Chapter Text
It’s not that Q doesn’t like his family. Contrary to popular belief, Q had a perfectly fine childhood growing up and no matter what the technicians might say otherwise, Q’s fondness for explosives has absolutely nothing to do with unresolved tensions resurfacing in the form of an uncanny knack for precise, controlled destruction. Unless of course, you count that one time with the neighbour’s dog, Batman issue #553 and an exploding mailbox. Q isn’t proud of that, but then the feeling usually goes away whenever he pulls up James’ Eton records.
It’s a bleak Monday afternoon when James has his fingers hooked around the belt loops of Q’s trousers, practically dragging Q down the hall by them and shoving Q none too gently up against the front door of his apartment while Q fumbles for his keys, cursing under his breath when James nips at his chin. “Will you stop trying to rut me like a sixteen year old and let me open my bloody door?” Q hisses when he misses the lock for the third time. James answers with knee between Q’s legs and a hand cupped around Q’s crotch, squeezing gently.
“Open the bloody door in question and then maybe I won’t have to stop,” James all but purrs in Q’s ear. “You can disable almost every bomb type in the Northern hemisphere, but can’t fit a key into a hole? Poor form, Q. Poor form indeed.”
“Northern and Southern,” Q corrects with a shallow gasp and finally there’s the blessed click he’s been waiting for, James muttering obsceneties under his breath when they finally stumble through the doorway.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard, you won’t know your own name after I’m done,” James is saying when he kicks the door shut behind them and Q finds himself on his back in the hallway of his apartment, James kneeling between Q’s legs with a look of near primal hunger etched onto the very lines of his face. “Going to–“
An abrupt stop and the hands on Q’s chest are suddenly gone, Q barely able to register the exact moment James had reached into suit jacket to pull out the Glock 17 that Q keeps trying to convince James to trade in for something classier.
“Good heavens,” gasps a voice from down the hall. It’s followed almost instantly by the sound of breaking glass and Q blearily finds himself wishing that he hadn’t been so efficient in averting that Zambian coup an hour earlier, if only to avoid this clusterfuck of a situation.
“Put the gun away, James,” Q sighs. He reaches up to nudge James’ aim away. “I think I’ll be quite displeased if you end up shooting my mother in the face.”
James at least has the decency to look embarrassed, sitting prim and proper directly opposite the formidable looking woman that keeps sizing him up from still-flushed cheeks to discreetly folded hands. Q is perched miserably on the side of the couch, trying to remember why he had ever thought it a good idea to give his mother the keys to his apartment.
“Terribly sorry about earlier,” James is saying and Q is more than a little upset that he’s currently too mortified to take pleasure in how James Bond, defender of the British empire and receiver of the all-around arsehole award for ten years running, actually seems to be something like two syllables away from squirming in his seat. “I didn’t mean to cause a shock or anything, Mrs.–“
“Oh, don’t be a ninny. Eileen, just Eileen will do, my dear boy.”
“Eileen,” James parrots obediently and with that, Q is promptly sent to the kitchen for rubber gloves and a newspaper lined bag to clean up the broken pieces of the casserole dish Eileen had shattered. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath as he rummages for rubbish bags in the drawer, all to the sound of muted conversation wafting in from the lounge. James is a double-oh, has saved more countries and killed more people than Q cares to keep track of, but all of that is probably coming to naught at the moment. After all, the only women Q thinks James has ever interacted with are the ones he’s slept with (see file 2.1 under code 007) , the ones he absolutely has to work with for the good of Queen and country (M, mostly, plus various secretaries) and various baristas, none of whom require anything other than a good deal of flirting to get by with.
So when Q finally emerges from the kitchen wielding yellow rubber gloves, an edition of The Telegraph from last month and a Tesco plastic bag, he’s only vaguely surprised to hear his mum ask James to show her his gun.
“He will be doing no such thing,” Q chokes out and James is already halfway out of his seat, apparently more than eager to help with cleaning up even though Q knows for a fact that whenever the housekeeping agency can’t spare someone for the week, tiny bacterial civilisations have been known to establish themselves in James’ kitchen sink. “Mum I think I might need another bag, so maybe if you can just run to the kitchen for a bit…”
“Oh don’t be daft,” Eileen says airily and with one look, James is obediently back in his seat. So much for having saved the free world twice. “One bag is more than enough and you know it. Trying to keep your lovely new boyfriend away from your mam now, aren’t you?” There’s a knowing glance cast in James’ direction and James can only smile weakly in return, settling a little deeper into his chair. Traitor, Q thinks sourly. Fucking traitor. He throws his hands up in defeat before getting on his knees to pick glass off the floor while his mum continues her interrogation of James Bond, James answering everything with a politeness that eventually grows into something that could even be called genuine warmth.
On the floor, Q crushes a small shard of glass between his thumb and finger. Hopes with a growing desperation that James gets irritable bowel syndrome from the amount of negative vibes Q is currently sending James’ way.
By the time Q has deposited the glass into the recyclables bin, Eileen has managed to extract a verbal promise from James to join the next family dinner. “He never brings anyone home,” she’s sighing, James traitorously nodding along in encouragement. “Why, I’d even say it’s a bit of a miracle that we even figured out he fancies…” Eileen waves a hand at James, as if trying to find the right word to describe him, “…men. Not that we love him any less for that, heavens no! We’re a progressive lot, voted Labour and everything.”
“Mum,” Q pleads, refusing to even look at James’ face for now in case he throttle the man and rid Britain of her most favoured (and frankly, most annoying) agent. “Mum, please, I thought we had a no politics rule.”
“Hush, child, James and I are having a perfectly wonderful conversation. This is partly your fault I’m like this, you know.” Eileen draws an almost hangdog air about herself, the very portrait of disappointment. “All these years and not even a single word about all your boys.”
“All his boys?” James echoes the moment Q drops his head into his hands with a groan. “Looks like someone was popular even back in the day.” I will drug you, tear your ribcage out and make you watch me wear it as a hat, Q thinks furiously at James who only shrugs, a shit-eating grin on his stupid face.
“Oh no, he wasn’t all that much of a looker right up till he hit fifth form. That was when the braces came off and we had all these lads from the younger forms coming round for tutoring, even though the good lord knows most of them didn’t even learn a damned equation in the end.”
Q makes a dismal sound, not needing to look up to know that James is probably pissing himself laughing. Next to him, Eileen pats her son’s knee comfortingly. “Oh I’m sorry love, am I embarrassing you?”