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More often than not, if you needed to know something about the employees of MI6, Bill Tanner would technically be able to tell you whatever you wanted to hear. If you however really dared to ask him, he would probably politely tell you not to be so bloody nosy and then, just as politely, to piss off.
There were a few simple reasons why these conversations always followed that exact structure: On one hand, Tanner was just a quite attentive person and as such had worked at MI6 for much too long to stay truly unaware of anything both official and unofficial happening inside. On the other hand, he wasn‘t a bloody spy. If he heard and noticed behaviours and came to conclusions about people based on them, it was rather on accident and for his personal entertainment than with any purpose, and he had no business or interest in sharing these bits of information with anyone.
At any rate, his intimate knowledge of MI6 was mainly an asset to his job as Chief of Staff: It comes in handy if you deal with a bunch of workaholics to know when it is to time to regulate them a bit.
And thus he had eventually figured out that Q was suffering from gastritis. Well, he had figured out that Q was losing weight because of digestive issues and had recommended him his own gastrointestinal doctor with quite a stern glare, and she had then figured out that the actual issue was gastritis. Stress, as it turned out, tended to be quite bad for one's stomach and intestines.
Flares of this issue usually came up whenever Q had been under extreme pressure and stress for an extended period of time, so Tanner wasn‘t all too surprised when Q experienced a flare a few weeks after everything surrounding Spectre had started to settle down (and Bond had run off again, a factor that maybe weighed in at a some importance as well).
“Q?“
The bundle of blankets on the couch in the far corner of Q‘s office let out a disgruntled, but affirmative sound, and Tanner carefully shut the door behind himself. One of Q‘s laptop was buzzing on his desk, a glaring reminder that his friend hadn‘t even bothered to turn it off. Tanner frowned and rounded the desk towards the couch, stepping over a pile of documents that had apparently fallen from the table.
“It's bad this time, huh?“
Another sound and Q lifted his head slightly from the couch to get a good look at him, lacking quite a bit of his usual colour:
“I didn‘t even see this one coming, the fucker just kicked me right in the gut.“
Despite himself, Tanner chuckled under his breath. Ah, well, no pretence of being a prim and proper Quartermaster behind closed doors was fine with him. Q shifted some more, but eventually let his head sink back down when Curie (the cat, not the scientist) started meowing at him to settle down. Said bundle of calico fur was stuck between Q‘s stomach and the backrest, purring aggressively and snuggling close to her companion in an attempt to comfort him. Tanner smiled briefly and greeted her (as politely as you ought to be with helpful medical comfort staff) before turning his attention back to Q:
“Have you taken your meds already?“
An affirmative murmur.
“How about peppermint tea, then?“
Another low sound of agreement.
In his career as Chief of Staff, Tanner pondered later, he‘d definitely done more strenuous things for his employees than making them a cup of tea on a bad day. And as a friend, sitting on the world's most uncomfortable office chair — heaven knows why Q used the thing — to coax Q into drinking his tea was barely a price to pay if he was doing something to help.
And anyway, the trust spelt out aloud in the way his friend's eyes started to droop and then to close as Tanner murmured on about some piece of gossip or another that he‘d exchanged with Moneypenny earlier was something he knew to take as the compliment it was. Seeing Q fully relaxed with his beautfil dark curls flowing all around his head was a blessing in and of itself. Even Curie kept her complaints down to near-silent outcries when he pushed the blanket up and around Q‘s shoulders after his breathing had evened out to a slow flow of in and out.
Bill Tanner closed the door to Q‘s office with the quietest click he could manage, and if someone were to ask why he‘d been talking with the other man for so long, he would politely tell them not to be so bloody nosy and then, just as politely, to piss off.