The Quartermaster glanced around him as he went through the motions of opening his flat. The lock was coded to his fingerprint and DNA signature of course, but it wouldn't do for his perfectly normal neighbors to think he was anything more clever than the nurse he pretended to be. Whenever Bond was in London, Q half expected him to materialize out of the shadows around every corner, but however much he strained his eyes in the dim hallway he couldn't discern the broad lines of his most deadly responsibility.

Letting himself into the dark flat he quietly toed off his shoes and slid his cardigan onto a chair by the door. He rolled up his sleeves and left his automatic brewer making growls that sounded like preparing tea. Light-footed in his socks, he whisked through the modest rooms turning on soft yellow lamps and setting the evening news to occupy itself. In his nest of wires and couch cushions he finally settled down with his favorite Q mug, his laptop, and a folder of work to be done. Dinner would just have to wait.

For a few hours he lost himself in code and the beauty of brand new, highly-destructive weapons. When he finally glanced up to see that the sun had long ago given his place to the moon he was surprised to see he had lost so much time.

(Well into the night and no knocks on his door or keys in the lock. Did that mean…? For the best really. What would he have gotten out of such a thing anyway? Nothing but a sorely beaten heart and all the more blood in his foyer. He had been right. He was always right. Men like Bond didn't want skinny young men – boy really – like him, not even as distractions. Better to have not started it at all.)

He dumped his long cold tea in the sink as he passed and went through the motions of settling in for the night. Back off went all the softly burning lamps and back locked went the tiny window pane he had opened to let in the crisp night air. Into its safe went his laptop, along with the plans from MI6 and his work mobile. Off came his rumpled button-down and the damned tie he so despised.

That was probably the only thing he hated about his job, he mused to himself. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the enforced formality of dress at such a serious job, but would it really make a difference to England if he conducted his business in a cozily oversized jumper rather than a starched shirt and tie? At least they allowed his slightly off-beat cardigans. Despite Bond's very rude comments they were quite warm and not at all "frumpy".

Sighing quietly at the state of disrepair he had let his room get to, he perched on the end of his unmade bed to yank off his socks. That bed had been the backdrop of many a insomniac night filled with only twisted sheets and the blue hazy glow of a screen. Actually, he worked more than he ever slept there. If he was lucky he came down long enough to crash for an hour or two before he was back, exhausted but wide awake.

Flinching from the chilly bare wood he did a sort of hopping dance around the room as he gathered his clothes and the many piles on the floor and deposited them in a hamper to be washed later. It was a relief when he finally made it to the plush bath mat and started the water in the shower. Absently, he wondered if he had ever gotten around to putting some food in his stomach. He could never remember when he was working.

Giving another long sigh at his own carelessness he stepped into the frosted glass stall.

Warm water was a balm that Q doubted he would ever take for granted. It took the grime off his pale skin and blessedly unknotted the tight muscles in shoulders and lower back. All of his joints loosened and he moved about a bit boneless, humming tunelessly. He had almost started to slip into sleep standing up when he felt fingers that were not his own working into his scalp.

His first reaction was out and out panic. All his previously relaxed muscles tensed and he whipped around to face the intruder. He would deny until his dying day the high-pitched scream that was abruptly cut off by Bond's hand over his mouth. Q struggled to get free; Bond should not be here, he hadn't meant it, and Bond should definitely not be naked in his shower! But this was a double-oh he was fighting against and so Q would be silent until the agent decided to give him the power of speech again. In the meantime he did his best to kill Bond with the pure hatred in his glare.

It was to no avail and Bond's heart stubbornly continued beating. "Are you finished?" he asked the man in his grip, far too casually for the situation.

Still glaring, Q nodded slowly. The larger man released him and he immediately launched into speech and tried to physically force the spy back out of the stall. "This is not acceptable at all! I invited you to talk, not to intrude on me in my own home. How did you even get past the second lock? This is beyond inappropriate. We are coworkers and you have to-" Bond's hand came back to cover his mouth.

Q had had quite enough of his game. Violence seemed to be the only answer. So Q bit into the flesh of Bond's palm, hard…and nothing happened. Bond continued to stare down at his slim captive and seemed willing to wait as long as it took. Giving up, the Quartermaster released his hold on the agent's skin and rested back against the hand on his shoulder.

"Now are you finished?" Bond inquired again. Q again nodded his answer, but resignedly this time. He only stared up at Bond, waiting for an explanation for what they were doing naked together in a stream of scalding water.

He was happy to oblige. "This is me, telling you that I want whatever 'escape' you were offering. Never was one for much discussion though. I prefer the grand gesture. And before you argue, I'm not sure what I'm looking for and I know that you're not sure what you're offering. But I want to try it. I want to try you."

Q didn't have anything to say to that. He felt very small from where he stood under the other man's piercing blue gaze. It was all he could do not to run away from the situation right then and there. And God, what if it hurt? What if he couldn't keep his heart tucked deep enough out of sight and this man, James, somehow got it away from him? What then?

All he could do was nod another very quiet nod and turn away from those eyes to turn the stream as hot as it would go.

And that was the end of whatever discussion Q had planned on having. James stayed in the tiled bath with him and it was surprisingly nice to have another warm body. Suddenly there were longer arms than his available to wash the place just south of his shoulder blades and hands warmer than his to massage shampoo deep into his scalp. Neither got any further than platonic, caring touches; they didn't even kiss again. No one got rock hard and fiery passion didn't sweep them off their feet. It was all very relaxed and companionable.

Nice, Q thought. This is nice.

Yay, an update! I've been more feeling Q's perspective than Bond's lately so that's why we don't see his in this chapter. I freely admit that I wrote this entire chapter in about half an hour in a Twizzler and coffee-induced haze, so any mistakes are most definitely my fault. And this is the part where I ask you all, my lovely wonderful readers, to give feedback. Are you liking the angst? More angst, less angst? Would you like smut in the next chapter? Would you like a next chapter? I feel like this could end here if you wanted so please tell me what you'd like! Thanks!