Q had grown tired of waiting and was sprawled out on the bed, dead centre. He'd peeled off his pyjama top, deeming it too warm, and was half under the blankets with one foot peeking out. His bottoms were somehow already creased, and his hair stood up at various angles, painting the perfect picture of a sleepy and scruffy little boffin.

With a yawn and a huff, he wriggled a bit deeper under the covers.

"You're letting in the cold," he complained.