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The thing about James Bond is that, despite frequent claims to the contrary, he’s not actually an idiot—no, really, Eve Moneypenny; willful disobedience isn’t the same thing and you know it. So when the first parcel shows up, it doesn’t take him very long to figure it out. At first he mistakes it for a part of his kit, the cheery red wrapping some sort of Q-Branch joke. Q’s sense of humour can be opaque at times, tilted toward the hopelessly hip and obscure, and it’s not entirely out of hand to dismiss any strangeness as an attempt to be funny by the Quartermaster. But when the foil peels away to reveal the small box and its perfectly ordinary cufflinks, elegant in their simplicity, there’s not much else he can take from it, really.
It’s cute, the idea that Q might have a crush on him. Oh, for a moment he thinks about how he’ll eventually have to turn Q down and break his poor boffin heart, but when he thinks about it for long enough that his knee jerk reaction cools, he can easily see something sweet in it, something innocent, perhaps. Q, tucking away the little present into the bottom of his kit with a secret little smile. Maybe Q daydreaming a romantic interlude between them—Q pursing his lips for a kiss. Perhaps. It fills his chest with something soft and dangerously fuzzy to think of his Quartermaster putting aside his granddad’s jumpers for a little romance, a little passion in his life. There’s so little wholehearted innocence in MI6; he’s reluctant to crush it under his heel so callously.
Instead, he decides, he’ll play along a bit. Just a little, do something sweet and warm and let Q daydream a little longer. It’s easy to pick up a snow globe in one of the cheap tourist shops—Come to Sunny Geneva!—and have the shopgirl wrap it carefully. It’s even easier to make sure Q can see the cufflinks worn proudly as he slides the little box across the desk when he checks in.
“What’s this?” Q asks, voice flat, but there’s the hint of a curious smile tugging up at the corner of his mouth. “Is it your radio? Dare I get my hopes up that you’ve actually saved some part of your kit this time?”
“I got you a present,” Bond tells him, and when Q’s fingers hover a moment too long, he reaches forward, tugging on the bow until it spools loose.
“Generally, one lets the receiver open the gift, Mr. Bond.”
It’s not Bond’s imagination that Q’s mouth is wryer, his eyes laughing. Bond all but glows as Q lifts away the heavy, folded paper to peer at the snowglobe. He—perhaps they’re not his type of thing? Q prods it with the end of his pen. “You don’t like it,” Bond confirms, frowning.
Q glances up at him, his mouth tucked up in a sweetly sarcastic expression. “Perhaps next time skip the tourist tat—return my equipment and I may even kiss you with gratitude.”
For all his sour words, Bond notices the globe has place of pride on Q’s shelf, right between the thermometer and a heavy volume about malware.
::
The next gift is more subtle. The dinner jacket is a rush delivery from London; they hadn’t anticipated he’d be actually attending the fete, and generally one doesn’t need formal dress for skulking behind pillars, but what Oksana wants, Oksana gets—including four billion pounds’ worth of stolen diamonds and James Bond as arm candy, apparently. He has to admit it will make it easier to guide her into her debtors’ arms, rather than trying to pick the major players off through the windows with a sniper rifle. Thank god the Office still has his measurements on file, and the suit shows up far quicker than he’d imagined, in impeccable white tie and a fit beyond compare. He finds the ring tucked into the front pocket, secure beneath the square, and there’s no doubt it’s meant for him: Orbit Non Sufficit, stamped beneath the stag triumphant, it’s custom jewelry with a short handwritten note warning him of the sleeping powder within. It’s a thoughtful gift, and completely unusable by anyone else.
Bond decides this deserves a special gift in return, of course: he takes care to actually bring back one of the flash grenades he’s been issued, and the poleaxed look of wonder on Q’s face when he places it on the desk before him fills Bond with the warm glow of having made the right choice. Q’s expression is notably warmer, his cheeks flushed and his eyes animated, especially when Bond sits down with him and thoroughly explains the results of the two he’s used. He touches the back of Q’s hand specially as he leans over, and he’s surprised when Q’s grin makes him grin, too.
“You’ll spoil me, Agent Bond,” Q tells him, teasing. His fingers skim the grenade as a man touching the face of a beloved pet presumed lost. He strokes the pebbled surface, and Bond bites his lip against the dirty laugh that’s trying to come out.
“I endeavor to please,” Bond says.
Q shakes his head. “No, you don’t. If you can possibly avoid it, you take pains to.”
“No, I don’t,” Bond agrees genially, and Q’s laughter is bubbly, infectious.
“No, you don’t,” Q repeats. “Hence, spoiling.”
“Shall I take it back, then?” Bond asks, reaching. Quick as lightning, the grenade is gone, squirrelled away into the drawers of Q’s desk. Q’s smile is very smug.
“Not on your life.”
It’s the best gift he could have given; Q’s spirits are buoyed such that he only scolds for twenty minutes when Bond confesses he’s lost the radio again.
::
Okay, even Bond has to confess that Q is adorable when he’s this excited. There’s something inherently lovely about the plush of his lip; he’s bitten it a deep red, and Bond fondly watches him wince at the heat of his tea when he takes a sip. He’s lovely, and he’s surprised that it’s taken him these few months of discreet wooing to discover it; when Q bends to rifle through his desk drawers again, Bond spies a sliver of bared skin where his jumper has ridden up and wonders if it is as creamy-soft as it looks.
The jumper is a new, special kind of awful; he’s wearing it for the holiday party Bond will be missing this evening. Bond’s torn on that front—he’s always hated these forced socialisation things, but the cheap, synthetic green of the jumper’s acrylic yarn brings out the colour of Q’s eyes and makes him wonder what might have happened in the dark corners of the building after Bond had brought him a cider or two. Or perhaps Q’s a wine man, or still young enough to prefer the cloying mixed drinks that will be around—and for the first time since he’s joined Her Majesty’s Secret Service, he finds he almost wants to go.
“Nice jumper,” he says instead.
Q beams at him. “Isn’t it horrible? I’ve never seen anything so ugly in my life. It’s brilliant!” He fishes through the drawers a little more, then sits up, producing a lumpy package topped with a cheap blue bow. It looks like it’s been wrapped in thin Poundland tissue, thick with sellotape. Bond raises a brow, and Q pushes it at him across the desk top. Perhaps he’d had the other one professionally wrapped; the thought fills Bond’s chest with warm affection for the silly thing.
He’s picking the tape as Q drums his fingers impatiently when Q blurts out, “It’s the flash grenade! I was able to make some upgrades to it since you brought it back, and since it was your feedback that allowed me to fine-tune the prototype, I reckon you might as well be the first one to try it.”
“Surprise,” Bond says mildly, and Q has the grace to flush before plowing on.
“Have a care, Double-oh Seven: this is the only one of these in existence. Officially, this is just a prototype; we’ll be rolling out the official production line after the first of the year, but. Happy Christmas.”
Bond finally peels back the paper, surprised by the lump in his throat. “Happy Christmas, Q. I haven’t got a gift for you, though.”
“Well,” Q says, cagily, “I won’t say no to the pull ring. If you can keep it, I won’t say it won’t be useful.”
Bond smiles.
::
When he comes to, it’s to the clean, antiseptic smell of the medical wing and Q’s livid face. “They had to cut your fingers apart. Apart! Do you understand: your fingers fused together—the skin of your fingers melted and fused to-fucking-gether because you reached into a detonating flash grenade.”
Yes, that rather explains the gauze wrapped tight to his elbow and the unpleasant muzzy chill of morphine, but when Bond flexes his immobilised fingertips in the stiff, white bandages, Q’s face goes nearly purple with apoplexy. “Just why the fuck would you do that, Bond?” Q demands, and.
And. Bond hasn’t really thought about it, but he finds there’s no thinking about it, really. Q’s still in that hideous jumper, his hair mussed and his eyes rimmed in dark, exhausted shadows. He’s still unbearably lovely. And Bond hasn’t felt like this, hasn’t felt this wonder and this sweeping rush of affection for someone in such a very long time. In nearly long enough to forget how, but he thinks if he had he might remember now anyway, might just know when he looks at Q’s pinched expression and sad, tired eyes. His fingers twitch again. “Did you get it, then?” he asks, and at Q’s questioning look, he clarifies: “The ring. You wanted—”
Q’s face goes pale and bloodless, lips thinning. “Don’t even joke.”
“I’m not. I—” He’s bollocksing it up, wrecking this moment, and he tries to smile, even though he knows by the pull of his face that there are stitches there, that he must look a fright. “Q, I thought—I wanted—”
“Don’t joke, because a senior agent wouldn’t willingly put himself at risk just to return a piece of nonessential tech. A senior agent would know better that a piece of equipment is worth much less than a human life, and he would never—god, Bond, don’t tell me you did it for me. Don’t you dare.” Q’s voice cracks on the last word, guilt stretched thin as a veil across his features, and. That’s not what he wanted, not why he said anything. Not at all.
“I wanted,” Bond starts, but Q shoves back, and the scrape of the chair’s legs against the lino makes Bond shiver.
“I can’t even bear to look at you right now.” Q leaves.
::
It becomes a habit, Q sitting at his bedside chatting brightly as he pokes at a few designs on his tablet and Bond offers suggestions.
“I won’t. You’re being ridiculous,” Q tells him, eyes on the screen but mouth curling around a smile. He’s trying not to laugh, so Bond laughs for him.
“Just think about it. You know it’s a good idea!”
“Not everything is meant to explode, Bond.”
“Which is why it’s so pleasantly surprising when they do.”
Q’s snort of laughter is darling. They snigger together, the moment so unusually domestic that Bond’s heart clenches in his chest. Q looks as though he’s had a nap, at least—the dark pits beneath his eyes are shallower, lighter, at least—and his hair is freshly washed; Bond’s overcome with an ache to know if it is as soft as it looks. His fingers squirm in their wrapping and Q sighs sympathetically, setting his tablet aside.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
And normally, a million lascivious responses would spring to Bond’s tongue, but he can’t find a way to say “Wiggle your head under my fingers so I can pet you” without sounding direly pathetic. Instead, he says, “It’s a pity after the lovely ring you gave me I couldn’t return the one you wanted. I’ll have to get you another to replace it—emeralds? They’d go well with your eyes.”
Q blinks at him, and his lashes are longer and lovelier than Moneypenny’s. “What are you talking about, Bond?”
“You could call me James.”
Q must be embarrassed to be finally talking aloud about it, but—“Fine, James. Have the nurses turned the morphine up too high? You’re talking shit.”
“Your Christmas present,” Bond prompts him gently. “It’s my turn to reciprocate, anyway. Do you prefer gold or platinum?”
“Aluminium,” Q says, then, “but what on Earth are you talking about reciprocating? You know the grenade wasn’t really a present, right? The wrapping was leftover from my gift for the party.”
An uneasy feeling begins to tingle down from Bond’s burned fingertips. “Then it’s about time I gifted you preemptively, isn’t it?”
“You want to give me a Christmas present?” Q asks. His brow knits and his face crumples thoughtfully.
“Of course. It’s the sort of thing one does,” Bond starts, but Q looks so confused. The rest of the sentence sticks in his throat like treacle, dripping slowly, “when one’s seeing someone.”
“Are you seeing someone?” Q sounds truly lost now, and. And so is Bond, because he’d thought.
“I know we haven’t really talked about it, but the gifts—I. I do return your—your feelings, Q. You don’t have to be shy. And when I’m out of hospital, I’d like to take you to dinner. Properly.” But even as he speaks, the words faltering and unsure, there’s confusion on Q’s face, bafflement in his eyes. His jaw works, but Q says nothing, and the shiver that tickles across Bond’s frame has nothing to do with the suddenly chilled room. “I’ve misread the situation,” Bond ventures, flat. He has. He can see it in the nervous draw of Q’s muscles and the way he leans toward the door, as though he wants to escape.
“I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Nothing to be sorry about. It was a misunderstanding.” End of conversation. He stares at the ceiling and Q at his tablet, and he gives it three minutes before Q cracks.
“I’m just going to—” Q surprises him; it takes five.
::
It’s Christmas in the dark medical wing when Bond wakes up, fairy lights strung around the room the only gloomy reminder of the holiday. There’s a skeleton crew on, and he can hear the distant, tinny sounds of the Doctor rescuing the universe filtering down the hall—all of MI6 is celebrating the holiday but him, with his arms lifted and draining into sponges taped to his elbows. There’s a sound to his right, and a small box in red foil appears, left on his chest by slender fingers smudged with machine oil.
“It’s from Poppy,” Q says. “To apologize.”
“I can’t open it,” Bond says. Q nods, peeling back the wrapper to reveal another set of cufflinks, identical to the first. “Oh.”
“The other pair got melted. You seemed to like them.”
“I thought—” Bond starts. He doesn’t have to finish; they both know what he thought.
“She’s dreadfully sorry. She didn’t mean….”
“And when I didn’t come talk to her—?”
“She presumed you weren’t interested, of course.” Then, “Shall I tell her otherwise?”
“No.” No, Poppy is sweet, a brilliant tech for Q-Branch and entertaining enough conversation on the comms, but his stomach still flips when Q’s thumb brushes his chest as he reaches to pick up the box and set it aside.
“I brought you a present,” Q tells him, and Bond tips his head to look. There’s all the signs of a long stay: Q’s laptop is closed in the corner, and by the phone—
“Grapes?” Bond asks, peering at the twisted vine tangled in its plastic tray.
“It’s traditional, when one visits someone in hospital,” Q says defensively, then, “...but I ate them. You slept rather longer than I expected you to, and the caff is closed for the holiday.”
And Bond can’t help it: he laughs. “That’s traditional, too, truth be told.”
“Isn’t it?” Q asks, laughing too. He leans over his bag, fishing around until he finds another parcel, wrapping messy and childish, sellotaped over nearly every inch of space available. “Hah!” His cheer is triumphant. “Happy Christmas, Mr.—ah, Bond. James.”
“James,” Bond agrees.
Q’s smile is shy. “I wanted to apologise, too. I didn’t react very well when you. Well. When you told me. I was quite cruel, when I think about it.”
“There’s nothing to apologise for, Q,” Bond tells him, and he does wish he could touch that tremulous smile on Q’s face, but even if his hands weren’t pinned above his head he wouldn’t.
“Yes there is. We’re friends, you and I, aren’t we?” Q asks. “At least I thought so. And friends don’t treat friends…. But anyway, your present.”
“I don’t need anything for Christmas, Q. I haven’t even got you anything,” Bond protests.
“Then give me a kiss.” The words hang between them awkwardly, the only sign that Bond hasn’t misheard him the hot blush blooming on Q’s cheeks. He looks sweet, unsure, with his eyes darting to the side.
Bond could repeat the words—“A kiss?” he’d confirm, and Q would nod miserably and shyly—but he doesn’t. “Lean in, then,” he tells Q. Obedient, Q does.
Q’s mouth is soft and warm, with a faint malt from the grapes and the familiar bitter tang of the tea he has in a carafe by the bed. He’s shy at first, but then it’s Q’s tongue darting out, Q’s lips parting, Q deepening the kiss until Bond is woozy from it. When he pulls back, Q touches his tongue to his lower lip and flushes deeply. It’s hopelessly charming.
“Is it a Christmas present, then?” Bond asks, and Q’s blush goes redder.
“I’d heard from someone that’s what was done,” Q tells him. His fingers curl around Bond’s carefully, “when one is seeing someone.”
“Are you seeing someone, then?”
Q stills, drawing back. For a moment, Bond worries he’s said the wrong thing, damaged this little sprout before it’s had a chance to blossom, but Q just reaches for the present, unwrapping it. When he’s done, there’s a ballpoint on Bond’s chest, but the explosion’s inside, huge and hot and breathy.
“I was hoping to be,” Q tells him.