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There is no conscious decision to share a flat. Bond doesn’t really have anything that could be called a home—at night, he goes back to too-big rooms that make him feel like a pebble rattling around in an empty box—and so it’s a regular thing for him to stay over with Q. Q’s flat is slightly cramped but perfectly comfortable and always smells vaguely of tea and cinnamon.
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Bond’s clothes appear on the floor or draped across a chair or, occasionally, on Q himself. He should look ridiculous in the old, ratty t-shirt that seems enormous on his wiry frame, but instead he’s… cute. Bond does not mention this because he still retains a few scraps of his sense of self-preservation. Instead, he walks over and kisses him until the t-shirt lies forgotten on the floor.
The nearly obsessive neatness and perfectionism that Q applies to his job extends to his flat, of course, so Q wages warfare against the scattered clothes by picking them up, folding them neatly, and hiding them in increasingly inventive places. Eventually, most things migrate into the closet and some sort of truce goes into effect.
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Q is very protective of his mugs. Bond does not become aware of this until he is drinking from the striped one early one morning and Q stumbles into the kitchen and gives him a glare that could possibly freeze his coffee solid. Nothing is said about it at that point because they have a rule about not talking until they both have caffeine in their systems, but later Q buys Bond his own mug, which takes up residence in the cabinet next to the others.
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Q’s laptop is off limits, too, and so is a ridiculous pair of fuzzy slippers, but with other things, the lines get a bit blurrier.
The leather armchair beside the huge pair of windows overlooking the London skyline is sometimes Bond’s and sometimes Q’s and occasionally both of theirs at once.
There are a few odd times when Q appropriates Bond’s bathrobe because apparently it is much warmer and more comfortable than his, and also smells nice.
Even with his experience with the tech at MI6, Bond is a bit intimidated by the sheer amount and variety of electronics that Q has. Much of the flat might look like it should belong to someone’s grandmother—the potted cactus and the porcelain cat, for one—but it’s full of high-tech gadgets.
The only things Bond trusts himself to touch are the videogames. Q laughs when he sees him playing a shooting game, then sits down, grabs another controller, and proceeds to beat the shit out of him.
“I know you’re letting yourself go when I can shoot better than you.”
“This isn’t even close to a real gun, and you’ve probably wasted far too much time practicing.”
“It’s not wasted time. It helps improve reflexes.”
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Bond’s side of the bed is the one nearest to the door, next to the nightstand where his gun sits beside Q’s glasses. No matter where he starts out, Q ends up sprawled across Bond like a starfish, his head buried in his neck and his tousled hair tickling his nose.
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It’s a bit disconcerting how utterly attached Bond has become to the flat. Before, the word home was a picture of England on a map or a few scattered memories of an achingly empty old house on the moor. Now, it’s the end of a mission and stepping out of a cab and into the quiet living room where Q is tapping away on his laptop and the city shines dimly through the window.