Q slouched on his side, his laptop resting on a tangled mess of sheets three inches from his face. His cheek was mashed against the corner of a pillow, there’d be an angry red mark when he lifted his head, and he knew his hair was sticking up at odd angles. He scratched his stomach where his blue whale pajama shirt had ridden up, curled his legs towards his hands to tug the tight ankle of his pant leg down, and closed his eyes, a soft relaxed sigh slipping from his mouth. A smile curled the edges of his lips as he heard the quiet whisper of bare feet on hard-wood flooring. The bed dipped as 007 crawled up to the headboard and began to maneuver Q into the V of his legs, Q’s old tartan robe loosely wrapped and knotted around his hips, too short and falling open, loosened at the neck to show a sloping collarbone and smooth expanse of toned chest. Q snuggled back into the arms that knew a thousand ways to deal death, but treated him to only gentle touches. His tousled head fell back against Bond’s shoulder— who tightened his arms and pressed his cheek to Q’s ear— as he dragged his laptop onto his knees. They sat there like that, Q surrounded by Bond and typing away idly, 007 patient as no one but Q ever saw him, until Q fell asleep to the whispered mumblings of a contented MI6 agent.