about climbing on the counter to reach the box, but with an extremely attractive man in his kitchen, he felt like he could embarrass himself easily.
Checking quickly that the agent wasn't watching, he began the slow ascent onto the counter, getting one knee up before he heard a chuckle from behind him. He stopped still in his balance, hand gripping one of the shelves as he turned to look at Bond.
"What? You try having high cupboards and a less than ideal height," he sniped, eyes unintentionally wandering to the man's toned physique before snapping back to reality. Bond had moved closer, smirking slightly as he reached the cupboard, "not stuck are you?" he asked mischievously, his ice blue eyes boring into the Quartermaster's rich hazel ones.
"No, I'm not stuck," Q quickly replied, not realizing until he tried to get down that in actual fact, he was quite stuck. His feet didn't even reach the floor, his mind filling with the words 'oh shit' as he realised he would have to face Bond's smirk as he realized he had been right, and that he couldn't be his usual independent self. Why didn't I just use the stool? he thought to himself dejectedly.
Just as he'd feared, the taller man's smirk returned as he walked towards him, reaching for the star anise on the top shelf around the Quartermaster, before turning his back to the younger man. Q was puzzled when Bond didn't move, but instead looked over his shoulder, "come on then," he said, gesturing to his back.
Q's eyes widened as he realised what Bond was suggesting, "I don't need you to give me a piggyback for goodness' sake, it's not that dire a situation," he scoffed, surprised as Bond grabbed hold of his legs, hauling him onto his back anyway, knowing it would cause another complaint, something he wanted to avoid. The Quartermaster's arms flew around Bond's shoulders, gripping tightly as he was carried to the other side of the room, breath fast against the agent's ear.
Bond was surprised at this level of vulnerability from the Quartermaster who, still clinging firmly to him, was usually so steadfast and unphased by things much more dangerous than being stuck on a countertop. Rather than offering the smaller man the opportunity to get down, he started to pour the cider into the pan, letting it simmer gently. Surprisingly, Q stayed exactly where he was, his breath now a gentle breeze against Bond's neck as he settled his chin into his shoulder.
"You seem comfortable," the agent noted, pausing briefly to grasp Q's legs where they were wrapped around his waist. The bespectacled man hummed quietly, tiredness finally beginning to take hold of him and his ability to think of a good comeback. The warmth of Bond's body wasn't helping in keeping him awake either: had he not been where he was, he would have needed another jumper before then. Bond smiled, turning his face to look at Q, "do you want to get down?"
Seemingly shaken out of his thoughts by Bond's words, the Quartermaster hastily let go, sliding to the floor quickly. His eyes looked tired, and the sudden change in temperature caused him to shiver slightly. He looked up at Bond, who was still watching him rather than the cider, "do you want to get on with this then?" he asked, turning the attention away from the elephant in the room that he desperately wanted to be acknowledged, just not so directly. When the agent didn't respond, Q walked towards the stove, putting the spices into the now simmering cider.
Nutmeg, cloves, star anise and cinnamon all fizzed as they were dropped in, filling the kitchen with an autumnal scent, Q convinced himself, it most certainly wasn't allowed to be Christmassy yet. As he was slicing the orange, he felt something unexpected from behind him. Bond's muscular arms had snaked around his waist, almost wrapping around the tiny expanse of person twice. Q's breath hitched in his chest, heart leaping in his chest as the agent stepped closer, his chin resting against Q's hair as he sighed.
"Bond, what-"
"James, please. Just call me James," Bond mumbled gruffly, feeling the other man's breathing quicken under his arms, "we've known each other too long now for you not to."
"You only call me Q," he pointed out, not really knowing why he was saying it, but saying it to fill the silence, to cover the sound of his heart trying to escape his chest with every beat.
"That's only because you've never told me your name," James replied matter-of-factly, his thumb stroking Q's ribs gently.
"You never asked," Q sighed, turning to face the man who had been the subject of his infatuation for months, "but it's Owen," he smiled, looking up into his eyes. James smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulled Q closer. They both knew nothing would come to a conversation - they were British, they never spoke about their feelings, so much so that one of his minions who wasn't familiar with this national unspoken rule seemed to think that they didn't have feelings at all.
Q turned back to the stove briefly, staying within James' arms as he stirred the steaming cider, lowering the heat before moving to get cups and a ladle, pouring the hot drink into the cups. He turned to place a cup into the other man's hand, saying, "you do realise I don't consider it to be winter yet, let alone Christmas?"
"It might as well be with the lack of heat outside, it's ridiculous," James replied, raising an eyebrow, "you of all people would think that, surely?"
"What do you mean, 'you of all people'?" Q retorted, raising an equally quizzical eyebrow.
James' gaze moved to the pill jar in the corner of the room, "anaemia isn't a joke from what I can gather," he explained, "when a man starts wearing undershirts, two layers of socks and an extra jumper, it must be somewhat difficult."
Q's eyebrows travelled even further up his forehead - the fact that Bond had realised he was wearing extra clothing was surprising and worrying at the same time, but he was a spy, of course he was going to know the fine details of a man's dressing habits. And that he had realised he had anaemia was another thing entirely.
"Come on then," the observant spy said, "let's sit and drink this before it goes cold, shall we?" he smiled, a corner of his mouth turning up as he wandered towards the sofa in the other room, placing the cider on the coffee table before reclining back into his seat, a sigh escaping his lips as he closed his eyes.
Q on the other hand stood dumbstruck in the kitchen, cup in hand as he tried to wrap his head around what had happened. Tiredness was definitely taking over, and the fact that Bond had been touching him in a somewhat romantic way was just beginning to sink in. He couldn't set his hopes too high: surely he would ask a favour as soon as they were sat on the sofa together. Surely if he was lulled into a false sense of security it would just be a request for help that could lose them both their jobs.
Surely it wasn't a genuine attempt to win Q's affections?
Bond watched as the Quartermaster appeared to be completely absorbed in his thoughts, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and perhaps sadness as his mind whirled with different ideas. That brain never stops he thought to himself with a smile, if only it would stop working so hard, he might actually be able to see what's right in front of him.
Some might say Q was too clever for his own good. Simple solutions could be turned into plans on a huge scale, when someone with lower intelligence could solve it in a matter of seconds. If Q had indeed looked away from the finer details and paid attention to the bigger picture, he would understand why Eve had been constantly reassuring him that it was okay to talk to Bond - the agent obviously wasn't going to rebut anything Q admitted to or said because he had been trying to come to terms with his own infatuation since he'd first laid eyes on the young, intelligent and bitingly sarcastic Quartermaster.
Realising he too had lost himself in his thoughts, Bond looked back towards the Quartermaster who, unsurprisingly, was still stood stock still in the middle of the kitchen. "Are you coming?" James called out, effectively shaking the smaller man out of his trance.
Q looked up, startled, realising he had just been stood there for goodness knows how long. He blushed, looking at Bond, "yes, yeah," he mumbled, embarrassed that he'd made a fool of himself in front of James of all people for Christ's sake.
An hour passed, mostly sat in companionable silence, with James taking several trips back and forth to refill mugs, and before long, Q's tiredness had turned into a hazy, drowsy feeling - he knew having this much alcohol had been a bad idea. As they sat at either end of the small sofa, Q's legs tucked up underneath him with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, James went back to the kitchen to replenish the stock of alcohol in their cups. Instead of the familiar splash of liquid into the cups, Q heard the spy's quiet mumble of, "cider's finished."
Q sighed with relief, he wasn't sure he could have taken much more of the warm golden drink before he really started to feel the more dangerous effects, and if there was anyone he didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of twice in a night it was James. He wrapped his blanket around himself tighter, listening to the sound of the dishwasher open and close as his eyes drifted between open and closed, the lamp in the corner giving the room a warm glow as the agent returned to his seat.
He slumped back into the sofa, closer to the Quartermaster than before, watching as his eyes opened slowly to look at him, long, dark eyelashes framing hazel-green eyes. Why he was so endearing Bond couldn't say exactly, he was just drawn to the younger man in ways he'd never been drawn to anyone else. Vesper was one thing, and obviously she'd taken her toll, but Q... He was another person and feeling entirely.
He smiled at the dark haired man whose mouth curved upwards at the corners, a gentle rosy blush on his cheeks as he looked back at the blonde man in front of him. The alcohol had dimmed his senses somewhat, his inhibitions leaving with the cold as he drank the cider and felt the warmth of the blanket around him. Bond moved closer, allowing Q to settle against his shoulder, an arm wrapping around him as he rested his cheek atop his head, moving instinctively to leave a chaste kiss on his hair. Q started slightly, but he soon relaxed against the spy's chest again, breathing slowly and deeply.
James eventually pulled Q into his lap, the Quartermaster's head resting in the crook of his neck as his arms wrapped around his shoulders, Bond's around the skinny man's waist, their chests pressed together. Q's fingers danced distractedly at the back of James' neck, feeling the short hairs brush against his skin as he breathed in the scent of his cologne, something he had smelt all too often as he marched in and out of Q Branch after missions, and now he was here, right now, in front of him, touching him, holding him.
It doesn't seem real.
But it was, and this was something Bond wasn't going to let go of. This wasn't a woman from his missions, a one night stand, just a body, this was somebody, somebody important, somebody who meant something. Q had a brain, and although he didn't always show it, he had a heart so large that its compassion and love would stretch for miles and miles, over continents and seas, over hills and canyons, to anywhere, to anyone. He had spent countless nights on the end of a voice connection to Bond,guiding him through mission after mission in a ridiculously different time zone. But he did it, and he did it well, because he cared.
Both of the men knew their feelings without having to voice them. They might in the future, but both were so familiar with each other by now that they didn't really need to. And Q was sure that Eve would fill them both in on what they'd missed as soon as she found out about it. Separately of course, but none the less, it would happen.
The next morning when pale light began to filter in around the blinds, cups forgotten on the kitchen counter, Q awoke slowly to realise that there were arms still wrapped around him. Suddenly, his brain reminded him of the night before, of how they had fallen asleep wrapped up in his blanket, Bond holding him close against his chest. He smiled, snuggling into the older man's chest, inhaling what would become a familiar and comforting scent.
Soon, the spy shifted in his sleep, opening his eyes to look down at the Quartermaster wrapped in his arms who, noticing the change in the man's heart rate, looked up into his face, a small smile breaking over his face as he leaned up to kiss him gently.
Yes, James thought, this is someone worth caring about.