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Q isn’t at all happy when his painkillers wear off and he is forced to wake up. At least he can suffer in peace and quiet, alone at his own place instead of a hospital bed.
“Morning, Q.”
Or not, as it happens.
“Bond,” Q greets the intruder. “I am not the only person capable of equipping you.” He gets up carefully, without jostling the stitches. Q is not a fan of being shot.
“Oh, I know. Your replacement is unbearably boring,” Bond tells him cheerfully. Q doesn’t dignify that with an answer, but he does secretly feel a bit flattered.
Curiosity wins out and Q investigates what exactly Bond is doing in his—kitchen? Apparently the answer is cooking. The smell of spices should have given it away, but Q still feels groggy enough to miss just about anything.
“What did you do?”
“I’m hurt at your lack of trust, Q,” Bond puts a hand over his own heart in his fake hurt, but his smile is almost blinding. Q sighs.
“The Aston?”
“The Aston,” Bond agrees and starts plating the food.
“I’m not actually in charge of the budget allocations. You'd be better served trying this on M.” M has less patience for Bond’s antics and might just shoot him, too.
“I don’t remember M getting shot lately.”
“You’re here because I got shot?” Q asks, extremely skeptical.
“That, and it’s long past we got to know each other better, don’t you think?” Bond sits down across the table and gestures at the dinner, so Q picks up a fork and starts to eat.
Getting to know Bond sounds like a ridiculously bad idea, but Q has been told he’s prone to bad ideas. Like getting shot and hiding it.
Seems like they have something in common already.