"Oi! Enough of this All-Seeing Pater nonsense, Papa! Come on, come on!" Sherly shouts out, showing the whites of his eyes as he barrels off and the dining room is taken at a charge by the pack of Holmeses and their assorted plus-ones.
"Oh, my dears! Here you all are at last," the Holmes Family minder-in-chief exclaims happily. "And here I was, fretting over Ma'am's lovely goose!"
Even Q has to admit the Holmes dining room of a Christmas is a fearsomely festive view, complete with the smiling housekeeper bustling about lifting covers off steaming platters and the rather elderly Jenson from the village doing his best to buttle. A view which is mostly of the overflowing of the table with expansive foodstuffs, drink and greenery, and quite exactly the amount of sheer exuberant waste of resources Q expects to see. As his Papa always goes all out, being a complete giddy git over any even remotely celebratory occasion. Everyone chatters away, settling into dinner, but there's one thing Q thinks is good, and that's very good indeed: James doesn't ever stop touching him, not once.
No earbuds are necessary. There's instead a constant murmur in Q's ear. James, of course, commenting on this and remarking on that, chiding Q to eat a little more, and then to pass the salt, and Q's finding that he's surprisingly comfortable in his customary seat—provided that familiar faintly Scot's accented tone continually addresses him, and that certain heavy hand lays possessively across his thigh beneath his serviette.
He squirms a bit, still, impatient to be done with it, particularly when My takes up the topic of James's potential retirement—as if that'll ever happen! Q scoffs internally.
"Never happen; give over, do," Sherly chimes in, between shoveling mouthfuls into his maw, and Q grins and offers up the sapient git a companionable wink.
James snorts at My's wheedling, a sound which Q—an admittedly well-lubricated Q, as Papa is the one doing all the pouring—finds unutterably attractive.
And for once—in a bloody blue moon, a great big cheddary one—nothing else bloody explodes, not even Q's middle brother. Well, Q would like to say that, but…damn, but if Sherly doesn't have to up and fiddle with the bits-and-pieces of holiday décor Mummy has spread about the surface of the table.
Right, then. Nothing explodes, much, excepting the Christmas crackers, naturally. And Papa has clearly gone and rigged those.
But, after dinner?
Q finds himself drawn inevitably to Papa's Command Centre, which doubles as his and Mummy's private armory. More like, he's dragged there, press-ganged by his elder brothers into watching the cameras avidly, right along with everyone else, including Papa and the DI. The postprandial cuppa of Earl Grey is only of the slightest comfort.
Q squirms, all at once struck by the fear James will change his mind and decide he'd really rather not be involved with a flat-out liar.
"Dear one, my littlest Babycakes," Papa remarks comfortably, giving Q a pat on his head in passing. He adjusts a monitor to zero in on Mummy and James, standing poised over the counter area by the huge double-bowled stainless sink, the one Papa has always claimed could double as a bathtub in a pinch. Mummy is deep into the washing up and James is wielding a tea towel like a pro. "They'll be fine, the two of them together. All good. You mustn't fret."
"Hrhm," Q huffs and buries his nose in his tea. He isn't so certain about that. Supposedly they've retreated for port and cigars; Q shudders at the thought and sips his tea with alacrity, an eye to My's discreet slurping up of Papa's finest. Heathens!
Meanwhile the cameras are going about their business, revealing all.
"Ma'am—M," James remarks quietly to Mummy, having finally been allowed the opportunity to catch her alone. He's been helping clear away like a true gentleman, disdaining all offers of aid from both the doctor and the detective inspector. Or, as Q thinks of them, the other, ahem, potential 'sons', by way of come and not by blood. Q is fairly certain Mummy marks the recent swell in the numbers of Holmeses and half-Holmeses as a blessing and not a curse. "Your motives, of course, are unassailable—indeed, were unassailable. But."
"But, 007?"
"'Bond' please, Ma'am; I've got a leg over your youngest, you know? Hardly time to stand on protocol. And I'm not your agent, not anymore."
"Hardly, Bond. Go on, then. What is it?"
"I must note that I don't much appreciate your methods. I feel a bit miffed, Ma'am, to put it bluntly. You could've trusted me."
Mummy giggles. Q flinches and sits forward in his chair, straining to catch every nuance on both beloved faces. "Oh, no!" he whispers, his knuckles tightening on his cup handle. "Oh, no, James, please don't!"
"Seriously, Ma'am." James is nothing if not doggedly stubborn. He sets his jaw and eyes Mummy spuriously. "I'd not have betrayed you, never in all this time. And I wouldn't have then, either."
"…James." Mummy begins tentatively, and it's the first Q's ever seen Mummy falter. "James, you must adm—"
"'James', Ma'am?" Q's boyfriend cocks an eyebrow. "Familiar, aren't you? I feel as though I hardly know you. Apparently I never truly did. '007' wasn't it? Or 'Bond', in a pinch, when I wasn't active in the field. Never James."
"Heh!" Mummy issues another small spate of the giggles, her eyes twinkling up at James's set expression. "Go on with you, then. I never said I was a poor field agent, did I? I was really very good, now that I think back on it. Certainly one who could keep up a poker face with the best of them. But, that aside, James, do consider. It was all because of my youngest, naturally—Baby. For Charlemagne's sake, if for nothing else. You claim you've a leg over him, which I can hardly deny, can I? Well! You can then logically hardly remain '007' in this house, James. My littlest one simply won't stand for it, and I could hardly be M and Mummy both, not after I noticed what was between you. Didn't even want it, in the end. My husband was absolutely correct, as always—he ever is, the pernicious old sod. So, I'm afraid for you it's to be all John and Greg and James, from this day forward, not to mention Sherly and My. And I shall of course become your 'Mummy', James, and no more of this 'Ma'am' shite, you bloody old cuss. And you'll come along to Christmas, and Easter, and all else, as long as you and my Baby are together. As is expected. As is…" Here, Mummy lost all remnants of mirth and positively glared at James. "Proper."
"I am not little!" Q can't help but hiss at the cameras and the view of his oblivious Mummy, practically backing James Bond into a metaphorical corner and holding the grand knife of maternally-inflicted guilt at his throat. His brothers, the filthy wankers, only chuckle; sod them! "And for gawd's sake, Mummy! Put a little pressure on him, why don't you? Why not just run him off with the fireplace poker? Oh! This is horrible! Horrible!"
"Fool," Sherly denounces scathingly. "Look to the evidence."
"Oh, he's right, Baby," My just has to add. "Your beau's not budging, not a whit."
"Dearest, settle your nerves," Papa adds adjusting a camera. "Look to your James's face. It's all there, everything clear as day."
"As is, James," and Mummy sends James a very stern look. "My right, as a mum. Did you want your most favorite Quartermaster to be an orphan in reality? Because I can't quite accept that, dear, cheers."
"Oh, god, no."
On grainy black-and-white camera, James claps a damp palm to his forehead, a universal sign of frustration. The tea towel goes flying off screen.
"What, then?"
"No! M!" he exclaims, scowling at her through his fingers and the trailing corner of the dishtowel he's holding. "All right, I suppose…I suppose I can understand it. Your reasoning. At least, I think I can."
"That's well enough then, James."
"And this…this thing you suggest, how familial. How…very… odd of you, inviting me. Must I? Really? Family dinners are hardly my bailiwick, Ma'am."
"Oh, you must," Mummy twinkles. "My baby boy will insist, James." She giggles again; she's in right high spirits this evening, and absolutely in the mood to purr at poor James. "And he will insist and of course you shall trot along, and grow to like it, too, I don't doubt. Consider it the final order of an 'M', Mr James Bond—my last testament, if you will. And do heed me or else I shall sic all the rest of my boys on you."
For a split second Q catches his breath and holds it, entirely tense.
"No! Anything but that, please! But…very well. You win, er, 'Mummy'." Bloody but unbowed, James finally relents, and even smiles at Mummy. The tea towel returns to view as he flourishes it, taking up a plate Mummy presses into his hands. "Agh! No—no, I simply can't do it. Ma'am."
"Hmph! Bloody poppycock, James! Of course you manage, even at your age. That's Mummy to you, idiot boy. Now, speaking of boys, and boys together, what about a civil partnership, James? Have you and Baby considered—?"
"Oh, gawd no, Mummy!" Q can only be grateful Papa cuts the cameras off with a decisive finger tap. "Not that!"
"Right, then," he says. "Seems quite sufficient—no homicidal agents to worry over, not under my roof, at least. Off you all lot go, back to your canoodling. Baby, you'd better bolt off and rescue your young man immediately. I can hardly help you with that, not from down here."
"Oh! Fuckity, fuckity, fuck! Yes, Papa! On it!"
Q goes, and at a gallop.
