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James Bond is used to receiving coded messages.
That’s why he doesn’t bat an eye when the second he returns to MI6 from his latest mission he’s handed a folded-up piece of paper with the words code pink scribbled across it.
There’s no signature. There’s no need for a signature. Who else would send him this message but Q. If it were signed, he has no doubts that it would be signed with a lowercase q instead of an uppercase one. He’s small. There’d be no need for a code pink otherwise.
James and Q refuse to meet up. There are enough rumors about them dating already, and James would rather not have to deal with an interrogation about his fondness for Q. Again.
So he leaves as soon as he’s able, alternating between three different taxis in an attempt to throw anyone who might be following off his trail. He ducks into two unnecessary buildings, makes one store purchase to keep up appearances, and sneaks out the back.
It’s nigh six before he finally makes it to Q’s apartment.
He knocks, three quick raps with the back of his knuckles. It’s a moment before he hears movement on the other side of the door. Q always takes a moment to calculate, even if James is using their Secret Special Knock.
When the door unlocks, James wastes no time letting himself in and closing the door behind him.
“And here I thought you’d never arrive.” Q quips.
James doesn’t acknowledge him, instead making it a point to look tellingly at the pile of blankets and stuffies spread out in front of the telly.
“It wasn’t my fault you were late.” Q plops down in the center on the mess. “Please. Sit.”
James opts for the couch instead of the floor, knowing that taking the floor would mean back pain for weeks on end. As much as he cares for Q, he can’t put himself through that again.
A certain tiredness overtakes him, one that settles behind his eyes and refuses to let go. He closes his eyes, hoping to rest them, and reaches forward to run his fingers through Q’s hair. Q preens under the attention, shuffling closer and making that humming noise from the back of his throat.
James doesn’t remember lying down, nor does he remember grabbing the nearest pillow. However, he jolts awake to realize both things definitely happened.
He wakes up to a certain pressure on his body, but he forces himself to remain calm. No matter the assailant, it won’t do him any good to go about flinging them off. No, it would be better for them to not even know that he’s awake.
Another, different pressure leans into the couch, and he gets the smell of Q’s peach-scented shampoo.
Everything is fine, he knows, but his secret agent instincts force him to crack open an eye anyway. Q is sitting in front of him, half-whispering to one of his lovies while Peppa Pig plays on the telly.
He seems content enough—at least content enough to not resort to poking James in the face until he gets his desired attention.
If anything were wrong, it’d be Q to tip him off. Poor thing has a terrible habit of squirming and whining to voice his unhappiness and an even worse habit of being unable to keep a secret. James can tell something is wrong within a second of looking at him.
“Is there a reason you let me sleep or do I have to walk into that trap by myself?” While the last thing Q wants to do while little is stare at a computer screen, his brilliant mind does need something to occupy it. More often than not, he chooses mischief.
“No need to wake you for an episode of Peppa, is there?” His posture betrays the maturity in his voice. He’s hunched over Clancy, his pink stuffed rabbit, and his body is rocking ever so slightly.
“At least take off the bloody suit.” James mops his face with his hand, sitting up just enough that one of Q’s stuffed cats goes rolling off his back and onto the floor. “What’s the point of calling a code pink if you’re going to sit there all dressed up for work?”
“What’s the point of responding to a code pink if you’re going to have a kip on my couch?”
“One of these days that sassy mouth of yours will get you a time out you won’t forget.” James pushes off the rest of Q’s gifts, consisting of one regular blanket, four stuffed animals, and Q’s special pink baby blanket. With James’s physical strength, picking up Q is as easy as picking up one of his cats, and he sets Q on his hip with ease.
Q whines his discontent at being taken away from Peppa, but settles into James’s warmth in a matter of seconds. Q is an insatiable cuddle bug, and James will use that to his advantage until the end of time.
He sets Q on his bed and goes about undressing him. He undoes Q’s tie first. “How long was I out?”
“No more than an hour.” It’s clear Q himself is tired, based on the way he limply shrugs his way out of his suit jacket.
“And why let me sleep?” He plucks open the buttons of Q’s collared shirt.
“I’m not one to put my demands as a top priority, particularly after a taxing mission.” Again, he barely shrugs out of it. Even with pure stubbornness on his side, he probably won’t stay up past eight.
“Not very childlike of you.”
“Are you implying that I’m regressing wrong?”
James deliberately turns to Q’s dresser so he can’t see James’s smirk. “You and I both know you’ve done enough research on age regression to know ‘maths’ isn’t exactly at the top of any ‘fun things to do while little’ lists.”
He hears the huff and the windup, but he decides to give Q a small, bratty victory by letting his balled-up tie hit him squarely in the back of the head.
It takes everything in him not to grin. He can’t help it. Little Q brings out a softness in him he’d kill anyone else for bringing out of him. “Why does your regression have to consist of throwing things at me?”
“Have you considered making your head less of a target?”
James rolls his eyes. The top drawer is for code pink situations. It’s got all of Q’s softest pajamas, his stuffed animals all wrapped in their favorite blankets, and for when he’s feeling very small, an assortment of dummies and bottles. The last time Q requested one of his dummies was the last time James was presumed dead for a week, so James pushes them aside and plucks out a pastel pink shirt with kittens plastered on the front. It’s one of Q’s softest shirts, and on his fussier days, it’s the only shirt he’ll wear without having a strop. James would even deign to call this cute—if the word didn’t cause him physical pain to say aloud.
“Arms up, cheeky monkey.” James sets aside a pair of sweatpants and tugs the shirt over Q’s head, mussing his thick dark hair for good measure. Call him crazy, but Q looks far too composed for someone who’s supposed to be relaxing.
“Trousers off,” he says. For Q’s sake, he lets Q take care of his trousers himself. Even in his smallest headspace, Q’s too shy to undress around James.
James isn’t surprised. He’s stripped in front of enough strangers to last both their lifetimes, to the point where James can only assume he has an exhibitionist streak. So he’ll gladly give Q his privacy and ignore the obvious sounds of him struggling out of a pair of trousers. James filled the empty time collecting his discarded suit and putting the articles in the clothes bin.
“Okay.” Q says, voice finally small. “Can we have food now?”
James chuckles. “Hungry, love?” Again, unsurprising. Q is the kind of person who doesn’t even realize he’s hungry until he’s started eating. And with his job, those instances can be days apart.
Q nods and holds out his arms, silently asking to be picked up.
James is more than happy to comply.