It has been a long day at work for the Quartermaster. He’d arrived at 2:00 to guide 004 through an electrified safe, and it is now close to 20:30. LC is out doing business, and Bond just got sent off on a mission. He’ll be on a plan for the next eleven hours, so there’s little trouble he can get into yet. Time to go home. He biked to work from his flat, but takes the underground back because it’s starting to rain.
The train is fairly crowded for this time of night because of the rain. Probably people coming back from a late dinner, or going out to the pubs. A man comes through shaking a cup of change. The second time he comes around, Q gives him some crumpled notes that had been forgotten in his jacket pocket. He’s not sure if it’s his imagination, or if the announcements for upcoming train stops sound more tired than usual.
He’s thinking of what takeaway to order while he walks his bike through the streets from the underground to his flat, the rain now a steady drizzle pattering against the plastic-fabric of his jacket. Thai, or maybe Korean. Something spicy. He fumbles his keys, one hand busy keeping his bike upright, and they fall onto the wet concrete as he tries to unlock the door to his complex. He sighs to himself and crouches to pick them up.
He and Reg, the lobby attendant, give cursory and uninterested hellos, and Q rides the elevator to his floor. The fourth floor: not too high, but high enough for a view, and high enough to deter most from trying to come in his window. James has done it a few times--just to prove he can, Q thinks--but he hasn’t managed to do it without setting off the alarms yet. Q’s sure he will at some point. James is that type of person: stubborn and brilliant.
The door is securely locked when Q arrives, and he is tired. He opens the door, and stops, tired mind grinding back into gear. He can hear the quiet murmur of the telly, smell something cooking. He checks—no, not the wrong apartment. He frowns slightly, pushes the door further ajar. There is no creak; Q has made sure to oil his doors, just in case.
The smell of something cooking doubles, and Q’s stomach tighten as he peers inside. There is a man on the couch, dark hair falling in his face, white shirt standing out against the dark sofa. A black suit jacket is draped over the opposite end of the couch, and one of Q’s cats—Edgar—is purring in the man’s lap as he strokes the cat’s ears. Tesla trots toward the door, purring as he winds around Q’s ankles. Q picks him up before he can escape into the hallway.
“Hello,” Q says, wheeling in the bike far enough to close the door behind him. “I thought you were in the Mediterranean.”
“I was,” the man says without turning. “And now I’m back. Your cats are terrible security.”
“You try to train cats and see where that gets you.” Tesla is squirming, so Q sets him down and leans the bike against the wall. “Things went well?” he asks, as he hangs his coat. It drips on the mat below. It will be dry by morning, but he’ll check the weather to see if he should wear something sturdier.
The man finally turns, smiling a small smile. “Yes. I acquired quite a sizable share of the Moroccan spice stocks. You’re home late.”
Q walks over, bending to press a kiss to Le Chiffre’s lips. “And yet you knew when to cook dinner.”
“Mm,” the banker hums, noncommittal. “Sit with me. It will be done soon.”
It’s the news on the telly. Q focuses on the images, but the words float through his head without leaving in imprint. “I missed you.” A hand cards into his hair, and Q can smell something like cinnamon and woods on Le Chiffre’s shirt when he leans on the banker’s shoulder. Tesla stretches and jumps on the couch.
“I missed you too.” Le Chiffre smiles and turns his head, pressing a soft kiss into Q’s hair.
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“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Quarter/Cipher pls ❤
Meme here
“I can’t believe you talked me into this...” Q swallowed, spindly hands wrapped, white-knuckled, around the captain’s wheel.
“Relax, beloved. There’s nothing out here to hit.” Le Chiffre pressed a kiss on the top of his lover’s head, hands still on Q’s shoulders. “We’re on the ocean, no other boats around. Just don’t sink and you’ll manage fine.”
“Right. Just... Don’t sink.” The younger man was still visibly nervous. Not sinking suddenly sounded a lot harder than it usually did.
Le Chiffre gave a low chuckle. “You can build a gun from parts; I’m sure you can do something as simple as steer a ship.” He took Q’s hand, moving it to the motor controls, and used it to turn on the ignition. “And now... The gas. Just a little.”
The boat’s engine murmured, and they began to float forward in the water, an inch at a time. “Good,” Le Chiffre said, “Now a little more.”
They slowly came up to speed, Q’s eyes glued on the water in front of them, waiting for something to happen - a whale to breach over the ship, a dolphin to appear right in front of the bow with a sickly smack. But nothing appeared - just open water, stretching to the horizon. Q risked a bit more speed, the yacht now motoring through the waves at the speed of a car on the highway. He turned the wheel, slowly, feeling the whole ship tilt around him, and let out a breathless laugh, eyes wide.
“You have it, my beloved!” Le Chiffre murmured, smiling to himself, and wrapped his arms around the Quartermaster’s chest from behind. “Very good.”
It had been a quiet walk through the snow so far, both of them bundled up in heavy jackets and gloves. Q had a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, and Le Chiffre’s breath came out in crystalized puffs, trailing behind them as they crunched, hand in hand, along the edge of the trees that lined the lodge.
Well, it had been.
“Don’t you dare throw that snowba-, goddammit!” A splatter of snow skittered across Le Chiffre’s face and he lurched back.
Q’s face was hidden behind his woolen wrappings, but his eyes were squinted in a smile. “Can’t keep up, old man?”
Le Chiffre wiped the ice from his face, strict poker-straight expression slipping away. “Can’t keep up? You must think little of me, beloved.” He sank to one knee, scooping a handful of snow in leather gloves. “I hope you know what you’ve starte-mphh!” Another spray of snow glanced off his shoulder, and Q laughed.
---
Half an hour later, both of them were sweating, soaked, and breathing hard, sitting together against a tree. Makeshift forts littered the battlefield, with the snow in between stomped down into muddy paths. Q had pulled down his scarf, leaving it trailing down his back, and his glasses were speckled with water drops. “Truce?”
Le Chiffre glanced over, cheeks pinched red from the wind. He’d not had a snowball fight in... Ever, probably. “Truce. For now.”
“Good enough.” Q grinned, leaning over to peck a kiss on the banker’s cheek.
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