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Bond carries the two heaviest bags while Q carries the lighter one and unlocks the front door. They bicker about Bond's taste in music as they shuffle through the hallway, kicking off their shoes and dodging the cats en route to the kitchen. Q drops his bag on the counter and immediately goes to put a record on—Bond played a modern jazz station in the car that was about as enjoyable as a dial-up modem, and Q needs some Ella Fitzgerald to cleanse his auditory palate.
While Bond empties the bags onto the counter, Q consolidates the frozen items in one pile and formulates his game plan. Bond had scoffed at Q's over-indulgence in the freezer aisle, convinced Q would never be able to fit all his purchases in his tiny ice box. But Q is an engineer; he's certain he'll make it fit together, once he has all the pieces sized up.
On the stereo, Ella is knocking on wood, and Bond hums along and stays out of Q's way as Q empties the current contents of the freezer and begins Tetrising the boxes and bags of frozen foods into a workable configuration. The oven beeps as Bond sets it preheating, and Bond taps on a box of frozen lasagna with a questioning smile. Q nods and sets the lasagna alongside the bottle of red Bond's already fetched from the cupboard.
And there, he has it: sans the lasagna, he has the exact arrangement of items that should just fit in the limited space. Q starts restocking the freezer with zeal; he is going to be so smug in a couple minutes. Bond will be so annoyed with him. It'll be great.
Behind him, the automatic feeder buzzes, whirs, and clatters out a scoop of cat food into the bowl, and it's that sound, of all the familiar bustle in the kitchen, that trips Q head-first into a realization so sobering it leaves him as frozen as the meals in his hands.
The small kitchen snaps into focus. The counter cleared off, the dry goods neatly stowed in the cupboards. The oven preheating. Two glasses of wine breathing on the dining table. And the automatic cat feeder already refilled. All while Q'd been messing about with his frozen meals.
He feels a vague thread of guilt at all of Bond's labor; this was hardly the evening of casual sex Bond was looking for when he offered Q a ride home. Q rewinds the evening, trying to place where things went so bafflingly off-track.
Just a couple hours ago, Bond had swung by his office as he often did to offer Q a lift home, with that irresistible twinkle in his eye that promised wild sex on the couch or the stairs or the bed, depending how far they made it into the house before they ripped one another's clothes off. Although they sometimes got distracted with a long snog and a cuddle and never got around to giving one another orgasms. And on particularly stressful days, they sometimes opted for quiet companionship without any physical contact at all.
Regardless, two hours ago, Q had eagerly agreed to Bond's plans…but he'd remembered as he climbed into Bond's car that he was low on cat food. So they'd swung by the Sainsbury's, as they sometimes did, where Bond gamely carried the basket, and Q picked up the bare essentials to get him and his pets through to the weekend. As well as some fresh vegetables for Bond's omelets, since he knows Bond prefers to fix breakfast at Q's place rather than risk the MI6 cafeteria. And the frozen meal brand Q prefers was on sale—the boxes for two, which was convenient, as Bond frequently shared Q's dinners, either at the office or at his home. And while they were at the store, Q might as well pick up some more loo paper and a few liters of juice. If the shop became a tad more ambitious than Q intended, with Bond swapping out the basket for a trolley half-way through, well, Bond's car had a greater carrying capacity than Q's bicycle; it only made sense to optimize the stop.
Bond was familiar with the organization of Q's cupboards, so it wasn't exactly unthinkable that he could sort out the dry goods himself. And Bond had learned months ago that Q got light-headed if he skipped dinner (because Q typically worked through lunch), so cooking and eating dinner together had become the habit, rather than rushing into passionate sex in the front room.
And of course, with Q so caught up in his geometry puzzle, and the cats obviously hungry, Bond had seen to their needs in addition to Q's…and all the pieces coalesce into an irrefutable, irrational whole, as it belatedly dawns on Q that he's dating James Bond.
Not just regular hook ups for no-strings-attached, recreational sex when Bond was in town and Q had an itch.
Q slumps into a chair at the small dining table, unable to keep his balance while his world tilts on its axis. He needs a minute to breathe, to think. He didn't plan this. He doesn't even know how he feels about this. He's actually dating James Bond, the man with the highest body count (in kills and conquests) at MI6. It doesn't make any goddamn sense.
Christ, he isn't even sure he wants to date Bond.
It started as a bit of fun, mostly stress relief on Q's part. And it was damn good, the best Q'd had in ages. And if Bond kept coming by his office and giving him that look, why wouldn't Q take him up on it and enjoy himself while Bond's improbable attention lasted? Q knew from the very beginning that Bond wouldn't stick around for long. That the handsome, lethal, and lethally sexy secret agent would move on to someone else's bed after he and Q had worked their inconvenient mutual attraction out of their systems.
But that was six…no, eight months ago. And Bond is still here. He's in Q's kitchen, prepping their dinner, feeding Q's cats, putting away Q's groceries…and now washing the breakfast dishes he left in Q's sink that very morning…. He hasn't laid a finger on Q all evening, yet Q feels held, wrapped up, supported in a way that's nearly impossible to put into words.
James Bond is ephemeral, a professional liar and seducer, a man prone to disappearing both on- and off-mission to get up to god-knows-what. Dating him would be the single most irresponsible decision Q's ever made, likely to end in disaster on any number of fronts. And yet…
…Q is dating him. And Q loves dating him. It's comfortable, and uncomplicated, and satisfying in a way his dating life has never been. And Q thinks with a growing sense of astonishment and conviction that if anyone (besides Bond-himself) tried to end this…relationship…they're apparently in, Q would tear them to bloody pieces.
"Defeated already?" Bond asks, setting out knives and forks on the table. "What happened to all your boasts about spatial relations being your 'bitch'?"
Fuck, Q loves him—or at least he's liable to get there sooner or later, if they keep this up.
Q stands and presses Bond against the counter and kisses him, long and sweet, feeling like it's new, uncharted territory he's exploring. Bond makes a pleased sound and opens for him, letting Q take his time with him. Q pets Bond's hair the way he likes and nibbles at his lower lip until Bond is breathing heavily, his hands holding tight on Q's hips.
Q pulls back to find Bond's cheeks and ears delightfully pink, and Q laughs with a giddiness he can't explain.
"What's gotten into you?" Bond asks, smiling.
"Nothing," Q sighs happily. He kisses Bond one more time before turning to address the three remaining frozen meal boxes on the counter. With a little jostling and shoving, he manages to wedge them into position and get the freezer door sealed. "I just needed a minute to see how it all fits together."