At the Quartermaster's Residence, 7.25pm
Q opened the door. "I don't think I've seen you in anything other than suits," he said, looking Bond up and down appraisingly. "The Milk Tray man look. Very fetching," Q said amusedly, standing aside to allow him entrance to his home.
Bond took two steps to cross the threshold and stopped dead. Sitting halfway down the hallway, already looking like they were planning the demise of this new intruder on their territory, two pairs of amber-green eyes stared unblinking at him. He carefully put down the bags he was holding and slipped off his jacket and handed it back to Q, his own unblinking stare never dropping from the challenge before him. Q took the jacket and leaned against the wall, still smiling.
Bond reached into his pocket of his trousers and for a fleeting moment, Q thought he was going to pull out a gun. But to his eternal surprise, Q watched as Bond lay down on the carpet at his feet and held out his hand, palm opened and up to reveal a handful of treats. George and Charles were on him like bees round a honey jar.
"I seem to recall you saying you didn't have any time for cats."
"I don't," Bond replied. "But these are your cats and I considered it prudent to get into their good books from the off, if I wanted to stay in my Quartermaster's."
Q said nothing, gathering up the bags while Bond stood from his brief dalliance with the felines and brushed himself off.
"These look suspiciously like grocery bags," said Q, strolling towards the kitchen.
"Well spotted, Q," said Bond from behind him, followed enthusiastically by his newfound furry friends. "Those deductive powers of yours are becoming more finely honed with each passing day."
"When you said you were bringing food…"
"You thought I meant takeout? Not a chance. I'm very careful about what I put into my body."
"You can cook?" queried Q, with raised eyebrows as he placed the bags on the counter.
"Of course I can cook. I'm not a complete luddite, contrary to your perception, Q," said Bond, unpacking the bags.
Q watched. "Where's the meat?"
"I'm a vegetarian, Q. I thought you knew that. We've shared several dinners and breakfasts together."
"You're…. a vegetarian…" Q took a moment to recall their meals, and indeed, couldn't actually remember meat being on the menu. Well, not until after dinner anyway.
Q cleared his throat. "So, what's for dinner?"
"Italian. Linguine specifically," he said, moving round Q's kitchen looking a little too much as though he felt at home, even though it was his first time in the space. "And I'm afraid my Double O status extends to the culinary arts, Q."
"Meaning…?"
"I like to work alone. So pour us both some wine," as he handed him the bottle, an opener and two glasses, "go to your sofa and entertain the cats. I'll be with you shortly."
A Quartermaster could get used to this…
Twenty minutes later, Bond was standing in his living room admiring the space.
"Minimalist. Very you, Q."
"I like to think so," he replied, focussing on the furry ball purring away in his arms. Bond scanned the bookshelves, his eyes coming to rest on something that didn't quite look like it belonged. He reached out to touch the spine and pulled.
A photo album. A wedding photo album.
"Bond." The tone was edged with the slightest touch of warning. He pushed the item firmly back. "You do like your books."
Q rose from the sofa to stand next to him. "I cannot fail to appreciate that without them, we would not be the evolved beings we are today. They are a constant reminder that life is worth all the pain."
"And sometimes the pleasure…" said Bond, turning smoothly towards him. Their furry audience watched on. Q distractedly wondered if M might have had cameras installed behind their eyes… He hoped not. Fortunately, crimes of passion and severe mutual manhandling were not high on the list of MI6's concerns…
"Dinner," said Q hoarsely, breaking away from Bond.
"Dinner," said Bond, distractedly. "And then dessert," he stated, pulling Q towards the kitchen.
"Well, that very much depends on how impressive your cooking is, Mr Bond."
"I'm confident I'll have you begging for more by the last mouthful," he said through that bloody infuriatingly captivating smile.
Bastard.
Q was roused from his limpet-like position wrapped around James, to the agent shuffling his body attempting to rise from the bed. "Where you going?" mumbled Q drowsily. "Be right back," whispered James.
He returned a few minutes later bearing two glasses of iced water. Mmmmm, lifesaver, thought Q, pushing himself up on a elbow to take the proffered glass, not realising how thirsty he was until his first gulp of the cold liquid, welcoming the icy blast as it hit the inside of his chest. He opened his eyes as he ran his arm across his mouth to see James, kneeling on the bed, unmoving, just watching from the dark.
"What?" asked Q.
James simply downed two deep gulps from his own glass and placed it by the side of the bed. He didn't speak as he moved to hover over Q, mirroring the move as he lay back. Dropping his head down, James released the ice cube from his mouth to between his teeth. Q arched slightly and hissed at the suddenness of the cold heat. James circled the cube twice round his chest. Q remained still as he felt the trace of a straight line beneath his collarbone and a diagonal line travel from his shoulder to his hip.
Q laughed while James deposited the remains of the ice in his belly button and looked up at him with a smile.
"Did you just… mark me?"
"Just laying claim to my territory," he said casually. Q wasn't sure if he should be flattered or offended.
James lay down next to him, looking at the ceiling as he spoke. "I fight for territory, sometimes I destroy it, deliberately or unintentionally. I belong to the SIS, to MI6, to this country. Owned, not an owner. Rarely or never, do I get to call something my own."
He sat up suddenly again and retrieved the ice cube from Q's navel, swallowing it down. He looked at him then. "For this first time in a truly long time, I feel like I'm home. Arthur."
Q pulled the sheets over them and wrapped himself round the agent. In that moment, all was said that needed to be said.
He woke the next morning to an empty space but for George, the tubbier of his two fluffy companions, staring and meowing forlornly, sounding as though he hadn't seen the inside of a tin of food since forever. Q stood, stretched and headed towards the kitchen.
He was greeted by a cup sitting by a still warm kettle, in it an Earl Grey teabag. Q pulled from beneath, a note the cup was resting on.
"Talk when I land at Tel Aviv. See you in 3 days. I expect the fridge to be stocked with cheese, Italian wine and plenty of ice cubes for my return. J."
Bugger, thought Q, as he hit the switch on the kettle. Better be careful. This situation is developing the possibility of becoming positively domestic.