Author's Note: Hi! Quick disclaimer, I own absolutely none of the characters (or the picture), that's all up to Ian Fleming, MGM, and Sony Pictures Entertainment, so hats off to those guys!

Also, first story! I'd love a review, or a rating! This story features the pairing 00Q. If that's not your cup of tea, then shuffle on. :)

Q opened his eyes slowly and stretched down the length of the bed. The blinding light coming in from the window loudly declared it was morning, and Q groaned as he reached for his glasses. He sat up and put them on, stretching again, as consciousness fought its way back into his mind.

He then glared at the window.

"Wow. Fuck you, James."

Really? Opening the curtains before he left? That's a new low.

Q frowned as memories from the night before started coming back to him. They'd had a fight… What was it over? Something about Q getting more sleep while Bond was off on missions. Which was a stupid idea, because of course Q couldn't sleep knowing that his partner was getting shot at. Or stabbed. Or both. But he didn't tell Bond that, he only said that they worked well together, they made the most efficient team. It just happened that Q's presence in his earpiece kept him alive.

They hadn't sorted it out before they both fell asleep, keeping careful distance, something which they both hated but they hadn't wanted to antagonize the other. But something as vindictive as leaving the curtains open? That usually wasn't James's style…

Q swung his legs out from under the blanket and stood up, making his way to the kitchen. As he flicked on the kettle, though, his eyes caught the time on the microwave. He stared at it, disbelieving. 10:00.

"Shit." He ran back down to the bedroom and grabbed his phone, but there were no messages demanding to know why he was late to work? When was he coming? The government's fallen without you! That was strange.

It was then that he heard a shoe scuff from inside the bathroom. Q froze for a second, before quietly making his way over to the bedside table. Someone coughed and Q wrenched open the drawer and grabbed his gun, pointing it towards the bathroom door, hearing the 'click' as he released the safety catch.

"I know you're there. Come out, hands up!" he said, trying to sound confident, but his brain was working overtime. How could anyone get past his security? It was impossible. The bathroom door opened and a man came in to the bedroom, with his arms raised above his head. He stood at about 5' 10" and wore casual clothing, jeans and a T-shirt. But his shirt clung to his muscled torso and there was something about the way he walked that reminded Q of one of the agents at MI6.

"Who are you?" demanded Q. "How the hell did you get in here?"

To Q's complete surprise, the man laughed, a deep sound that scraped up his chest. He couldn't quite work out why, but Q found the sound unnerving.

"Stop that!" Q said, motioning with his gun, in case the intruder had already forgotten that there was a lethal weapon pointing at him. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

The man slowly and deliberately lowered his arms, until he was standing normally, keeping eye-contact with Q the whole time. Q just looked at him, appalled. "Hands up, I said!" But the man just laughed again, and took a step towards Q, and then another.

Q backed away. "If you come a step closer, I'm going to shoot. That's your warning!" The man ignored him. Q leveled the gun, inhaled, and pulled the trigger. An empty chamber in the gun clicked over. Q shot again. And again. "No," he said. This gun is always, always kept full. Q looked up to see the man a metre away. They looked at each other, sizing the other one up. Q had to admit, he didn't like his chances.

Slowly, as if enjoying every moment, the man reached into his back pocket of his jeans and bought out a pistol of his own, lining it up with Q's forehead. At the same time, a round of bullets dropped out of his hand, hitting the carpet between them.

"Please tell me your precious agent taught you more than to just point a gun at someone," he said. His voice was low and gravelly, Q didn't recognize it. "Because he certainly didn't teach you how to wake up if there's a stranger in your room."

Q forced himself to look past the gun and into the eyes of his trespasser.

"He'll find you," he said quietly. "He'll find you, because he can always find me."

The other man laughed once more.

"That depends if I leave something left for him to find," he said before pulling his arm back and smashing the gun against Q's head.