My so called lazy day turned into writing this. Oops.

I have no clue how this will turn out, if there is a plot, if my brain just wants to do something, or if it will actually be something, stick with it, it might surprise you AND me.

Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, do not own the Bond franchise. Someone want to fix that for me?

Q is a creature of habit. Every morning, he wakes up at six thirty. He drinks a cup of earl grey tea, leaf, not bag, thank you very much, eats a bowl of cereal, dresses in sensible work clothing, and boards the seven o'clock tube train to MI6 headquarters.

Location not disclosed.

He enters the building at exactly seven fifteen and nods at the guard who checks his pass and swipes it through so he can take the lift down to Q level. Naturally, he then checks the building's security, the classified files on the heavily encoded server, and the numerous elaborate, highly encrypted firewalls he has built up over the six months since the unfortunate business with Raoul Silva.

He's been working on a nifty little virus which hacks the hacker, and presses an undo button, if there were such a thing, so that all the hacking is reversed and the would be hacker is back to square one.

Ingenious. He does surprise himself sometimes.

He fires off emails to the appropriate high ups, so they can deal with the ambitious criminals who thought they would have a go at breaking his security. They have all, of course, failed, and on occasion, he tips a mental hat to the single hacker who has broken the first firewall, then settles in with a cup of tea to modify it. He places his virus in each firewall, hiding it so the hacker will stumble upon it anew each time.

His day will then consist of blowing things up, attempting to stop the OO's from killing their targets, or themselves, and saving the interns from the tangle of Christmas lights.

It's April, he does not want to know how they found the damned things.

At around ten, he packs up his things, catches the train back to his apartment, throws himself together a perfunctory meal, and settles down with his giant, fluffy cat to read for half an hour before bed, said cat already having been fed by Eve, who always pops by as she finishes work much earlier than MI6's Quartermaster.

Every week, he receives a phone call from his mother, his sister, and his best friend from school. On the rarest of occasions, he meets with them, always somewhere different, specifically chosen so agents can monitor them, no assassins can, well, assassinate anyone, and he can have a good cup of tea. His family will chide him for not visiting more often. He will leave with presents, a stinging arm from Harry's punch to the arm, and a lipstick mark on his cheek from his overly affectionate sister.

Yes, Q is quite happy with his little routine.

Was, was quite happy.

Bond happened.

James Bond is not a man content to follow a routine. He is impulsive, makes decisions in a split second, and isn't afraid to throw the rule book in the nearest bin.

In fact, he seems to prefer it.

This is part of what makes him such a successful agent, and an absolutely dreadful normal human being, if any of MI6 are remotely normal any more.

Regardless, James Bond does not do normal.

He rarely spends any time in his government issued apartment overlooking the River Thames, choosing instead to sleep in the barracks of various military operations, none of which ever know who he is or why he is there.

Most never even realise he is there at all, but wake to find missing cctv footage and stolen bedding.

Bond is good at not leaving DNA behind.

He breaks into agents' apartments to test them, annoy them, or even just to see if he can.

He spends far too much time in the new M's house, determined to figure him out the way he did the woman who became his mother figure, and died in his arms.

He refuses all psychological help, all friendly help, and instead steals a key to the shooting range.

Go figure.

So when he starts hanging around Q branch, Q is suspicious.

But he knows Bond won't leave, so he just ignores him.

The interns don't know how to ignore a double O, clad in a stylish, expensive suit, which probably won't return from his impending mission, fiddling with the gadgets Q designs, tests, and dishes out to the agents. They don't know how to talk to a double O at all, or even look one in the eye.

The interns are terrified.

Q? Q doesn't have time to be scared of a man that has lost count of his kills, near death experiences and number of guns he hasn't returned to Q's of the past.

Q of the present as well, actually.

He was rather proud of the hand print pistol. Very innovative, if he did say so himself.

And a pain in the arse to replicate.

The second day that Bond wanders into Q level, Q digs in his desk for a Rubik's cube, 16 by 16, and hands it to the agent, swapping it out with an exploding pen.

He stows the pen in a lead lined safe and a thumbprint scanner.

They don't speak, but Bond settles in to solve the 3D puzzle, a charming frown spreading across his face as he turns sections and aligns coloured squares, only to turn another piece and lose all progress made.

It keeps him quiet, at least.

The interns still swerve in a wide arc to avoid him.

When Q fetches himself another mug of tea (breakfast, they have run out of earl grey), he makes a cup of coffee, one packet of sweetener, and a small splash of milk, sets it on the table in front of 007, and settles back in to write the code for the CIA. Bond doesn't question the drink.

They are spies.

The CIA been having trouble with a hacker, and asked Q for help.

Demanded.

It's the same thing with the CIA.

He types rapidly, exchanging small parts of his brand new code for bits that work better. When he is finished, he erases any personal signature. It won't do for any potential hacker to be lead right to him, after all. Checking his watch, he notes with mild surprise that it is past midnight, too late to go home. The last train will have left by now.

He checks his phone, smiling at a text from Eve, delivered earlier in the evening. Attached is a picture of her in pyjamas, his cat draped across her midriff.

Good thing lots of people in MI6 work late. He raids the storage room for a blow up mattress, blankets and pillow, and bunks down in his office, removing his glasses and folding the arms carefully, laying them on his desk.

Blearily, before sleep drags him under, he realises Bond is still working at the cube, a shadow in the dark of the empty room.