Chapter Text
Q had never liked hospitals. He didn’t like the medical wing of MI6 any better, because it was just a small hospital that would never be open to the public. Granted, they had some interesting toys hidden away in there, and he’d been consulted several times on the development of some of those, but it had never mean that he had grown fond of the place.
He wasn’t sure if it was the white walls, the horrible smell of disinfectant that he was sure wasn't meant to be as strong as it was, or the somber attitudes of everyone there. As he slowly broke surface of the top layer of unconsciousness and into that state of awareness, he found himself frowning. Steady beeping and that terrible smell landed him only in that one place he didn’t want to be. As memories flooded back, he was sure he didn’t want to be anywhere right then. That was why he had been told not to get attached to his agent. Especially when his agent turned out to be the infamous 007.
Q felt his chest seize up and he found himself fully awake. The room was quiet, save for the very quiet sound of someone breathing - not quite snoring, but almost - to his far left. He realized that part of the problem was that his vision was entirely too blurry to make out the face of the person slumped in the bedside chair, waiting for his return to consciousness.
The figure stirred and seemed to move even as Q squinted. He reached, the blur of his form moving towards him so that the quartermaster flinched back. Perhaps his shot hadn’t been good. Perhaps this was Craven here to finish him off, just waiting until he was awake to suffocate him under his own pillow.
No pillow came, nor did any form of torment. His glasses were suddenly perched on his nose and the figure came into focus.
“There you are, sunshine.” James greeted, looking tired and relieved.
Q blinked at him, breath hitching and he reached, his arm moving before his brain could authorize it or not. James caught his hand and held it between them as he sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
“You’re dead,” Q said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“Yes. I’m sure you’re aware that’s a bad habit of mine. Sadly, you’re stuck with me for a bit longer.”
Q’s eyes burned and he tried to make a sharp retort and wound up coughing for his efforts. Bond reached over to the table beside the bed and offered him a glass of water, cautioning him to small sips. The agent watched him as he drank with a careful, studied gaze before allowing a small smile.
“I’d like it to go on record that I do in fact listen to you.”
Q handed him back the glass and raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Yes, only the once and the one time you did it got you...how did you...how long...”
“You created that bullet proof vest, remember? The especially thin one? I was wearing it. And you’ve been out for almost two days.”
“So you aren’t dead.” Q said.
“No. I’ll be needing your services a little while longer.”
“And I’m not dead.”
“No, but I can see how you might think so, with all the white in this wing.”
Q let his eyes drift shut, his mind already exhausted. “I may need proof,” he half whispered.
James took his hand again and squeezed it gently. “Whatever you need, Sir.”
By the end of Q’s week-long stay in the medical wing of MI6 he was about to go mad. They wouldn’t allow him his computer. M had said - via Miss Moneypenny - that he wouldn’t be allowed to work. Medical leave was medical leave and he would take it if he wanted to or not. Really, Q thought, it was just to keep him from hacking friendly country’s systems out of pure boredom. Bond had certainly gotten a good laugh from that conversation, but had been quickly informed that he too was on medical leave until the doctor cleared him.
“Eve’s going to yell at you if she sees you out of that sling again,” Q grumbled from his bed, not even bothering to look towards the door to see James standing there - of course, without his arm in the proper sling - with a cup of coffee in one hand and another, smaller cup, balanced on top of that so that his injured arm could hang at his side without being bothered.
“I have good news so don’t be like that,” the agent said with a smirk, offering the top cup to his injured quartermaster.
Dark eyes lit as Q took it. “They make a terrible cup of tea in this wing.”
“I’m sure they do. The coffee is worse, I guarantee it.”
“What’s your good news, or is it limited to a decent cup of tea?”
“Want want want,” Bond murmured, still amused. “You’re getting out today.”
“Really?”
“Mm. M says you’re not allowed back at work yet though. Neither am I, if it helps any.”
“I suppose we should be pleased we’re not spending our time in prison,” Q admitted. They had been conducting an investigation, but thus far nothing had turned up in the slightest to say anything negative about the young quartermaster.
“Yes, well, M mentioned that I might be more hazardous in prison than on the loose. Something about creating a riot or some such nonsense.”
Q hid his smile behind his cup. “You? Causing a great disturbance? Perish the thought. So what’s the bad news?”
Bond leaned against the edge of Q’s bed, his usual perching place since the quartermaster had woken days before. “What? The glass can’t be completely full?”
“Spare me. Most days I’m grateful there’s a glass intact, whether it’s full or not.”
“Very well. Your release is conditional, per M’s written orders.”
Q frowned. “Conditional on what?”
“That you are not to return to your flat until cleared by the tech minions. Wait, no, hold your outrage, it won’t do any good. I know that they can’t do half as good a job as you, yes, alright, less than half. But the location must be cleared by the standards of the least before the great is to step foot in it again.”
Q was glaring at Bond for interrupting his various points of protest, but the agent seemed not to notice. “And when will this happen?”
“Clearance is pending the end of the inquiry.”
A heavy sigh left Q’s lips and he ran a hand through his unruly hair. “And where am I to go in the meantime? They aren’t squirreling me away to some secret lair in eastern Europe for the duration, are they? I’ll have to talk to M myself if that’s what’s happening.”
“Good luck getting ahold of him. One thing that he’s brought with him to MI6 from his days of in politics is his ability to deflect questions he doesn’t want to answer.”
“So you don’t know where they’re sending me?” Q sounded as if he were edging on concern now, his mind going over the dozens of locations - and those were just the ones that he knew - that they could be sending him to recover until the inquiry was done. All he wanted to do was go home at this point.
“Well, Miss Moneypenny was willing to save you from dreaded eastern Europe, but M can’t do without her and she’d have to stay home with you.” He watched the quartermaster take an irritable sip of his drink. “So you’re coming home with me.”
The tea nearly went everywhere as Q choked and sputtered, wincing as he did. Bond shot him an almost apologetic look as if he had not expected the reaction to be quite that extreme. “Well, if you’d prefer easter Europe....”
“No, not at all. Are you sure I won’t be a bother? I mean... you’re on leave. Don’t you have... things to do... on leave...?” Q was almost blushing by this point. He’d heard the stories about the infamous womanizer that was James Bond. He really didn’t want to go over to the agent’s flat, get settled in, and then find himself in the most awkward situations imaginable that he would never be able to take from his mind.
James shot him a devilish grin. “You see, it’s just that I’m not supposed to move this arm very much so having you around might be a great help.”
Q felt himself go completely red. “007, I hardly think-”
“Unless of course you could build something that might aid-”
“There’s already a market for that and my skills are quite beyond it, thank you,” Q growled.
James’ grin grew wider. “I hardly think you’re beyond that particular skill set, Q. In fact this might be a good opportunity for you. Women like cute, injured things that they can cuddle.”
“I don’t want to be cuddled!” Q exclaimed.
James’ grin became positively shark-like. “Are you sure?”
Q glared at him. “I am always sure.”
A nurse stepped in. “Sir? His discharge papers are ready.”
James’ smile never faltered as he stood. “Let’s hope you’re always certain.”
“So there’s really no choosing eastern Europe now, is there?”
“‘Fraid not.”
Q sighed. At least Bond’s flat wouldn’t smell like a hospital.
Q settled into Bond’s flat with surprising ease. He had a guest bedroom that he never used, but it was furnished and ready. It almost looked as if the agent had gone out and purchased fresh sheets and various other miscellaneous bits that Q would need for his stay. It was shocking, because thoughtfulness to this type of attention was not what came to mind when Q thought of Bond. Granted, his perspective had shifted in the last week and a half or so, but he still thought he was an arrogant ass at least three quarters of the time.
“Fridge should be stocked and I’m assuming that the tea you keep at the office is the type you like,” Bond was saying as he motioned blandly toward the kitchen.
Q moved slowly, still feeling the affects of the pain medication he was on and the tightness of a healing wound. He couldn’t help but wonder if Bond had taken to simply keeping it around. “You didn’t have to go to that trouble.”
Bond shrugged, not wanting to bother with it and moved past him. “Bedroom’s down that hall there. Mine backs up to it, so if you need anything just shout. I promised Miss Moneypenny I’d take the utmost care of you. She threatened to shoot me again if I didn’t.”
“I don’t think M would appreciate that,” Q said.
“Neither would I.” Bond said wryly.
The agent left Q's bag on the bed in the guest room and slipped back out, leaving him alone. Q breathed deeply, enjoying the moment of being by himself. He sat on the bed and ran his hand along the comforter, noticing the lack of anything personal in the room, which followed the theme of nothing personal in the flat at all. He wondered if it was because Bond hadn’t had much time in this flat, or if the flat he’d had that had been sold upon his “death” at Eve’s hands had been just as modelesque.
When James came back sometime later, he cut off his sentence about having ordered dinner when he saw Q asleep on the bed. With an amused smile, he set down the mug of tea he’d made for the younger man on the nightstand and as carefully as he could situated Q under the covers. On the premise of making sure Q hadn’t developed a fever, James pressed his hand gently against his forehead before brushing dark hair back.
“Sleep well, Q.” James murmured.
Q rarely dreamt, or at least he rarely remembered when he did dream. In those rare circumstances his mind’s eye usually saw some sort of puzzle to put together, or a riddle to unravel. Numbers and figures filled the supposedly creative outlet of his mind, but not that evening.
It was a constant loop. The gunshot would go off, he would feel the pain spread across his torso, his lungs constricted and he couldn’t breathe. No matter what he did he could not breathe. Everything would turn hazy. Most of the time there was no visible shooter, but if there was it was usually Craven, laughing with his nose in the air as if he had something over the young quartermaster. Once it was Silva.
Every time, though, even though Q felt the pain of the bullet passing through him it wasn’t he who fell. Every time he would turn around to see Bond’s eyes staring hollowly back at him. His eyes were always a little too blue in his dreams, and many times Bond would mouth something, blood collect at his lips as he pitched forward or backward or to the side. No dream happened exactly the same. The worst one was when the bullet passed in between James’ eyes and he still stared, almost accusingly, at the younger man until Q woke screaming.
It was late when the quartermaster woke from the loop of horror, breathing hard and hand going to his side where the stitches pulled and protested at his abrupt movement. The flat was quiet and the clock read midnight. He sat, alone, for several long moments just focusing on his ability to breathe and trying to delete 007’s vacant, dead stare from his mind.
He pulled his knees to his chest, despite the protest from his side and pressed his face against them, fingers curling into the bedspread. He tried to think about all the things he would need to catch up on at work, but that led him to think about what he was building for Bond and he was right back at his agent’s hollow gaze behind his eyelids. He tried to think about the code he needed to rework in his new protocol and then he was thinking about the underground map that James had figured out -that moment was the moment when Q had known he would keep 007 as his agent and not sneakily pawn him off to an intern without M knowing- but the map made him think about the train in the tunnel and James still wound up dead in his mind’s eye.
Q was trembling so hard it made his joints ache and tears warmed the fabric against his face. His head jerked up as the door burst open, bouncing lightly off the doorstop as James stepped in with his gun drawn and cleared the room. Satisfied there was no immediate physical threat, he lowered the gun and looked at his quartermaster.
“Q?”
Q might have laughed any other time at the sight of James Bond in boxers and a t-shirt, short blond hair in a hundred messed up spikes and a gun. Instead, all he could manage in a broken whisper was, “James,”
Bond stood and stared for a moment, trying to assess the situation. “What happened?” he asked at last, daring to set the gun on top of the dresser and move closer.
Embarrassment caught up with him and he ducked his head, tiredly mumbling, “Nothing.”
The agent quirked an eyebrow and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He could see the wetness against the younger man’s face and pushed down his impulse to back away. He recognized the look on Q's face. He’d seen it on many, many people. He might have even seen it in the mirror once or twice, but that had been many years ago.
“I’m fine,” Q said, still feeling James' eyes on him.
“What’d you see?” He couldn’t help but smile at the shocked look on the quartermaster’s features. “Oh come now. Do you think I’ve never had a nightmare before?”
“Hadn’t thought about it, honestly.” Q shivered, feeling a cold settle in deep within him. He couldn’t look and James because somehow the darkness was playing with his mind and all he could see was that dead stare. He looked away and then back, finding blue eyes staring and blinking at him in the shadows. “It’s silly, really.”
“I doubt that.”
“It seems I’ve broken a cardinal rule of being a quartermaster. I keep getting hit, getting shot.” Q said softly.
Bond opened his mouth, but Q shook his head. “No, don’t say it. I keep getting shot but you’re the one that keeps dying. It’s all I can see, you dead or dying and there isn’t any life in you at all and it’s the most unnatural thing and I can’t...” Q shivered again and pressed his face against his knees again, too embarrassed to keep looking at his agent. “You’re dead and I can’t bear it.”
Stunned by the emotion in Q’s voice, James sat, motionless and speechless. He had been going to tell Q that it was normal to dream of his own death, most non-field agents did if they experienced any type of extreme field work. Most field agents did at one point or another. People weren’t designed to be accepting of death, that was nuance that came with time and experience. Fearing someone else’s death was a beast of a different nature, one of the only beasts that continued to devour James year after year as his someone else’s were taken away. He turned and sat with his back to the headboard and carefully laid his hand on Q’s back, rubbing gently.
“Put your mind at ease, Q. I’ve only time for one hobby and I’m quite good at it.” James said.
“It’s not a joke,” the quartermaster growled, some deep emotion flashing through his dark eyes. “I could have gotten you killed. If you hadn’t been wearing that vest-”
“But I was. And neither of us are dead.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just... I’m sure they’ll go away in time.”
James hummed. "In time."
Q nodded and went silent, as if waiting for the agent to get up and head back to his own room. Instead James seemed to make himself more comfortable and tucked his long legs under the sheets.
“What are you doing?”
The blond gave a shrug and settled down against one of the many pillows he’d left on the bed for the younger man. “I really don’t like being pulled from bed by screams in the middle of the night. I might as well stay.”
Q could only stare for a moment. He couldn’t help but feel a little better since James had come into the room and he could see the life in him. Even a sleeping Bond would breathe. Slowly, as if not entirely sure he should agree with it, he nodded and settled back down.
Q woke again sometime later, a small jolt and a flash of fear instead of the vivid images and shouts from before, but still he laid awake, eyes wide and heart racing. His mind picked through facts to focus on; he was in Bond’s flat, in his guest room, he was alive, Bond was alive. His mind registered that Bond was in fact still in the bed with him when he heard James shift and nearly had a heart attack as his adrenaline spiked again at the sound.
An arm descended around him, carefully avoiding his injury and fingers curled into his shirt under his heart. Warmth surrounded him as James pulled him gently against his chest, and he felt the agent press his nose into his hair.
“You’re safe. Go back to sleep,” James murmured.
Q tangled his fingers in Bond’s t-shirt, gripping it as if it were tie to reality. Very slowly he began to relax. His breathing and heartbeat slowed and he risked a glance upward. James’ eyes were closed, though after a moment of staring one opened to peer out from under blond lashes. “Sleep,” he said again, voice rough but gentle.
The quartermaster nodded against his chest, letting his eyes lull. He could hear his agent’s heart beating steadily and he dreamt no more.