Work Text:
There is an apartment somewhere south London, in Croydon which looks absolutely ordinary - neat, cosy, well kept, with a doormat that says “welcome” and a winter wreath on the door during the holidays. Inside the apartment there are two Sphynx cats and a bunch of cactuses which survived numerous murder attempts from the aforementioned cats. You may stand right in front of the door and be Mr. Robert Frobisher’s neighbour for the last ten years and you never be any the wiser that Mr Frobisher is not actually a Google analytic, and Robert Frobisher is not even his real name.
The dark haired man has green eyes and wears glasses, sometimes goes to work by bike, usually has a backpack (probably for his laptop); his shifts are long and more often than not he comes back home very late. He looks boyish but there’re barely visible wrinkles in the corners of his eyes; his figure is lanky and his hair a usual mess.
There is always quiet music playing in his apartment, blues or jazz, Andy Williams and Bing Crosby. The man talks to his cats and a couple of Christmases ago someone hurriedly left the flat and the sounds of the cheerful Cool Yule abruptly stopped. Mr. Frobisher left to work early in the morning, his eyes tired and his expression difficult to define; next Christmases he spent alone.
Q didn’t choose the name Robert, someone from the HR department did ages ago when he was officially hired as the Quartermaster of MI6. Q shrugged and accepted his new driving licence which he never used mainly for the best interest of the licence itself and the safety of the pedestrians.
It was Christmas Eve again and this time the music was coming from the kitchen and not from its usual corner in the living room where the record player stood on the coffee table. Q’s laptop was sitting in the kitchen and Sia sang about her Snowman. The song was catchy but melodic and Q quietly sang along while seasoning the salmon on the cutting board in front of him. It was playing on a loop because Q rediscovered the song and now it was stuck in his head, so he had been listening to it for the last past half an hour. He swinged his hips, closing his eyes during his favourite part. One of the cats swirled around Q’s legs in vain hope of stealing a piece of fish.
“No, hey, come on, Peter, off you go,” he moved the cat with his right foot, ignoring a scandalised hiss.
The music faded for a moment before starting again once more.
“This must be some kind of twisted way of torturing your neighbours, Q. How on Earth can you listen to one song so many times?” said a voice – deep, aristocratic and relaxed.
Q froze for a second and then turned around, his face dangerously calm. A moment later a tea towel had been thrown in the general direction of the corridor where James Bond was standing with a smug grin on his face.
Bond watched the towel fly over his head. He blinked and shifted his gaze back to Q. “Hello,” he said cheerfully. “I got wine.”
“Out. Right now, I am not joking, Bond, what the hell, my door is locked, I have cameras,” Q adjusted his glasses quickly almost nervously and once again nudged his cat away from the oven.
“Yes, that you do. But you also have been so busy with all your culinary extravaganza that you haven’t noticed me standing here,” he checked his wristwatch, “ for the last twenty minutes.”
“Oh my god,” Q muttered and marched to his laptop to turn the music off; behind him Bond’s grin became wider as he entered the kitchen and put down a bottle of red.
He looked around, scanning the kitchen's countertops. “That’s a lot of food you have here, Q,” he paused and glanced at the younger man curiously. “Are you expecting someone?”
“You know, the surprised tone in your voice is really hurtful. But no, I am not,” he returned to his salmon and took a couple of fresh mint leaves. As Q worked on the seasoning, Bond stood behind him, silently observing his movements. “Jesus Christ, you are creepy. Don’t you have anyone else to bother?” Q asked without turning; Bond didn’t bother to reply. “I wonder what would happen if you decided to appear unannounced to Mellory’s house.”
“Well,” Bond sat down on one of the chairs, stretching his legs, “he probably wouldn’t be listening to that cheesy song three hundred times in a row and would notice me sooner.”
Q huffed, “I bet Tenner would listen though. He would definitely sing it on the top of his lungs. Give me the tin foil, please, it’s on your left near the kettle.”
Bond grabbed the foil and passed it to Q who looked ridiculously concentrated, wearing a grey apron with small Christmas ornaments on it. “Why are you doing this?” He asked genuinely curious.
“Believe it or not, double oh, people need to eat. Coffee or whiskey don’t count.”
“Yes, but you don’t eat unless R or Moneypenny threaten you with Medical. But look at you, Jamie Oliver.”
Q was carefully wrapping the fish in the tin foil, “I love cooking, it relaxes me. I love the texture of the ingredients, their colours and the chemistry of the cooking process. But I am not a fan of eating, so my neighbour, Mrs Lizzy, is very happy about this fact. Most of the time, I just give her half of what I cooked. I bribe her with food so when I stay all weekend at work, she feeds my cats. But I rarely get a chance to enjoy my hobby in peace, don’t I,” he glanced at Bond who was listening to him with full attention, his blue eyes smiling. Q rolled his eyes and Bond silently laughed.
“And what…oh, hello,” a second cat appeared in the doorway. The cat stared at Bond, his expression suspiciously similar to Q’s. “What’s his name?”
“George.”
Bond stretched out his hand and George carefully made several steps forward to sniff it. “Peter and George. This reminds me of something, but I can’t quite place it.”
“It’s from the books about the spooks during the cold war,” Q took the tray with the salmon on it and tried to open the oven door.
“Ah, Tinker, Tailor, that’s right. Do you need help with that?” Bond asked hesitantly. Q thought he never heard James Bond hesitating.
“No,” Q replied with a sigh.
“I expected your cats to be called something like Spock and Kirk,” Bond was scratching George behind his ear. The cat’s tail started to wiggle a bit. Bond nodded at it, “Dogs do that, not cats.”
“Sphynx cats are very dog-like, meaning they are less of a bastard than the rest of the cats. Plus I don’t have to go for a walk with them, so that’s a win for me,” Q answered while adjusting the temperature in the oven. He turned around, “Bond, do you really have to be here?”
James looked up at Q and it was a strange angle; they were almost the same height but it was usually the other way round - Q sitting in his workshop or his office and Bond leaning against his desk, irritating the living shit out of his Quartermaster for no obvious reason other than being a great bloody wanker.
“I don’t want to spend Christmas alone,” James answered simply, sitting on one of Q’s kitchen chairs, wearing an Oxford shirt and cufflinks under the navy blue tailor suit. Earnesty of his answer knocked the air out of Q’s lungs. Bond normally didn’t do that, no one in MI6 in fact did that. All of them disguised their feelings, covered their trucks and omitted confessions skilfully - that was what made them such good spies. “I asked Moneypenny to join us…”
“I beg your pardon, you invited other people to my place without thinking about asking me first?!”
“…but she refused and said she needed to spend it on her own this year,” Bond continued unbothered by Q’s outraged question.
“I would also like to spend Christmas on my own, thank you very much, it’s the only time I can enjoy cooking and watching It’s a wonderful Life…”
“The most depressing Christmas movie ever,” Bond nodded.
“You, cultural snub, it’s a classic. I was hoping to relax from work!”
James silently and very pointedly glared at Q’s laptop where a programme was running and various pop up windows appeared from time to time all over the screen.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Q muttered and turned the laptop away from Bond. “Why did you accept the fact that Eve wanted to spend her Christmas alone but the same request from me landed on your deaf ears?”
Bond wiggled his fingers, watching George's suspicious gaze. The cat suddenly jumped up and landed on Bond’s knees. Q tried not to sulk about the fact that his cat suddenly became friendly with 007. “Because, Q, underneath your grumpy demeanour you actually like to chat. Or perhaps you hate the silence. There is always music in your lab or your minions create the background noise when you are in the office. It is the same reason you talk with your agents over the comms. The silence means we are in deep shit, so you talk to calm us down, or perhaps yourself.”
Q stared at Bond. Peter walked over and bumped his head against Q’s legs. “Oh joy,” he muttered, picking Peter up.
“Plus Moneypenny betrayed your secret about the cooking, so I wanted to check it myself,” Bond added with a charming smile on his lips.
“Of course she did.”
“So tell me how long will it take for the salmon to cook?”
“Half an hour, why? Oi, get away from my laptop!” Q rushed forward but Bond only tsked at him. “Double oh!”
“I want to check if you have some normal festive music or is it all Wonderful Christmas time and Wham,” Bond patted George who also leaned forward watching the screen of the laptop. Q watched them, despair plastered all over his face. At least Peter didn’t show any signs of interest and remained by Q’s side. “Now we are talking.”
Rich cheerful voice of Louis Armstrong sang from the laptop and Bond nodded satisfied. He carefully put George on the chair, patted him one more time and a moment later started dancing. Not even dancing, just swinging his hips, rocking his whole body in rhythm with music. It suited him, Q thought. The old fashioned Christmas carols, the tailored suits, soft smiles and twinkles in his eyes. All of these things suited James Bond while guns, fast cars and adrenaline rush were left for 007.
“Come on, Q, join me, I know you can dance, I saw you.”
“Arse,” Q grumbled but stepped forward and let Peter jump on the floor. Bond beamed at him and wiggled his eyebrows, making Q snort.
They danced unsynchronised, hands up in the air, comments from Q’s side and a lazy grin from Bond, they bumped into each other, not really caring about that. Bond took Q’s hand and swirled him around, laughing as Q squeaked and nearly lost his balance. Music changed and Tony Bennet started telling them about a few of his favourite things.
“It’s actually a waltz, come here,” he tugged Q closer, adjusting their position. “Ready?”
“No,” Q answered honestly.
James stepped forward, leading the dance, his left hand on Q’s waist and his right palm carefully squeezed other man’s fingers. They moved chest to chest in a small space of Q's kitchen while both George and Peter observed them lazily.
Q bumped into the corner of the table and Bond grimaced but didn’t stop. It was nice to be held like this, Q admitted to himself. Bond’s movements were graceful and calculated, his grip solid and Q smiled despite his best intentions not to. They didn’t have enough space to manoeuvre the waltz but it somehow worked fine. Bond was enjoying himself, it reflected in his pale eyes and his silent laughter when Q was lost for a moment too long in his thoughts and nearly tripped over his own feet.
James didn’t remember the last time he spent Christmas in his own apartment and not in hotel rooms which all looked the same, just like all the airports usually did. Q smelled like peppermint and lemon zest, his always curious eyes were half closed and he looked relaxed even if still visibly tired. They both got softer over the years - sharp edges of Q’s quick witted mind were ever present but his sarcastic remarks were now toned down. Too much shared history between the two of them. MI6 took a toll on both James and Q, on Tenner, Eve, Alec, on Mallory. The need to spend some time on their own was justified but Bond suspected Q had taught himself to tolerate being alone. It didn’t mean he enjoyed it. But Q was irredeemably British and never spoke about his feelings.
“Q?” Bond said quietly, his thumb brushing over Q’s knuckles.
“What?”
“I think your salmon is burning.”
“Oh, bugger, that’s your fault!”
“When is it not?”
“My point exactly,” Q sighed and rushed to the oven.
Peter meowed loudly and ran towards the fish.
James waited patiently for Q to finish saving the dish and when he turned around still looking frustrated, kitchen glove on his right hand, Bond leaned forward and kissed Q.
Oh, Q thought.