Food day was yesterday but here have this anyway. Also for anyone wondering about the incredibly vague meal Q is making it’s actually this recipe made by one of our very own so go check that out

Contrary to popular belief, Q actually does know how to cook. He’s lived on his own for a long time, far longer than he’s been Quartermaster or worked for MI6 that’s for sure, so it’s only natural he’s learned to be self-reliant. He might not be the culinary artist that James seems to be in the kitchen, but he more than gets by.

It’s something James doesn’t find out right away, which seems impossible with how long they’ve been together. In fact, it’s something he learns through sheer coincidence more than anything else, an event set into motion by James showing up unexpectedly from a rare mission gone right, intending to do the surprising and ending up the surprised.

The flat smells amazing, and James would be tempted to think Q’s simply phoned in dinner if not for the clear sound of dishes and pots clanging around.

He doesn’t know what he expects to see, only that Q standing over the cooker — barefoot and dressed in a pullover two sizes too big — bouncing on the balls of his feet as he uses the flat of a knife to slide neatly chopped tomatoes into a frying pan isn’t it.

Q notices him a beat later and freezes, caught out, with the knife and chopping board hovering awkwardly in his hands.

He blinks, mouth dropped open into a tiny, silent ‘oh’.

“I didn’t know you were home.”

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

Q smirks wryly. “Well, look at us, keeping each other on our toes.” The oiled pan pops loudly, it’s contents sizzling dangerously, and then Q is turning again, attention once more on the pots in front of him.

And James — James leans against the countertop and waits, content to simply sit and watch. Q in action is a sight to see, all casual, confident movements and sharp focus as he glides seamlessly from one step to the next. It’s beautiful.

Q is beautiful.

It’s over far too quickly. Q’s just beginning to finish up, adding and stirring thin slices of chicken into the large saucepan when James finally pushes himself to stand and set the table. The food looks just as good as it smells once it’s set and plated, and James makes sure to say so.

Q shrugs, avoiding his eyes as he pokes at his plate. The tips of his ears burn just the slightest shade of red. “It’s just pasta.”

“And here I thought all you could do was boil water,” James teases.

Q’s nose wrinkles in displeasure and just like that his embarrassment is forgotten. “I’m lazy, not incompetent.”

James takes a bite and finds he agrees.

It becomes a regular thing after that, until wandering out into the kitchen to find Q already at the chopping board or standing over the hot cooker becomes a familiar sight. It only takes a handful of times before James is sliding in next to him, rolling up his sleeves, reaching for a knife of his own and pretending not to be affected by Q’s surprised little smile as they get to work.

That quickly becomes a regular thing too.

The rest of it comes naturally, with the two of them falling easily and comfortably into their new routine. It should worry him — the sudden change their relationship takes from then on — James keeps waiting for it to, but he can’t find it in him to care quite so much when Q is laughing and darting away from him, disrupting the cats and leaving puffs of white everywhere he goes to escape from James’ flour-covered hands. Nor when he stands, hands at his hips, and unashamedly argues with James over spices in the middle of the market.

Certainly not when he’s dressed down, wearing nothing but a thin shirt and tracksuit bottoms that aren’t his own as he stands in the delightfully smelling kitchen, face warm and ruddy-cheeked from the heat.

No, James thinks as he sits at the table, he isn’t worried at all. Across from him, Q smiles.

They eat.

Martin is the first to join their little family. A small grey thing that’s got trouble written all over him from where he peers up at Q with too large eyes, unfitting for his tiny body, which is only made smaller by the large hands cradling him. James looks ridiculously pleased with himself as he presents the kitten, completely ignoring Q’s insistence that he doesn’t have the time to take care of another cat, let alone one that’s still so young.

But then James is pushing the little bundle into his arms where it meows and bats curiously up at him with clumsy paws, and that, as they say, is that.

It happens again years later, once they’ve moved in together and established a steady routine both at home and at work. The adoption is unexpected, and when James opens the door to their home he freezes at the rapid click, click, click of excited paws tapdancing against the floor — too heavy to belong to any of the cats, even the giant ball of fluff Q insists is just ‘well feed’.

He turns the corner. And stops.

The dog isn’t so much massive as it is stocky, all muscled chest and wrinkles, and, most importantly, wrapped in a large union jack flag. Beside it is Q of all people, grinning as he spreads out his arms and steps aside in some grand showing as he lets out a happy ‘surprise!’ Surprise indeed.

It’s ridiculous and sentimental but —

Jack stays, and their family grows a little bigger.

(Later that night, with Q curled against him and the telly on, James looks at Jack and can’t help but snort. M would approve)