Chapter Text
22:47.
Q sighed and lowered his watch, feeling wretched. He looked up at the door of his own house. It was the first time he’d ever felt nervous about what lay beyond it.
His key was heavy in his pocket, and he half expected that it wouldn’t work; that the locks would have been changed, but it slid home smooth as ever and his cats greeted him at the coat rack as if it were any other night.
A soft glow came through from the living room, as did the smell of a well-cooked dinner, meat and wine-heavy. Q’s stomach grumbled not entirely out of hunger.
“I’m home,” he managed to get out. His legs carried him down the hallway. “I’m so sorry, James, I—“
The dinner table was set. Candles lit, the food still so warm it steamed. James was pouring a second glass of the Château Angélus and setting it down in Q’s usual spot.
Q was sure he was gaping like a fish.
He’d told James, forever ago — in fact, a year ago to the day — that he would try his best to be home for Christmases and birthdays and anniversaries. So far he’d managed to keep to his word, barring a small security incident on Christmas Day that meant he’d missed the Queen’s speech. But work did tend to be most cruel about the most personal of commitments, and of all the milestones he hadn’t wanted to miss, it was this: a one-year anniversary. That was the kind of milestone neither of them had much expected to get to, after all.
“What on earth,” started James, untroubled, “have you got to be sorry about?”
“I’m four hours late to dinner. You made a reservation at The Ledbury.” Q thought of the fine suit he’d brought to change into at work. It was hanging in a dry cleaning bag on the back of the door now, left dormant for another year.
“And you saved two agents’ lives.”
He wasn’t meant to know that. Oh he really wasn’t meant to know that. Q would be having a word with Eve in the morning.
James walked over. He came in close, and Q could smell a long few hours of cooking on him. He had a spot of flour just above the collar of his shirt. Q wiped it away, sagging with relief and a day’s worth of exhaustion.
“I wanted to make it. I did.”
“You did make it,” smiled James. He leaned in to kiss the hinge of Q’s jaw. “The night’s young yet.”
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“They’d only just be starting on the continent. I never ate anything worth eating in Italy before nine thirty.”
James kissed him proper, open-mouthed and heavy with intent, and Q’s protests died on his tongue. He whispered a happy anniversary around James’ bottom lip and found himself rewarded with an arm around his waist, hauling him in tighter. Their breaths were one. Everything was close, suffocating and perfect, and he conceded that there were some silver linings in life.
After all, they couldn’t have done this sort of thing at The Ledbury.