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The room is round, empty but for an armchair. It doesn’t have any windows – just closed doors. Bond studies them carefully. There are no handles, no observation slits, but the place doesn’t have the feel of a prison cell.
The last thing he remembers is driving away from Six with Madeleine in the passenger seat of the restored Aston Martin. What the hell had happened?
“007,” the familiar voice behind him says, and he turns around slowly, only to see Q leaning on the wall between two doors. “Glad to see you’re still here.”
“Quartermaster,” Bond says in greeting, automatically, but – something is wrong. Where the hell did Q come from?
“This is artificially constructed reality,” Q says. His voice is careful and his face is guarded, like he’s expecting an outburst of violence. “You could say it’s all in your head.”
Well, he’s heard weirder things in his life. Come to think of it, if anyone could pull off this virtual reality thing, it would be Q. Bond lowers himself into the armchair; Q hovers a few steps away, hands clasped together in front of him, like a nervous schoolboy.
“So what’s happening in,” Bond pauses, looking for the word, “actual reality?”
If possible, Q looks even more guarded. His eyes linger on Bond’s face, then slide away. He swallows.
Bond studies him, waiting him out. There’s a spot of gun oil on the cuff of Q’s shirt; his hair is messy, and his tie is askew. He holds himself like someone who hasn’t slept for days, even if he doesn’t quite look it. Must be the whole virtual reality thing.
“We are trying to save your life,” Q says, finally, looking up at Bond. “You’re dying, James.”
With that, he seems to lose steam completely. Bond turns the thought over and over, and doesn’t know how he feels about it. He’s definitely not surprised that Death is knocking on his door again. He certainly flirted with her long enough.
The light, which seems to be coming from everywhere and nowhere in this odd place, suddenly dims. The floor shakes, just a little, then stabilizes. Q’s figure flickers; when it solidifies again, he has slid down the wall and put his elbows on his knees. Bond raises an eyebrow at him.
“Defibrillators,” Q says in that smooth, quiet, cultured voice of his, except now it’s undercut with a tinge of panic. His hand comes up to his nose, comes away with a small red stain. “I have to go, for now,” he says, scrambling to his feet. “For the love of everything, don’t go anywhere.”
Then he just vanishes. Bond wonders why he even bothered getting up for that.
--
The shaking stops as suddenly as it started. Bond doesn't know what would happen here if his body failed completely. Probably the light would go out. It’s a disturbing thought – being stuck in utter blackness, with nowhere to go – and he pushes it away.
--
Time goes differently here, impossible to keep track of, slow like molasses. He dozes fitfully in the armchair; it’s oddly reminiscent of the one in that hotel room in Tangier. Except this time, when a small noise brings him awake, it's not a mouse in front of him, it's Q.
He looks the same as ever, but he’s changed his shirt. Bond wonders how much this place reflects reality, thinks it might be not at all – for all he knows, his own mind had put Q in these clothes. The man doesn’t even bother with standing this time, just slumps with his back to the wall like he’s had all his strings cut.
Bond wants to ask if he’s alright. What comes out of his mouth instead is, “How do I know you’re the real Q?”
Q pushes his hands up under his glasses, rubs his eyes tiredly, tugs on his fringe. “I’ve been waiting for this question,” he says, “and it seems the only way for you is to ask me things and compare them to what you know. It won’t completely rule out a possibility of conspiracy, but…”
“What was in the room at L’Americain?” Bond asks. Q looks at him, puzzled, shakes his head. Either the question isn’t specific enough, or they haven’t found White’s secret hideout yet. Maybe it wasn’t a priority.
“Never mind,” Bond says. His own thoughts have jumped immediately to the videotape with Vesper’s interrogation. Q doesn’t seem to know anything about it. Does it make him the real thing?
“What’s happening, out there?” Bond asks. It’s more idle curiosity than concern for his own well-being. He has a feeling he’s not getting out of here anytime soon.
“We have some of Medical’s finest,” Q says, “trying to minimize the damage Oberhauser inflicted.” His mouth twists. “I followed you. Mallory told me not to, to erase the SmartBlood files, but – what if you needed backup? Turned out I was right. Again.” His face darkens, and he looks away for a moment.
“009 was more than happy to keep an eye on you and Dr. Swann,” Q says, finally. “With a support team on standby just in case. She’s still in a snit about the car, by the way.”
Bond chuckles. Fields, with her manner deceptively mild, can look soft and harmless, but she doesn’t share her Q-issued tech. Never mind that the car had originally been for Bond.
“What about C? Wasn’t he in every one of our networks?”
“I hacked him,” Q says, quiet and very serious. “Preemptively. Since I was about to lose my job anyway. I also locked him out of the SmartBlood files and his own glass tower while I was at it. Mallory would’ve probably had me put away, except it saved all of us. Except you.”
He looks so sad, and Bond doesn’t know what to do with it – surely the imminent demise of one Double-Oh well past expiry date doesn’t warrant so much heartache. Then a thought occurs to him.
“So Mallory’s whole resignation speech?”
“A nice piece of amateur theatre. Acted out, recorded and fed through all the proper channels.” Q has slumped so much that, if he slides down just a little bit more, he’s going to end up sprawled on the floor. “Colonel Mallory is not an amateur, though. He’s got the whole Committee eating out of his hand, what with their golden boy Max Denbigh turning out to be a double agent.”
“What happened to him?” Bond asks. Somewhere along the way he’s got it into his head that Denbigh is dead.
“He’s a bureaucrat first and foremost,” Q says. “Now in custody, facing various charges. Likely to spend the rest of his life in prison, though he doesn’t know it yet.”
Bond chuckles. The bloodthirsty gleam in the Quartermaster’s eye whenever he talks about burning someone’s entire existence and salting the earth never fails to entertain him.
“I imagine the Minister of Defense was none too pleased.”
Q makes a dismissive noise. “He’s grateful enough for the prevented attempt on his life to stop messing with the Double-Oh program. Mallory’s going to have his hands full for a while, but he’s optimistic.”
“And you?”
“And I was late,” Q sighs. “As usual. We couldn’t exactly storm the base without knowing what was inside, and we couldn’t just drop one of C’s beloved drones on it, after you went in – willingly! I can’t believe you sometimes, 007 –”
“Q.” Looks like Fields isn’t the only one in a snit over his behavior. “What happened in there?”
“Oberhauser started drilling your head. Do you remember that?” After Bond’s nod, Q continues. “SmartBlood isn’t just a glorified nanoelectronic leash, you know – it helps us monitor your vitals, along with that watch I gave you, and both of them generate a neat little feed for me to keep an eye on you in the field. Which is why I’m not giving it up for love or money – Mallory can bitch all he likes, but it works. It just needs better protection. Anyway, your vitals were suddenly all over the place, so my team and I hacked this installation, and at the same time we sent 009 and the backup in to get yourself and Dr. Swann out while both of you were still alive. And mostly we succeeded, but – “
“But?”
“But you were more dead than alive at that point. I’m sorry, 007.”
They are silent for a while after that. Bond doesn’t know how much time passes; Q has curled in on himself, like he’s in actual physical pain. Bond gets up, sits with his back against the armchair: it’s odd to stay in it when the only other person in the room is on the floor. The distance between them isn’t much – he could probably lean forward and run his thumb over Q’s eyelashes.
“Don’t be,” Bond says. “Sorry, I mean.”
“You were in very bad shape,” Q says, voice muffled by the hands that are covering his face, “I don’t know what he did. Probably hit some place he didn’t mean to hit, at that moment or at all. And I couldn’t get into his drill remotely. The damn thing wasn’t wired to anything I could access – not even their internal network, nothing. He was killing you, and I couldn’t stop it.” When he raises his eyes again, he looks almost angry. “I’m supposed to be there to help you. And I couldn’t help you. And, before that, I couldn’t stop you from going on this suicide mission all alone. So yes, I am sorry.”
He wasn’t alone, Bond thinks, but that didn’t mean much, in the end.
“What about Dr. Swann?” he asks. He wants to say ‘Madeleine’, but he has a feeling Q wouldn’t appreciate it.
“Very proficient with a small firearm if required,” Q says. “Probably saved your life by throwing herself at Oberhauser as soon as the commotion started. Definitely prevented him from doing more damage.”
That’s Madeleine, Bond thinks. “Where is she now?”
“Protection program.” At Bond’s look, Q adds, “She wasn’t keen on staying anywhere near Six, and she’s still a valuable witness. Hoeffler Clinic was out of the question, after you blew her cover, but with a clean identity, any place she might pick would be happy to have her.”
“What about Franz?” Bond doesn’t care that much about the sadistic little shit, but it’s something Q probably expects him to ask.
“Dead,” Q says, in a tone that clearly means it happened too quickly for his liking. “We had access to everything of theirs at that point, and 009 didn’t think his continued presence particularly necessary, especially since he was about to finish off both Dr. Swann and yourself.”
That’s Fields, all right: a woman who makes decisions quickly and takes no shit from anyone. Bond thinks about the old building of Six, gutted and strung through with detonation cords like red threads of fate; of shooting a helicopter out of the sky with a pistol; of Franz, one of his eyes unseeing, trying to crawl away from the wreckage. Of Madeleine, walking away; of Q in his cold underground domain, eyes hurt and face schooled into a mask of calm acceptance. Again, he’s not surprised that leaving Six behind turned out to be an illusion. It always was, the last few times he tried it; what made him think it would work this time?
The light flickers. Q looks up, his face resigned. Then, to Bond’s surprise, he lies down on the floor.
“What’s happening out there?” Bond asks.
“We managed to stabilize you and get you to a clinic,” Q replies. He’s staring at the ceiling. Bond wonders what he sees, stretches out beside him on the floor. It’s surprisingly comfortable. “We couldn’t bring you home – too much risk.” He opens his mouth to say something, lapses into silence instead.
“Just spit it out, Q.”
“We did all we could,” Q says, without looking at him. He slips off his glasses. “Last time I was here, and after. Your body isn’t dying anymore, but you’re in a coma. We can’t assess the brain damage until you wake up.”
Or not, Bond thinks, and the same thought is obviously plaguing Q, too. His face twists in a grimace, and he covers it with his arm.
“Speaking of the crater base,” Bond says, “were there any cats?”
Q turns to look at him, startled.
“Cats?” he repeats. No doubt he thinks Bond is pulling his leg. “There weren’t any animals at the SPECTRE base. Why?”
So literally everything after the first drill went in was pure delirium. “It’s just that I saw a cat there,” Bond says, “that looked remarkably like Snow. She even did that thing Snow does – using humans as convenient furniture.”
“No,” Q says, as the realization dawns. “Bond. You filthy old man. You gave your villain of the week my cat.” But the corner of his mouth is twitching up, just a little. “Snow is too refined a feline to fall for anyone’s evil ways.”
“Snow is evil enough on her own,” Bond grumbles. He’d paid a visit to the Quartermaster’s flat a couple of times – strictly for work-related reasons. Neither he nor the cats were impressed with each other. He couldn’t for the life of him see why Q loved the furry monsters so much.
“I can’t believe you,” Q says, affecting an offended expression, but his eyes are alight with mischief. At least he doesn’t look so miserable anymore. “James Bond vs. a villain’s white Persian cat.” The image is apparently too much for him, and he dissolves into giggles.
Bond folds an arm under his head, watching him. In all the time he has known Q, he’s never seen him like this: all but knackered from stress and worry, but still finding some humour in the situation. Hair fans around Q’s head like a dark halo; he’s wiping tears from his eyes, still shaking a little with suppressed laughter.
He looks bloody attractive like this, too.
Bond gives in to the temptation – never been strong enough to just ignore it, anyway – and runs his finger gently down Q’s cheek. His skin is warm. The laughter fades – Q is staring at him with wide, dark eyes, and Bond wants to lean in, wants –
A trickle of blood runs from Q’s nose. He swallows, startled, raises a hand to touch it, groans.
“I’m needed elsewhere,” he says. That’s all the warning Bond gets before Q disappears, again.
--
Bond stays on the floor for a while. It’s not that it makes any difference – he has nowhere to go. He wonders what the artificial reality thing is for – did Q want to know if there was anyone still left in Bond’s skull? Does he visit to make sure Bond doesn’t slip away entirely while his body is still healing?
People don’t wake from long comas, he knows this. It probably hasn’t been more than a few days, a week at most, or Mallory would have already had Q hauled away and back to work. Q’s the only visitor he can tolerate in here, Bond realizes, and the Quartermaster’s not going to keep him company forever. Bond himself certainly doesn’t care to stay in this desolate place too long – if the only way out is finally embracing death, he’s going to take that. He wouldn’t hover endlessly in this limbo while his mind loses its sharpness and his body withers away.
There’s not much to do here, but the doors might still lead him somewhere. Every one of them is identical, indistinguishable from the other; if he’s going to open and close them all in turn, he might need some way to tell them apart. He sits up, searches his pockets for something to mark his progress. His Walter is gone, and so is the watch Q had given him; he misses the comforting weight around his wrist. No pocket knife, not even a plastic card, nothing.
Bond’s considering taking apart the armchair when he sees them – Q’s glasses, abandoned on the floor. He must’ve forgotten to put them back on before leaving. Bond isn’t sure they won’t disappear, but then again – Q felt real and tangible under his hand; maybe this illusion will hold, too.
It’s the same pair he’s used to seeing on the Quartermaster’s face – black plastic, which proves surprisingly sturdy when he tries to snap them in half. He has to haul up the armchair, use its leg to smash one of the lenses. It breaks, finally, into two uneven pieces; Bond slips the mangled glasses into his breast pocket, takes the shards. The shorter one will do for marking; the longer one might double as a weapon in a pinch.
He picks a door at random and scratches a single long line into its faintly gleaming surface. Then he pushes it open.
--
Whatever Bond expects to find on the other side, it isn’t her old office, all glass and modern technology. Weak, fitful London sunlight is filtering through the window. M – his M – is sitting there, leafing through a stack of reports with a frown. Bond knows this expression well – he’d put it on her face enough times. She seems utterly oblivious to his presence, and he lingers in the doorway, watching her in silence.
“Bond,” she finally says, without looking at him.
“Ma’am.” It hits him suddenly how much he misses it – the way they clashed over his methods, the way she berated him for the unnecessary damage, the rare moments when they’d seen eye to eye. Even from beyond the grave, she still commands him – he didn’t question her order to kill a man he knew nothing about, went on this mission she gave him as if she were still alive, pointing him like the weapon he always was. Mallory’s a strong leader, but can’t ever hope to be what she was, to Six. To Bond. He wouldn’t mind following her now if she told him to, he thinks – what would it be like?
“Bond,” she says, sharply. His eyes snap to her face. “Are you done fucking around? I didn’t send you to investigate this one so you could wallow in self-pity. Did you get them all?”
“No,” he says, realizing that it’s true. The base was just the tip of the iceberg. He didn’t even apprehend Franz – that one’s on Q and his team, on Fields. But that means –
“Then you still have work to do,” she says, and turns back to her papers, a clear sign of dismissal. It’s decidedly not familial, or sentimental in any way, and Bond’s grateful for it.
“Ma’am,” he says, and turns to go.
“Good luck, 007,” he hears, and the door closes behind him.
--
The next door reveals Silva, in his glass prison. Bond thinks about seeing it for the first time – back then, it reminded him of the scorpion he had trapped with the shot glass. The association is even stronger this time. Silva leers, his face twisting out of shape as the missing part of his jaw becomes apparent, a gross parody of surviving everything life has to throw at a man. Bond has nothing to say to him, and doesn’t care to listen to what he has to offer. He steps back, lets the door swing shut.
--
Door number three leads to the hotel room in L’Americain, the fake wall still in place. Madeleine is sleeping on the bed, the silk robe she wore that night on the train draped around her. Bond pauses at the door, spends what feels like a long time just watching her breathe. He could go in, he thinks, sit on that bed, wake her up. Continue the charade that was his latest escape from Six (all imaginary, a voice in the back of his mind supplies), but somehow it doesn’t seem as satisfying a prospect. Even in sleep, Madeleine looks as forbidding as she is beautiful. He could lie to himself all he wants, but there’s no point in it: he knows the escape will always be temporary. He signed off his life to Six a long time ago.
--
Door number four: a night in La Paz, the bodies of two policemen crumpled on the ground, Mathis leaning on the trunk of the car in a blood-stained shirt, a cigarette in his mouth. He offers the pack to Bond, who doesn't move to step closer and declines with the shake of his head. He’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to accept anything offered to him here.
“I never got the hang of quitting the game,” Mathis says. The wounds on his side and chest don’t seem to bother him at all. “I tried, when they retired me, but it quickly got so mind-numbingly boring. Then you showed up, and I jumped at the chance to get out into the field again.” He takes a long, thoughtful drag of his cigarette. “It goes to your head like nothing else. First, you’re Death; then you’re just the dead man walking. But still you don’t know how to quit. Do you know how to quit, Mr. Bond?”
“Don’t think so,” Bond says.
“Good,” Mathis says. “Then you’ll know what to do.” He claps Bond on the shoulder, brisk and impersonal, and begins walking away into the night.
If only, Bond thinks to himself as the door slides shut behind him.
--
Door number five opens into a cavernous basement. The only light seems to be the glow of the monitors, and it takes Bond a moment to recognize Q’s underground workshop. Q himself appears through an entrance on the right, the one that leads into the armoury.
“Ah, 007,” he says, voice light and unconcerned. “Good evening.” He’s so unlike the Q Bond had last seen, sprawled on the floor in exhaustion, that this can only be the figment of Bond’s own imagination. He raises his eyebrows when Bond says nothing, but seems entirely unfazed. Bond stays at the threshold, watches him carefully.
“I’ve got something for you,” this simulacrum of Q says, and starts digging through the mess that is his work bench. “Ah – here it is. Give me your hand.”
It looks like the exact copy of the watch Q had given him before Rome, except Bond can see that its face is completely blank: no numbers, no minute or hour hand. When Bond makes no move to accept it, Q stops in front of him and frowns.
“Did you come for something else, then?” he says, a suggestive note in his otherwise posh and quiet voice. He looks at Bond from under his lashes, a tiny impish smile on his face. It’s so at odds with the raw desperation Bond has seen on Q the last time that he can’t stand it anymore – evades the cool, long-fingered hands that slip down his lapels, try to get a hold of his wrists.
“No, thank you,” Bond says, taking a step back. He could get lost here, but this isn’t something he wants, not from this ghost of a fleeting impression that has nothing to do with the real person. “Much as he says he hates me, I do prefer the real thing.” He finds, as the door swings shut on not!Q’s pout, that it’s true.
--
He takes a break after that, sprawled in the armchair. Anything could be beyond the two remaining unmarked doors, but the encounter with the fake Quartermaster has unsettled him. He startles when someone clears their throat behind him.
“It’s just me,” says Q, voice guarded and careful, stepping around the armchair to stand beside Bond. He holds himself marginally better, a little more loosely, like someone had made him sleep; Bond keeps looking for the dark shadows under his eyes that he knows should be there. This avatar of Q is also somewhat unsettling, but less so than the shadow beyond the fifth door. This Q, at least, looks concerned, and Bond finds that a little more comforting.
“I believe you have something of mine,” Q says, finally, still looking down at Bond. His usual glasses are back on his nose, but Bond still pulls the mangled frame out of his pocket and holds it out. Q takes the glasses carefully, raises an eyebrow at the missing lens.
“What were you using them for?” he asks, then takes a quick look around the room, noting the scratches on five doors out of seven. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Expedient.”
Bond wants to pull him in, to kiss that smile, but knows Q probably won’t appreciate it, not at the moment. He stands up, puts his hands in his pockets instead.
“Shall we?” he says, indicating the door number six.
“What, now?” Q asks, startled. He blinks owlishly behind his glasses, and the familiar sight makes something warm expand inside Bond’s chest. “I mean – do you want to, with me here, or shall I – ”
“It’s not like I have any better ideas,” Bond says. He might as well do it with Q.
“All right,” Q says softly, and hovers just behind Bond’s shoulder as Bond pushes open the sixth door.
The sight that greets him makes him recoil. It’s Vesper’s naked back – she’s tied to a chair, the glimpse of her he’d managed to catch before facing LeChiffre and his whip. It takes him a moment to realize that nothing is happening; the image is frozen and flickering slightly, like a videotape on pause. He could go in, get her out. Knowing what he knows now – they could make it work, he thinks. There’s no Quantum to hold anything over either of them. He takes a step forward. In his peripheral vision, the door starts to shimmer and fade. He could –
“No!” Someone screams behind him. “James! Stop!” Frantic hands catch him across the shoulders, try to drag him back. He shakes them off, wants to take another step forward, but it’s slow, like he’s stuck in quicksand, going down and suffocating. Q ducks under his arm, appears in front of him, eyes and hair wild, pushing him back. “No,” he yells again, “no fucking way!”
Q’s face flickers for a moment, full of horror and despair, and it’s that image that brings Bond back, reminds him where he is. He drags them both backwards; the door clicks shut behind them. Q leans against the nearby wall, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Bond pulls him in on impulse, crushes him against his chest. Q resists for half a second, then folds his arms around Bond’s neck, clings to him. “I’m sorry,” Q says again, quieter this time. His hand is warm where it settles on the nape of Bond’s neck. His hair, where Bond has buried his face in it, smells like lemongrass and gunpowder. Bond has no idea what Q’s hair actually smells like, but thinks he’d like to find out, when this whole ordeal is done with. He hopes Q would let him.
“Don’t be,” Bond says finally, before releasing him.
They stare at each other for a bit before Q clears his throat. “Last one,” he says.
Bond doesn’t bother marking the door number six. He’s not going to open any of them again, he knows this. Whatever is waiting beyond number seven is not going to be a lucky escape, either.
With that thought, he pushes the last door open.
--
It opens into the night settling on the moors and the roar of fire, the scream of a helicopter going down. Q stares with wide eyes at Skyfall, engulfed in flames. If Bond ever wanted a metaphor of being unable to return to his past, he can’t imagine a better one. Except it still leaves him at a loss for what to actually do.
A bullet whines just past Q’s ear, and Bond tugs him back and lets the door close. He doesn’t think anything can really hurt Q in here, but he doesn’t want to find out if that’s true or not.
--
He finds himself sitting in the armchair again, after. Q is perched delicately on one of the armrests. Bond’s no closer to getting out of here than when he’d started, and he’d kill for some whiskey right now.
A careful hand rests on his shoulder. He looks up, takes Q's other hand, brings it to his mouth. Q swallows.
“Thank you,” Bond says, against Q’s palm, “for being here with me.”
“There has to be some other way,” Q says. He’s trying for optimism, but Bond can feel the way his fingers tremble. His voice is sharp when he says, “There has to be!”
“Maybe there isn’t,” Bond says. He’s very tired. He hasn’t felt like this since Istanbul; maybe it’s really time to stop running and give in.
“No,” Q is saying, hurt and anger in his voice, “Don’t you dare give up!”
Bond drags him in, flailing limbs and all, until Q is sitting in his lap, cradled in the circle of Bond’s arms. Q clings to him, one arm around his shoulders, runs his hand through Bond’s hair, over his cheek. Bond presses his lips to Q’s temple.
“No,” Q says, more quietly this time. “Who else have you seen? What did they tell you?”
Bond holds him a little closer. He thinks about M (“Are you done fucking around?”), about Mathis (“Do you know how to quit, Mr. Bond?”), about what Madeleine would have to say, both here and out there. About Q, here with him, and out there in reality, no doubt wearing himself thin trying to bring Bond back. There has to be something else they haven’t tried, he thinks. Maybe it would even work.
“When you leave here,” he says, “What do you do?”
Q frowns. “I haven’t tried this on my own. There’s a timer. It’s set to wake me up after a while, and it gives me a warning. Something that doesn’t usually happen, that I can’t ignore.”
That explains the nosebleed, then.
“When you go this time,” Bond whispers, “Take me with you.”
It’s impossible to look both skeptical and hopeful at the same time, but Q somehow manages it. He touches his forehead to Bond’s and says, barely audible between them, “I promise.”
From there, it’s easy to pull him in, to kiss him, their lips barely touching at first. Q holds on a little tighter, presses his mouth to Bond’s, and Bond crushes him closer. Then they’re kissing for real, like they want to crawl out of their own skin and cling desperately to each other.
“Do you still hate me, Q?” Bond whispers between kisses.
“More than ever,” Q says, nipping at Bond’s lip. “Don’t you dare avoid the apology.”
Bond bites at his neck, because it’s not going to leave a bruise, not here, and because it makes Q shiver and moan. “I will apologize properly when we get back.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Q says, and kisses him again. There’s a taste of copper in Bond’s mouth, bright and sharp between them, and when he opens his eyes, he sees a trickle of blood run from Q’ nose, past his lips. Everything around them starts to flicker.
Bond seals their mouths together again and thinks that, all things considered, this is not a bad way to go.
--
Everything hurts when he wakes up. There’s light, everywhere, the sharp smell of a hospital, and frantic beeping; he distantly recognizes a heart monitor going wild. Someone is shouting; he thinks he recognizes the familiar voice in the cacophony of noise all around him, but he’s not sure. Someone grips his hand tightly for a moment, and he relishes the actual physical contact before slipping into darkness again. This time it’s heavy, all-encompassing, dreamless.
He wakes up, later, in the dim quiet. It’s not at all like the room he’s been in all this time – he can see the light slipping through the cracks in the blinds, can hear the distant sounds of people going about their business outside. The heart monitor is beeping steadily. He turns his head, looking around the room, relieved that it doesn’t bring any nausea. There’s a bandage at the back of his skull, what feels like a small line of stitches near his right ear. He can raise his arms as much as IV lines allow; he can feel his toes.
There’s a figure slumped in the visitor’s chair. It’s Q, fast asleep; someone has pulled up the sleeve of his cardigan and slipped an IV into his arm, put a blanket over him. He looks absolutely terrible: hair standing on end on one side, dark circles under his eyes, mouth slightly open as he snores. He looks like a stiff breeze could blow him over. He’s also the best thing Bond has ever seen. One of Q’s thin wrists is resting near Bond’s hand on the duvet, and Bond touches each of his knuckles gently, one after the other. He’ll get to that apology tomorrow; he’s sure Q will appreciate it more after both of them have had some rest.
Q’s eyes open to slits; he sits up a little straighter when he notices Bond watching him.
“James,” he says, barely audible, tone wondering. Bond squeezes his fingers, cracks a smile.
“Q,” he returns, voice scratchy with disuse.
“It worked,” Q whispers, and next thing Bond knows, he has an armful of squirming Quartermaster, who has slipped the IV out and is running his fingers over Bond’s face. His hands are warm, and his mouth tastes like the terrible hospital coffee.
“I do so hate to disappoint,” Bond says against his Quartermaster’s smiling lips.