Chapter Text
If Bond never saw another aeroplane again, it would be too soon.
Every possible problem had arisen on his flight back to London from Seoul: cancelled flights due to weather, postponed connections because of technical issues or needed repairs. On top of it, Bond had definitely lost his luggage during one of the transfers and he doubted that he would ever see it again. He hoped that Q would not be too upset that he had failed to bring home the souvenir tea he had promised.
“Don’t worry about it,” Q assured him, when Bond rang from Amsterdam, “one more flight and you’ll be home. That’s all that matters.”
The flight was delayed because of storm, leaving Bond and two hundred other passengers stranded on the runway for a few hours with nothing to eat but bagged peanuts and unsalted pretzels. Even alcohol couldn’t ease the anxious thing in Bond that begged to be back at the flat he shared with Q, to have a warm shower and dinner and then ten straight hours of a long-overdue sleep.
By the time Bond arrived in London, he made it just in time for the evening commute home, which got him back to the flat much later than he intended. He found Q already home from Six, standing over the hob as he prepared dinner. After two days of cardboard sandwiches and vending machine snacks, the smell was more than welcome.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Bond said, as he came up behind Q and put his arms round the other man’s waist.
“And a hungry stomach, I’m sure,” Q replied, as Bond nuzzled at his neck. The tension from the mission and the travel seemed to drop from him in that moment, relief and happiness filling its place. Bond would never trade his previous life for anything; having Q to come home to made the job worth it.
Q turned his head and gave Bond a quick peck on the lips.
“This will be ready in five minutes. Go have a shower in the meantime,” he said, as if he knew the order of Bond’s needs without having to ask.
“You’re perfect, have I told you that?”
“Hmmm, no, that’s a new one. Tell me again.”
“You’re perfect.”
“I could get used to this.”
Bond turned him round and nudged him against the counter so that he could kiss him properly. It had been almost a month since they had been together like this, and Bond thought that he could easily forgo the shower and dinner if it meant getting their clothes off right then. But Q broke the kiss, eyes a little mischievous, but his tone ever practical:
“You’ve only got four minutes now,” he said and nodded towards the shower.
“After dinner?” Bond asked, and Q gave him a promising smile as he returned to tending their meal.
Taking that as something to look forward to, he hurried off to their bedroom to change. Bond was just about to step into the shower when he heard Q coughing from the kitchen. Turning the tap off, Bond peeked his head out of bathroom and called:
“Alright?”
“Fine…” came Q’s reply, followed by more coughing. It didn’t sound right, strained in a way that sounded unlike a cough triggered by spices or illness, and so Bond hurriedly shrugged into his dressing gown before making his way to the kitchen.
He found Q leaning against the refrigerator door, his hand grasping at his own throat as he took in shaky breaths. In the minute that Bond had been gone, his complexion had gone ashen and when he looked at Bond, his expression was nothing short of panicked.
“Did you--” Q gasped, pulling at the collar of his shirt as Bond eased him down to sit on the floor. He quickly undid the buttons at Q’s throat to help him breathe. That’s when he saw the splotches of red climbing up Q’s neck like ivy and he immediately realised what he had done.
He had eaten peanuts on the plane…
...and Q was highly allergic.
Even something as harmless as a kiss had set off a massive reaction, but Bond did not have time for feeling guilty. As much as Bond didn’t want to leave Q alone, he had to get him help. There was an Epipen in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and Bond went straight there, nearly tearing the mirrored door off its hinges in his haste. Once he had the syringe, Bond dashed back to the kitchen and knelt down next to Q, who was now completely covered in hives and barely able to take in air.
He ripped off the plastic cap and jabbed the needle into Q’s thigh, holding onto his lover when he jerked as the epinephrine hit his blood stream. Within seconds, Q started gasping in large lungfuls of air, shaking as his body rapidly recovered from the anaphylactic shock.
“I’m sorry,” Bond replied, as he slumped back against the fridge and pulled Q against him. He rubbed at Q’s back, petted his hair as he continued uttering his apologies: “I’m sorry...I’m so sorry…I didn’t think…”
“It’s okay…” Q said, when the ability to speak returned. He sounded tired and winded, but Bond could see that the hives were beginning to fade on the back of his neck, and he took that as a good sign. Q rubbed at the injection site on his thigh and hissed out a wince against Bond’s shoulder. “But you know...you didn’t have to...stab me so hard…”
Bond huffed out a laugh that he didn’t quite feel, ensconcing Q in his arms with no intention of letting go. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid, so careless with the one person who mattered most.
“Hey...it’s not your fault,” Q told him, as he moved his arms round Bond.
“I could have killed you,” Bond said.
“But you didn’t.”
“It was a close thing.”
Q kissed the hinge of his jaw.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Q said.
Bond’s shoulders slumped and he sighed as the stress of the past forty eight hours caught up with him.
“I’m never eating peanuts again.”