Um. I have no excuse for starting this, other than it wouldn't leave my brain alone and I had to retain some semblance of normality. Like oh so many of my little projects, I have no idea where it is going. At all. Established relationship.

Disclaimer: I do not own Bond.

Q loved these moments. Floating his way up to consciousness, dimly aware of a warm body pressed against his back, searing, comfortable heat soaking into every part of his body that touched his bed partner's.

He loved these moments, the sleepy process of prying his eyes open, scrambling around for his glasses only for them to be perched on his nose by a gentle, strong hand. He loved the moment when his blurred vision sharpened, zoning in on clear, ice blue eyes, tanned skin, strong features. He loved the soft smile playing around his lips, and his partner's, and the gentle morning kiss, that both of them initiated, all at once, regardless of morning breath. He loved the clumsy, slow trek to the bathroom, to relieve himself and shower. He loved when Bond swept aside the shower curtain and clambered in, pressing himself against Q's back in an imitation of their sleeping arrangement. He loved having his long, relentlessly mussed hair washed with hands that had snapped countless necks, loved being safe, secure in the knowledge that those hands would never hurt him.

He loved the small, intimate gesture when James made him tea, and brought him breakfast, and they sat in bed and ate, still damp from their shared shower, still naked.

He loved wearing James's clothes while they ate, seeing the glint in his eyes, the effect the simple act had on the agent.

He loved bringing James the morning paper, loved perching on his lap while he read, and drank creamy coffee, his only indulgence he allowed himself, other than Q. He loved dragging James out of the apartment, into the crisp air, to walk, and talk, and love, and just be.

In the spring, he loved forcing James to petting farms to see all the baby animals. In the summer months, he loved to force James to buy him ice cream, and licking it from his hand as the mild english weather slowly, unerringly, melted it. In autumn, he took child-like delight in kicking red, orange and yellow leaves with him, stomping on them and revelling in the delicious crunch they yielded when crushed underfoot.

And in the winter, when Q was tired of tossing snow at James, and building snowmen, and staying out until his nose was pink with excitement and the chill of the air, he loved when James brought him hot chocolate with cinnamon, and whipped cream, and sat with him on their couch, and they enjoyed the almost unbearable heat of the fire, until they had languid, almost lazy sex on the rug, sweat glistening as they reached their peaks, and the firelight lit their skin with an ethereal, solid glow.

He loved these small things, these stolen moments, captured perfectly in the ordered chaos of his life as a spy, as a member of MI6.

Nothing could touch him in these moments. He was just Q, and 007 was just James, and they were together, and content, and happy.

And when someone blew up an important building, or kidnapped a foreign dignitary, and the crisis forced them back to work, he loved the subtle flirting in front of his minions, and the lunches they shared together, much to the surprise of R, and his voice in James's ear on missions, and the relief he felt when he made it home safely.

All in all, Q just loved James Bond, guns, calluses and enemies all.

And James Bond loved Q.