There was a bite of autumn in the air that night, though not yet enough to tempt James to draw up his red hood. The last hint of sunset had disappeared, and he lit the lamp that he carried. Eyes blinked in the trees. He moved on.

When at last he reached Q's house he found that it was small, little more than a cabin, set well back within the encircling arms of a high thorny hedge. Not bramble or hawthorn, James realised. Roses. In the pale circle of lamplight he saw the scarlet scatter of petals on the ground, the green hips just starting to swell. And near the top, one perfect full bloom, balanced on the perilous edge of overblown. James stretched up, and grasped the stem, and picked it.

A sliver of brightness in the curtain crack, a single lantern burning by the door. James knocked, three times.

The door opened, and James entered, glancing around with interest. A fire danced low in the grate, and at the other end of the room a long wooden table was burdened with odds and ends of alchemical equipment.

Q looked at the rose in James' hands and raised a single eyebrow. 'Those come at a price, you know.'

James met his gaze evenly. 'I'll pay it.'

And Q smiled—really, genuinely smiled, the most unguarded expression James had ever seen on his face. 'I think,' he replied softly, as he reached out to take the flower, 'you already have.'

Then he frowned, seeing the deep lacerations the thorns had left on James' hand. Flicked his eyes to James' belt, which was empty. 'You came here unarmed.'

'Yes.'

Q shook his head as he turned away; he seemed unsure whether to be amused or outraged. 'You're a bloody idiot, Bond.'

James grinned. 'Well, I love you too, Q.'

Q froze in the act of setting the rose down on the table, and James caught his breath for a long moment, wondering how badly he had misjudged the situation. He had thought—

Then the young man picked up a small pot and came back. Taking James' callused and bloody hand in his own pale one, he began to smooth an olive-coloured salve into the wounds.

'Ash,' he said. 'That's my name. You may as well know.'

Something kicked over in James' chest; he raised his free hand and cupped Q's face, brushing his thumb over the sharp cheekbone. 'Then you'd better call me James.'

'All right then,' Q said, matter-of-factly. But he smiled again, and released James' hand with a last caress of cool fingers. 'Would you like some wine?'

They settled on the rug in front of the fireplace, and James ran his fingers through the dark silken hair that spilled into his lap where Q's—Ash's; that would take some getting used to—head lay pillowed.

With the wine rich and rough on his tongue James said, 'You know I can't offer happily ever after.'

Q blinked up at him. 'We both know there's no such thing,' he said, 'not for people like us.' He stretched up to curve his fingers behind James' neck, lifting his own head to meet James with a hungry, searching kiss.

'True,' James admitted. 'So—we just take what we can get, is that it?'

'That,' said Q, pulling himself upright and moving to straddle James' lap, with the firelight gleaming bright in his eyes, 'is precisely what I intend to do.'

Thanks everyone for sticking with me through this story, which started out with the intention of being just a drabble or so, and yeah, we can all see how that plan turned out. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it 3