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Q isn't a field agent, but that doesn't mean that he's unaware of what field work entails. He'd read plenty of mission reports before he was given a live mission to manage. He's learnt that even the most meticulously planned missions can go wrong and that sometimes, the things that go wrong can be fixed, and sometimes they can't, and sometimes people die.
Reading mission reports isn't the same as hearing everything that happens, live and played out directly into his ear, as loud as a gunshot, as intimate as a lover's whisper.
And really, reports are a poor kind of preparation for the reality of being a Quartermaster in MI6, but then, there isn't any sort of training that would be adequate for listening to someone you saw in person only yesterday die halfway around the world, because he didn't pay attention to you when you told him where the exit was.
But Q's always been a fast learner, and after the first near miss, he learns even more quickly. He learns when to speak and when to keep quiet, when an agent needs a way out and when they need a way in. Some agents need more input than others. It's not that they're worse agents, it's just that they have different requirements. He doesn't work with all of them, or with them all of the time. Not every mission needs to be monitored and managed, and there are some agents he doesn't work with at all, some that he can't trust to listen to him when it matters, or that don't trust him.
Bond, despite his disregard for orders he doesn't agree with, and his recklessness and his ability to get himself into the most stupidly dangerous situations possible, actually knows when to listen, and whatever his misgivings might have been at the start, he now seems to trust Q to be there when he needs him. Q, for his part, has come to trust Bond's instincts, and his talent for getting himself out of those dangerous situations, if not unscathed, at least alive. Q has become the only person who has a hope in hell of getting Bond to listen, although, even then, Bond only follows Q's instructions about two thirds of the time.
Over the months that he's worked with 007, Q's become very familiar with not just Bond's slightly rough baritone, his dry wit, his ability to stay calm and focused under intense pressure, but also the other, less obvious sounds that started as just static, just random background noise, but have become Q's barometer of any given situation, to the point where he doesn't need Bond to provide any form of commentary beyond simply breathing.
He knows how Bond breathes when he's watching a target: slow and steady, so that when Q concentrates on the rhythm, he sometimes find that he forgets all about that the world and the people around him; he knows when Bond's having to work hard to keep up with a fleeing target; the short, staccato pants when the chase is over; the way he he takes long, deep breaths through his nose when he's lining up a kill shot, then the pause as he pulls the trigger, and the soft inhalation after. He can tell how when Bond's been hurt, and even how bad the wound is, by the way he grunts as bullet or knife meets flesh, and the sibilant sound he makes as the pain registers, before being ignored.
It isn't always bullets and blood though; there are times when people aren't trying to put holes in 007, when he's being charming and personable and using that remarkable charisma to manipulate people into doing what he wants. It's a little chilling sometimes, the way Bond can flip from charming seducer to brutal, remorseless killer in the space of a breath, and the contrast between the two sides of Bond is something that fascinates Q rather more than it should, and much more than he would like.
He's spent so long now listening to Bond that he could pick him out in a room full of people, whilst wearing a blindfold, just from the rhythm of Bond's breathing. In many ways, he knows 007 more intimately than he's known most of his own lovers.
So when, in the middle of a gunfight, he hears Bond grunt like the breath's been knocked out of him, and the next exhalation has the faintest hint of a wheeze at the end, Q knows immediately that something is wrong.
He knows better than to ask Bond questions, knows that Bond wouldn't acknowledge anything he says anyway, that his focus is always totally on the situation, but there's a tiny ball of anxiety sitting heavily in the pit of Q's stomach.
When the gunfire finally stops, Bond's breathing is slow and steady, but Q can hear the pained edge clearly.
“007?”
There's the sound of movement; the rustle of cloth and measured footsteps, a sharp intake of breath and then the wheeze is back and Bond's breathing is laboured.
“Bond? What's happening?” Asking how badly Bond's hurt is pointless when he just brushes off every injury. His tolerance for pain is terrifyingly high, but yet another thing that Q's learnt is when to believe him and when to have a medical team on standby. This time, he put them on alert as soon as he heard that pained grunt, and now his finger hovers over the commend to send them to Bond's location.
“Package retrieved,” Bond says, tones clipped and precise, as if he thinks he can hide anything from Q.
“Status?”
“I just told you..”
“I meant your status, 007,” Q doesn't like the way Bond sounds at all. He sends a message to the medical team, tells them to go now, tells them to hurry, and wishes he'd done it five minutes ago, because it's going to take them time to get to Bond, and he really, really doesn't like the sound of Bond's breathing. He likes the idea of telling M that 007 died on his watch even less. “And don't tell me it's a scratch, because you sound like you've just run a marathon and not even you're that unfit.”
“I'd like to see you run a mile, let alone twenty six,” Bond replies, tone dry, and sarcasm dripping from every word.
“Stop changing the subject and give me your status report, please.”
Bond sighs, then coughs. When he stops coughing, he's definitely wheezing and Q doesn't bother asking about the injury again. It doesn't take a genius to guess that Bond's probably taken a shot to the chest and that what Q can hear is most likely the result of a punctured a lung. The idea that he might be listening to Bond drowning slowly in his own blood is enough to make his fingers twitch, slipping briefly on the keys as he sends a message to the medical team and updates them on Bond's condition. He's tracking their progress, and it's nowhere near fast enough for his liking.
“Medical team are en route, 007, try not to die before they get to you.” He can feel eyes on him, knows that the rest of the room have realised that something's not right and he would be annoyed, but he's too busy concentrating on Bond.
“I'll do my best,” Bond replies, sarcasm heavy in his voice, even though he's struggling to breathe now. Q checks the medical team's progress again, and gets a message back from them that tells him to keep Bond conscious, and as still as possible until they reach him. Q mentally rolls his eyes, and resists the urge to reply and remind them that he has taken the advanced course on field medicine, and he's worked with 007 for some months, so, it's not like he's a beginner at this.
"Idiots," he mutters under his breath, forgetting, just for a moment that Bond has remarkably good hearing.
"Anyone I know?" Bond asks, and the wet sound of his breathing snaps Q back to the task at hand.
"Medical. The opportunity to actually get out in the field seems to have gone to their heads," Q says, "I think they forget that they aren't the only people who have to deal with agents who get themselves shot all the time." He means for his tone to be reproving, but Bond starts coughing again as Q's speaking, and Q lets the sentence trail off when he realises that he sounds more pleading than pejorative.
"Q, you almost sound as though you care," Bond says. He sounds as though he's fighting to get every word out, and underneath the bravado and gentle mockery, Q can hear the frustration and horror at the way his body is betraying him. Q tries not to imagine what drowning in your own blood must feel like, tries even harder not to imagine what the final moments would sound like.
"I don't like the paperwork after," he tells Bond, knowing that if he can hear the first hints of fear in the other man's voice, then Bond can surely hear the same in Q's. Q has lost an agent before, but he hardly knew the man and he wasn't Bond; wasn't that frustrating and fascinating blend of brain and brawn that Q in no way expected when he first met Bond.
"Paper? Thought you'd have it all digitised by now," Bond say, forcing each word out through gasps and coughs.
"I've tried, but M apparently prefers paper. I think he thinks it's more impressive to be able to shuffle paper about on that stupidly large desk of his than to scroll through an email."
He waits for the response, sure that Bond will have some comment to make, but there's no reply, just the sound of wet, pained breathing.
"007? 007? Bond? No, you can't pass out, stay awake and talk to me. Bond?" Q's heart is racing and he tries to tell himself that it's just his imagination that Bond's breathing is getting slower and shallower. "James?" He says, and he knows that the whole of the room behind him is silent and tense, and they must surely be able to hear the fear in Q's voice, but he doesn't care, keeps calling Bond's name, won't, can't accept that it might be pointless; he's not going to give this agent up, not this one.
He's driven to offering prayers to a god that he's never believed in; making vows about what he'll do if Bond just survives; promising himself and any deity or supreme being listening all manner of things he shouldn't, when he finally gets the report from the medical team that they've reached Bond at last. He listens as they work hard and fast to stabilise Bond, refusing to relax until they confirm that he's no longer in immediate danger, and that they're evac-ing him back for further treatment.
A ripple of relief runs through the room, which Q pointedly ignores. He closes Bond's link, but keeps the line open to the medical team. He doesn't bother to lie to himself that it's his job as Quartermaster to make sure he's there in case they need any logistical support, because the area is secure and they aren't going to need him, and because the way his hands are trembling would show the lie for what it was.
Once he has confirmation that they've got Bond in medical, safe and still alive, he shuts down the link and finally lets himself slump into a chair. Someone puts a mug in front of him and he drinks it without actually tasting whatever it is. No-one in Q Branch says a word when he shuts his station down and walks out, though he can feel their gaze like a pat on the back as he goes.
He's going home for a long, hot shower, a very large glass of extremely fine scotch, and at least twelve hours uninterrupted sleep. The scotch came from Bond, brought back from a previous mission, in what Q had told himself was a 'thank you for getting me out of that exploding oil refinery'. Now, he finds he's less invested in pretending it was a meaningless gift, and more interested in finding out if Bond wants to share it with him.
As soon as Q's slept some, and once Bond's out of surgery, and ideally out of medical altogether, Q's going to be paying him a visit. There are some promises that, even though they were made in the panic of thinking James was dying that Q needs to keep, and some things he thinks it's high time were said.
He steps out of the tube station and breaths in the crisp autumn air, deep enough that between that and the crash from the adrenaline leaving his system, he feels dizzy for a second or two, and has to breath slowly and carefully until it passes. He thinks about Bond's breathing, and wonders what te things he has to say will do to the rhythm of Bond's breathing, and, if what he thinks; what he hopes is true, what other noises he might be able to get Bond to make.