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Bond should not find Q the least bit interesting.
While the tech produced for MI6 is second to none, Bond has never found himself particularly fascinated with the makers of his devices.
Indeed, his interest in them only extended about as far as finding out how useful their gadgets were which would be a cold hearted admission had he not been made aware since his field agent status that he was as much of a tool to them as the items he as kitted with.
Which is why, fascinating as their first introductions had been, the new Q was promptly slotted in the boring category of his brain where the rest of Q branch staff were allocated.
Hardly an indicative decision, all told.
With Bond's version of interesting tending towards destruction, and Q's occupation requiring the aid of said destruction, it would be in the quartermaster's best interest to be as boring as possible which truly, Q had attempted. He was awful cardigans, Earl Grey tea, checkered trousers, novelty mugs and cats.
Despite being in the business of espionage, Q was not the kind of person to drape themselves in layers upon layers of disguise and deceit.
Though perhaps that was exactly why Q was so fascinating to him because even with his decision to be wholly himself, Bond can never quite predict what Q will do.
See, Q's always just seemed the goody-goody type. Not a pushover exactly -- lord knows MI6 wouldn't still be standing otherwise with both agents and enthusastic nerds running amok -- but he gave the appearence of someone. Flexible. Easily coerced, overwhelmed. Someone that would toe the line of least resistence and stick to the already drawn lines in the sand. More of the same, in terms of a department head.
Instead, what everyone got was a boffin unafraid to flex his posh vocabulary to calmly and politely tell the higher ups to piss off at board meetings, hurtle some truly creative threats over the coms to chew out unruly agents (usually Bond) all while gleefully engineering some feat of science with a mouth that moved a mile a minute and hands that fluttered like birds in his enthusiasm. It was disasterously endearing, and it was to the surprise of absolutely no one that Q was everyone's darling.
None more so than Bond's, particularly at the moment: Sleepy eyed and hair chaotic, Q's expression is young, vulnerable and disgruntled.
He looks delicious.
"You absolute pillock."
"My coms -"
"Were destroyed, I'm aware," he deadpans, about a second two late from thinking about slamming the door in Bond's face before he's slipping inside. Though just because he's made it in, doesn't mean all is forgiven. In fact, they're now squished in the doorway, Q's eyes squinty without his glasses. "I want to yell at you but I've been up for what feels like two weeks trying to track you down and make sure you weren't dead, and I'm exhausted. Quite frankly, there's a considerable part of me that's convinced I'm still out conscious at my desk."
"Oh love," he tuts, repentent and delighted, because he is actually a pillock of a man for feeling even a smidgen of pleasure to know he's been missed so. "Are you wearing my nightgown?"
"Is warm, smells like you," Q grumbles, walking off before Bond can wind an errant curl of his around his finger. "Come to bed," is the petulant order that follows, and Bond's never actually been all that fond of being bossed around outside of a mission (and even then, only under extenuating circumstances), but Q's proven to be the exception.
Kathrine is sleeping in the bathroom sink, Bond finds, when he goes for his shower, and has to brush his teeth in the kitchen which is something that happens more often than it doesn't because for all intents and purposes, James Bond: of legendary call sign, 007, reincarnator extraordinare; lover of expensive alcohol, cars, suits and deadly bed partners, has been domesticated.
And just like how he shouldn't have found Q interesting, Bond should've broken out in hives at the mere suggestion.
Instead he double checks the security system, scratches Ada's chin when she bumps his ankle in greeting, grabs a glass of water because Q gets thirsty sometimes in the middle of the night, before he's switching off the lights and padding into their bedroom.
The sheets are soft and familar beneath his palms and bare legs as he slides between the covers, the whole room smells faintly of bergamont and Bond's ridiculously expensive shampoo. He sighs, tired and relieved in one, when he gets to Q's shoulder, his warm skin feels luxurious against the slight rasp of his stubble.
Beneath him, Q grumbles sleepily, then squirms as Bond rests his weight more comfortably over him. His vowels slur, "Don't start something you can't finish."
"Is that a challenge, my quartermaster?"
"It's a warning," he manages with a yawn. Blinking, and squinting because he is still without his glasses, his fingertips find Bond's scalp, and even as he swallows on a yawn, he scratches through Bond's hair. Apologetic, for all that Q was annoyed with him earlier, he says, "I'm tired, pet."
"I'll do all the work," Bond assures with a teasing, trailing nip on his collarbone, his sternum...Against his skin, Bond proposes, "Consider it penance for your suffering, darling."
There's a pause of consideration that Bond does his level best to persuade to his favor, already sliding lower and lower down Q's body.
It's only when the man sighs his Christian name, dreamy and breathless, that Bond declares victory and proceeds with alacrity.
What follows is a decadent and prolonged worship that Q is almost and then completely asleep for, and Bond would normally take offense to such a response to his performance, but he's far too enraptured by the sight of Q, trusting, sated and still touching him -- his hair, his nape, his neck -- to really mind at all.
After drinking the water meant for Q on the bedside table, Bond tucks them both into bed, pulling Q to his chest in an aggressive spooning manoeuvre that makes Q mumble incoherently before falling back asleep.
In the morning, Q could send him to the dog house; M's office for a tongue lashing before banishing him to the couch for a week. Or he could demand his metaphorical pound of flesh and return Bond's abundant sexual favors. Or he could do neither of those things.
With Q he can never be too sure, either way, Bond doesn't think he could ever be bored of him.