it gets even weirder
This is the very very belated last part of this year’s (well, last year’s) 9DaysCWC. I was supposed to write it on 1st Jan... well, that didn’t work out.
It’s a sequel to this ficlet.
00Q, Hannigram. New Year’s Eve Dinner. Q has doubts.
Q looked at himself in the large bedroom mirror. A completely different man stared back at him. He seldom wore dinner jackets—it was nothing like his style; unaccustomed to and undue. But this evening required it, so he had dug it out the back of his wardrobe full of otherwise colourful clothes, and told himself it was for James.
He fixed the cufflinks and straightened the sleeves. It was just a New Year’s Eve dinner at the neighbours’. A fancy dinner. Yet, he did not stop questioning the necessity of a sodding dinner jacket and a bow tie.
Q sighed. Besides the festive clothes, the dinner would also require socialising with the other occupants of the house, which, as well as the former, was not something he would enjoy. If he was being honest, he was somewhat fond of one of them only. The woman was a toxicologist who had helped Q-Branch with one of their projects. Perhaps he could count Mrs Caldwell from the ground floor as a good acquaintance if he squinted.
He wanted to step away from the mirror and leave the strange figure behind, but then he glimpsed a fast flick of a fluffy white tail behind him. Their cat, Pampuria, has sneaked into the room. She meowed. Apparently, she agreed with the sceptical attitude he held towards the event.
She crept between his feet. With loud purrs, she danced between them, and some white fur stuck to his trouser legs. Oh, of course she had to be an additional inconvenience to the already tiresome evening.
But the feline was also, undeniably, a distraction from the thoughts running around in his head. Q smiled. He squatted down to scratch her ears. She waved her tail in the air contentedly.
“I know you wish me to go no more than I do, Pampuria, but I have to,” he explained with fondness he saved for no one but James and their furry companion. He talked to her like that often, especially when James was off due to King and Country’s business. “Commitments a person of my rank and status has to keep. Besides, James is waiting for me, you know. He’s left earlier to help the host with preparations, old mates they are. I cannot do that to them.”
Q rose. With a subtle move of his right leg, he prompted Pampuria to run to the kitchen along with him. The Lecters had a dog, so he omitted cleaning the trousers for its uselessness.
“Your dinner is in the bowl, it should be enough. I’ve poured you some milk, too,” he glanced at the more or less empty bowl, “but I’m afraid that’s all we have. I will be back by two, I presume. Or later.”
He wouldn’t be so sure as to guarantee anything; the party may as well go on till the morning. That depended on the amount of alcoholic beverages and revelry from the other guests’ side, and knowing them all, it will both be high.
Pampuria meowed again, and pattered to the food bowls. She did not touch any of it, merely eyed the contents. With a good-bye, Q finally continued to the foyer.
He spared one last look in the smaller mirror. Its frame, lavishly adorned with a patina of faux dinge reminded him of James, who had been overexcited about the party. The mirror belonged to him long before the flat became theirs.
Q’s wild hair couldn’t be contained any more, and the bow tie would get askew with every move anyway, so he concluded his looks were acceptable at it is. His hand mechanically reached for a scarf lurking at him from the hanger—but of course, there was no reason to take it. He was not heading out, to the freezing cold and heavy snowfall. He grabbed his keys.
He opened the front door only to slam it shut again the next instant. He locked it, just to be certain, and checked his Omega watch. It told him that it was 8:56, high time to appear at the party. It was starting at nine, in a flat directly above theirs.
Q walked the way to the stone staircase with old white wooden bannisters, across the tiled floor. He has just made the first step when the door to the other flat opened and closed with the clinking of keys. He was not the last one to come, then.
He came to a stop and turned around. Dr Barbara Corner, the toxicologist, walked to him in her clopping black stilettos, wearing a smile on her face. Apart from that, she was wearing a plain, black robe that brushed against the floor with every step and did wonders to her figure.
He could appreciate intelligent company on the way. It was a few days since he came out of his nest and visited her to enjoy a cuppa and an open, intelligent conversation. “Good evening, Barbara. You look wonderful,” Q complimented her. He meant it.
“Good evening, Andrew. You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said, and the smile widened. There was a disconcerting flash in her glacial blue eyes. “How’s Pamps doing?”
Oh yes, oh yes. His poor, old, dying cat was always in the centre of everybody’s interest. Q did not know whether she worried about her, or there was something else to it.
“So far so good, thank you. I think she won’t give up as easily. She’s practically immortal,” he chuckled, and it was partially true. She celebrated her fifteenth birthday this year. But it also hurt. He loved her as his own child. James had rescued her from the hold of his villainous step-brother those years ago in Morocco, and since then, she has been living with the two of them, finally feeling loved.
Barbara noticed the sudden sadness in his expression, so she changed the subject as they walked up the first flight of stairs.
They talked about the project she had helped him all the way to the flat. As soon as they approached the door, their thoughts drifted elsewhere. The image of the party became real again.
Q brought himself to knock on the door. His hand was trembling, imperceptibly to Barbara.
Having had that pointless conversation, Q momentarily forgot about the nervousness. As they both ran out of meaningful topics to discuss and were standing in silence, waiting for someone to open, the slight, unflagging fear oozing from the Lecters’ flat through the gap above the threshold enveloped him again. He fidgeted in that jacket that did not quite belong on his body.
The door swung open a few second later. Q breathed in relief when he saw the familiar blond standing behind it, clutching it with one hand.
“Good evening, James,” Dr Corner greeted the agent with yet another smile and no visible trace of concern whatsoever. Nevertheless, Q knew it was there, in the corner of her eye. She paid the place respect as well as everyone who has seen what they have. It was dangerous, he just could not fathom why.
Perhaps it was the antlers, strange paintings, weapons, and many other creepy statuettes placed everywhere, hanging on the dark paperhanging covering every wall in the foyer and living room, or the sterile coldness of the steel kitchen and the sharp knives laid ostentatiously on the counter. If he did not know better, he would say it looked like a serial killer’s lair. Though, he knew Hannibal Lecter worked as a renowned psychiatrist, and his husband was ex-FBI who now had a part-time job in an animal shelter—which he did out of the goodness of his heart, he had told.
This sort of an eerie atmosphere that gave one goose bumps upon even approaching it reigned the place. But apparently, he and Barbara were the only ones who thought there was something off about the flat. He stopped mentioning any suspicious thoughts about it to James right after he had said Q was simply being paranoid because he worked for an intelligence agency.
“Good evening and a happy New Year, Barbara,” said James and stepped away from the door to let her and his partner inside. “Andrew, my darling.”
As Q walked by, James pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. Despite parting two hours ago, laying his eyes on Q conjured a heartfelt smile on James’ face. Q smiled back, it was impossible to resist, but it wasn’t credible. Not even James’ presence couldn’t put him to ease.
The trio continued to the living room, where the rest of the guests were sitting on the sofa upholstered with black leather and matching armchairs, occasionally sipping on red wine from tall, thin glasses. They were all dressed in equally elegant, shining robes as though they were going to the opera. Q mentally laughed at the fake glitz with which people like them wheeled into Dr Lecter’s favour since the day he had moved in this house in Notting Hill. They could smell the wealth and genteel that radiated from his persona, and wanted to get close to him, without trying to peer under the person suit and seeing what truly is inside. The danger. Q was wiser than that. He went to his parties only out of courtesy, and his love for James, who was thick as thieves with both Hannibal and his husband.
James was no different case, really. He has been helping the couple with the preparations, brought hundreds of pounds worth of drinks, and crawled up the Lecters’ arse in many other ways possible. But if keeping them company was what he liked to do in his free time, besides keeping Q company, and kept him occupied when he was not on a mission, Q was very liberal about his actions. He has learnt that forbidding James Bond from doing something does not have a point anyway; it can only spur him to do it out of spite.
Mrs Caldwell said hello to Q. He returned to corporeality in his thoughts and greeted her back.
Then he gave James a proper look. He, of course, saw what he had put on before he left, but he had had no time to really look and fully appreciate the sight in front of his eyes. A bespoke navy blue dinner jacket with a white shirt underneath it, and a bow tie of colour that matched the suit nicely outlined his well-defined chest and brought out his icy blue eyes. A pair of black slacks was snug on his strong legs. Saying that he looked exquisite would be an understatement. Clothes like these suited him, unlike Q, more than well. He was once again reminded why he has fallen for this impossible man in the first place.
He reluctantly tore his eyes away from James, and politely greeted everyone else: a couple of lawyers from China, who lived opposite the Lecters; the family from ground level; Mrs Caldwell. Samantha, the only child in the house, was playing with Encephalitis the dog on the floor. The parents did not seem to mind.
Hannibal Lecter and his husband were nowhere to be seen. They were probably making some final preparations in the kitchen. Q’s senses were a little calmed by that, but not enough for him to relax. Not even after he was offered a glass of 2004 Red Bordeaux, and the sweet taste of the wine pleasured his taste buds.
Both men emerged from the kitchen a moment later. They carried large, silver trays full of various kinds of colourful, mouth-watering appetisers, and Q, despite himself, realised how hungry he actually was. He ate his last meal at two o’clock in the afternoon.
He recognised many meaty foods, as typical for Dr Lecter and his parties, and he was worried for a minute. He was vegetarian, and he would not eat that should he starve to death. That was another regard he and Dr Corner shared—their taste and distaste in foods.
Although, to be completely honest, he would not eat that even if he ate meat. He did not trust the food as well as the cooks—without really knowing why.
Hannibal and Will laid the trays on the large mahogany table, in between a ghastly, crooked, antler-like candelabrum and a bowl of exotic fruits and leaves with what looked like a golden egg in the middle of it. In another moment, Will was excusing himself and returning to where he had emerged from. Not a while after, he came back with two other smaller plates, on which foods more likeable to Q’s appetite were arranged.
“Please, help yourselves to a bite to eat,” he said, locking eyes with everyone in the room. Q had to wink repeatedly to shake off the discomfort of the intense gaze.
Will’s eyes lingered on his husband. He gave him a negligible smile, and then he popped a piece of honeydew melon with prosciutto and almond in his mouth. At least the meat looked liked prosciutto.
Hannibal lifted his glass of wine in the air to catch everyone’s attention. Those who were sitting rose to their feet, mimicking the host’s gesture with the glass. Q’s arm moved up automatically, without his thinking. “Bon appétit, my friends,” said Hannibal. “Enjoy the party, and your last hours of 2030.”
That couldn’t go without a chuckle coming from Q’s mouth. He sipped at the wine once more and stepped to the table. He looked at the vegetable-filled champignons and the little, grilled peppers with cheese on the first plate. Which should he taste first, if at all?
“Try the mushroom first, then the pepper, Andrew,” offered Will Lecter. “Those are the most delicious thing in here.”
For once, Q will trust him. There could be nothing wrong with a vegetable hors d’oeuvre, correct?
But that still did not convince him about the propriety of the other things, food or otherwise. He will keep an eye on the couple. He worked in an intelligence service, after all.