Chapter Text
Silent night, holy night
Silent night, nothing feels right
That Was The Worst Christmas Ever!, Sufjan Stevens
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through MI6, very many creatures were stirring, because, seriously, did you think that international terrorism, crime and general wrongdoing all stop for the festive season?
But don’t get the idea that it was entirely business as usual at Six. In deference to the time of year, the organisation was running on a reduced staff, down to essential workers and skeleton crews only. Halls were decked throughout the building, to varying extents (with the most decorated departments being Q Branch and the executive areas, and the most Scrooge-ish being Finance and Analysis, to approximately nobody’s surprise). Dings were even donging merrily on high, thanks to one of Q’s underlings hacking the loudspeaker system to play a judicious mix of Christmas hits, carols and underrated festive indie music in every room. Well, apart from in the 00’s shared office, where 007 had shot the speaker to silence after Mariah Carey had warbled her Christmas wants for the third time within the first hour of the playlist. (Honestly, fair enough.)
So, travelling down to the Underworld, we find Q Branch significantly less populated and slightly less caffeinated than usual. The labs and garages were closed, leaving a small team at their computer terminals who were warding off any hacks, tracking current missions and generally keeping a weather eye over the world.
The more romantically-minded reader among you may think that, given that it was Q’s first Christmas since he’d started dating Bond, the younger man might have taken advantage of the festive lull to have a day or two off to celebrate (read: fuck on a rug in front of a roaring fire) and exchange gifts (insert ‘exploding pen joke’ here) with his boyfriend.
The more romantically-minded reader would be wrong.
With very little going on for any of the current missions, there wasn’t much call for Q to be at his station in the middle of the Branch, working his magic via his wall of monitors. But the combination of his workaholic tendencies and overwhelming anxiety issues meant that he couldn’t leave well enough alone. Yes, he had gone on holiday with Bond earlier in the year, but the lurking idea that a cunning ne’er-do-well might strike while MI6’s guard was the tiniest bit down for the festive period stopped him from taking a few days off.
When Q had announced his plans to work through Christmas to James, the agent had been less than impressed. Less than impressed in the sense that his response was a stream of expletives in at least five different languages, combined with storming out the lounge where the pair had been relaxing. Q had been uncharacteristically blindsided. No-one, least of all the man who knew him best, would have thought that Bond was a Christmas fanatic. In fact, in all previous years, he had seemingly done his best to avoid the holiday entirely, either by offering himself for a mission or fucking off to warmer climes for some festive fucking. So, with tempers frayed as the year crawled to a close, the situation had devolved into an all-out argument.
“You know, James, I hadn’t realised that you were disappearing off to the North Pole for elf duties when you buggered off every Christmas before now.”
Bond was forced to storm back into the room he had just left. The protruding vein on his left temple stood out more than usual. “What the actual fuck, Q?”
“I just hadn’t expected that you cared so deeply about Christmas. I didn’t think this would be a big fucking deal.”
James wasn’t ready to relent. (Why does the image of his M’s indestructible porcelain bulldog spring to mind?) “I didn’t think that wanting to spend Christmas with my boyfriend was an unreasonable expectation.”
Q rolled his eyes. “It’s just another day. If you’re so bothered, we can eat dry turkey and watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ on a date of your choosing. I’ll even bake a sodding fruitcake.”
For a while, Bond simply stared at Q, his eyes narrowing. When he spoke, each word was measured precisely. It would have been less threatening if he had taken out his gun. “And what, darling, do you suggest that I do on the twenty-fifth while you’re at work? I’m still too fucking broken to be sent on a mission. Shall I sit at home, watching the Queen’s speech and twiddling my thumbs?”
Q felt the proverbial penny drop. The problem wasn’t that James had suddenly discovered a deep love of all things festive. The problem - if you can call it a problem - was that, for the first time since the little boy had hidden himself in a cold Scottish priest hole, Bond didn’t have to be lonely at Christmas. For the first time in all of those years, he didn’t have to be alone, didn’t have to fill the vacuum of the day with alcohol or violence or meaningless fucking or all of the three. For the first time, he had a home to go to, in the form of the man who had upended his life from the moment he had entered the National Gallery, and two disdainful cats, and a worryingly obstinate puppy, and a little flat with too many books and not enough table space.
(Not enough table space for what, you may ask? Well, Q says there’s not enough for all of his projects. Bond says there’s not enough for him to bend Q over. Either way, it’s an issue.)
And so, Q felt himself melt inside, for the millionth time since the thaw had begun on that mouldering bench. He opened his laptop and pulled up the Q Branch rota, unlocking his phone at the same time, to type on both devices simultaneously (alright, Q, we see that flex). He stared at his phone for a few seconds, before smiling slightly in satisfaction. Finally, he looked up at James, who was still bristling in the doorway.
“That’s that then. I’ve got Christmas Day off. Didn’t have a good enough bribe to get R to cover me for more than that, but at least we’ll get to watch old Queen Liz together.”
Bond didn’t reply. His eyes narrowed even further.
Q sighed. “You might have had a point about spending Christmas together. It is our first. I… well, perhaps I might have been a tad self-absorbed.” A blush spread across his nose to his cheekbones. “Sorry, and all that.”
Finally, finally, James relented. The slightest quirk appeared at the corner of his lips. He prowled - there’s no other way to describe the way the man moved - towards where the other man was perched on the sofa. “Q, I do believe you’re saying that I was right and you were wrong.”
The younger man pursed his lips. “Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far…”
In one movement, James had Q pinned beneath him on the sofa. Both men attempted not to smile.
(Both failed.)
“No, I’m quite sure. You definitely just said that I was right.”
Q attempted to fix Bond with his best quartermaster glare. Another failure. (A failure that definitely had absolutely nothing to do with their burgeoning erections.) “Whatever helps your poor bruised ego, dearest.”
Bond shook his head. “You don’t get away that easily, Quartermaster. That type of error requires punishment.”
The eye roll that followed from Q couldn’t even be called halfhearted. “And what type of punishment would that be, 007? I’m quaking in my boots.”
James bent to Q’s neck - nice and high, above any collar imaginable - and started to suck a love bite there. And then another. And another.
Poor, poor Q. What is a boy to do?
(He loved it. Every bite, every suck, every moment that followed after.)
(He especially loved M’s face when he met with his superior the next day. Bond loved that particular moment even more.)
(Fuck, they’re a nightmare, aren’t they?)
————————————————————————————————————————————
And that, dear reader, is how we found ourselves in Q Branch on Christmas Eve, when most other Londoners were rushing home to start boiling the Brussels sprouts ready for the big day. But instead of committing criminal acts against green vegetables, Q was at his work bench in his office, doing something terrifyingly precise to a pen that definitely wasn’t ever, ever going to explode. Using a pair of his mum’s eyebrow tweezers - he’d tried plenty of others and these did the job best, ok? - he was manipulating a minuscule part into place when…
“The angel Gabriel from heaven came-”
A booming baritone echoed through the office. Q started, dropping the tweezers and the (fortunately) non-exploding pen.
“For fuck’s sake, Bond, you cannot do that!”
In an instant, the agent was plastered to Q’s back, tucking his head onto the younger man’s shoulder. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m simply getting into the festive spirit.”
Q spun inside Bond’s arms, coming nose to nose with him. “Firstly, I am trying to do very precise, very difficult, very focused work. Secondly,” - Q’s voice dropped to a whisper - “you cannot go singing my name around here. And thirdly, you especially cannot go singing my name in relation to the act of coming, you absolute, bona fide, five star prick.”
James cocked an eyebrow. “A five star rating for my prick? Q, my angel, I’m flattered.”
Q sighed in exasperation. “I’ll be downgrading that rating promptly, 007, if you don’t leave me alone for three seconds so I can do this. I have a very important meeting with M in a few minutes and-”
“I’d say your meeting is just about now, in fact, Quartermaster.”
The pair turned simultaneously to the source of the voice. M was in the doorway, flanked by Tanner and Moneypenny, like an overworked business-formal version of the Three Musketeers.
“My apologies, M. 007 ever so rudely came down here and interrupted my work. I assure you, I’m absolutely ready for our meeting.” Q spoke, simultaneously extricating himself from Bond’s embrace while glaring at the agent. He gesticulated towards a bench along one wall. “If you’ll all come over here, I have the latest batch of new tech to demonstrate. Bond, I imagine there’s still a nice stash of years overdue paperwork calling your name upstairs?”
“Not so fast - I’d value an agent’s perspective on these. 007 might have something helpful to offer,” M said, as he strode towards the treasure trove arranged at the side of the office.
“You hear that, Q? I’m helpful. Valuable, even,” Bond whispered into the younger man’s ear as the group followed M.
Q hissed in reply: “He only said ‘might’, Bond, don’t get ahead of yourself.” The agent’s chest puffed out nonetheless.
(Peacock. Total fucking peacock, he is.)
Their argument (or rage shag, it’s hard to tell) was stopped in its tracks by the task at hand. Q launched into dizzyingly technical descriptions of his latest inventions, [redacted, redacted, redacted, redacted, redacted], stopping only to answer his colleagues’ questions. James’s chest puffed out even further, not out of arrogance or ego this time, but out of pure pride at the brilliance of his boyfriend. Nauseating. Lovely.
Eventually, Q ran out of facts to spout about his creations. M, apparently satisfied, prepared to depart. “I’ve a final phone call with the Prime Minister ahead of him sodding off to Chequers until the New Year, so I’d best go now. Moneypenny, Tanner - you stay here and confirm specs and costing. I need requisitions put in before Finance goes on one of their January austerity kicks.” He got to the office door before pausing. “Barring the apocalypse, I want you all out of here by 4PM. Go and pretend to be civilians.” M smiled with unexpected warmth: “In case the dear Prime Minister is in a particularly chatty mood, I’ll wish you all a merry Christmas now. God knows you’ve all earned it, in one form or another.”
And with that, M was away, and the mice were left to play. Q exhaled theatrically. “Thank fuck he’s gone.”
Moneypenny expressed the confusion shared by everyone else. “I didn’t think that was bad… at all? Where’s all this relief coming from?”
Q was already unlocking the door of the en-suite bathroom. “I shut him in here before the meeting, didn’t want M finding out I’ve got him in the office.” And, as he spoke, out trotted a very disgruntled little white dog, who was sneezing in displeasure.
“I was wondering where you’d stashed him,” Bond said, crouching to greet the pup. “Nasty papa Q, locking you in a toilet.”
Tanner looked like he simultaneously wanted both to resign and to throttle Q and Bond. “Would anyone care to fill me in about what this is? I’d rather hoped to save my festive mental breakdown for the traffic on the M25.”
Moving with remarkable speed for a man recovering from two major bullet wounds, Bond stood, cradling the placated puppy to his chest. “Please, Tanner, do address Caesar with the dignity he deserves. He doesn’t appreciate rudeness.”
Q raised his eyes to the ceiling, inhaling deeply before turning to Tanner. “Well, we couldn’t very well leave him at home when James was brought back in on desk duties. Normally he’s up in the 00’s office or in the garage with the mechanics. He’s getting very good at fetching tools. Really, he’s proving rather useful. But with the garage closed today and Bond in the shooting range, he had to be in here with me.”
“Also can’t leave him alone with your demonic cats…” Bond muttered.
“Cicero only batted him on the nose once, and frankly, he was asking for it.”
Bond snorted. “Can’t punish the lad for curiosity. He just wanted to see what would happen if he teethed on the gremlin’s tail.”
“Boys…” Moneypenny warned. “Can we put a pin in the bickering and get the job done? Some of us do actually want to leave work on time for once.”
Tanner pulled himself to full height. “Quite right, Moneypenny. Though I will be requesting a risk assessment for the dog - sorry, Caesar - before you bring him in again.” Bond’s eye roll was almost audible.
And so, the three settled down to work through the details, with quasi-helpful interjections from Bond. In fact, one might even say the task was going swimmingly. That was, until Tanner made a fatal mistake: “You know what, we’re nearly done. I think we’re going to be able to get out of here early.”
(You know the saying about doing a numerical check of your poultry before they’ve completed the oocyte stage? Yeah, that one. Thanks, Tanner, for dooming our famous five to what happens next.)
A banshee of an alarm wailed. In rapid succession, a clunk echoed through Q’s office, followed by a whoosh through the ventilation system, then a crackle as the emergency tannoy came to life:
“Stay in place. Chemical hazard alert. Stay in place. Chemical hazard alert. Stay in pl-”
Somewhat surprisingly, Q had been the first to jump to action. The other three turned to stare as he leapt with unexpected agility onto his desk, reaching up to remove a ceiling tile and pull a wire loose. “Well, after it’s told us once, there’s no point to it bleating on endlessly.”
Q crouched to press a button on his desk. Immediately, M’s voice resounded through the room: “Q, who do you have there?”
The younger man slid back to the floor without a shed of gracefulness. “007, Tanner and Moneypenny. And Caesar. Sir.”
“What? No, don’t answer that. You all need to stay in the office. A festive-looking envelope was delivered to the main floor of Q Branch. One of your employees opened it in a fit of seasonal stupidity and was engulfed by a cloud of some kind of vapour. Said employee and the other two people in the room have been whisked off to Medical - all seem fine so far, no panic needed - but until your chemical weaponry techs have been called in to test any remaining vapour and check the air quality, no-one can pass through Q Branch. So I’m afraid this leaves you lot rather stuck in the office.” M had the decency to sound sheepish.
For a second, no-one moved. But then Q pinched the bridge of his nose, cursing M in Latin under his breath. Bond shed his suit jacket more aggressively than anyone could imagine possible. Moneypenny kicked her heels off with such force that they skidded across the floor. And Tanner? Tanner tutted. Once.
“And how long can we expect to be here? My head of chemical weaponry is on her way up to Hadrian’s Wall.” Q’s voice was posher than ever. (Red flag. Red fucking flag. You should be grateful he can’t leave the room, M.)
M hesitated before answering, which was damning enough as answers go. “We’ve contacted her. All told, I think we’re looking at… twelve to sixteen hours. Give or take.” Bond reached for the gun in his holster, pointing it at the intercom system. Thankfully for everyone, Q stopped him in his tracks with a one raised eyebrow, a glance at the agent’s crotch, and the very slightest shake of his head. Unaware of the narrow escape, M continued: “I’m very aware that this is not how any of you wanted to spend your Christmas Eve. Rest assured that you’ll receive time in lieu off work afterwards, and a hefty boost to your bonuses, Finance Department be damned.” Another pause. Even Tanner was starting to look pissed off, which is saying something. “My apologies to all of you. If it’s any comfort, I’ll stay here for the duration to coordinate.”
For ten seconds (Q counted), there was silence. It was as if M was hoping that one of the four captives would respond to reassure him that they were perfectly happy to be trapped in a basement office whilst the world above drank sherry and watched Carols from Kings. But if he was waiting for such a response, he’d be there a very, very long time - definitely longer than those twelve to sixteen hours. In the end, the only reply he got was a perfectly indignant whine from Caesar.
M cleared his throat. “Again, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace - I trust that Q has supplies stashed away in there. I’ll call through when I have an update. Ah… Merry Christmas.” The intercom crackled back into silence.
Slightly stunned, the four human inhabitants of the room looked from one to another. For all of their combined years of training, no-one had the answer for what to do in this situation. But, in another shocking moment, perhaps even more shocking than the revelation that they were all trapped, it was Tanner who broke the silence with atypical bluntness:
“Well then. Fuck.”
Fuck indeed, Bill. Fuck indeed