When James entered his flat late night that day, he saw the Quartermaster curled up on the sofa-bed, his torso covered with one of his ugly cardigans and his spectacles askew on his nose.
He was dozing there, so peaceful and unaware.
James walked to him, removed the laptop from beneath Q’s arm, careful not to wake the brown-haired man up, took the cardigan and went to take an actual blanket from a closet in the bedroom.
He covered the sleeping man’s figure with it, bent down to kiss his temple and smiled faintly, yet wholeheartedly. “Good night, my Quartermaster.”
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