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His limbs are lead, cemented to the ground.His eyes are shutters, fluttering closed against his will. His ears are cotton, stuffed to the brim.
The world around him fades in and out like an old film, flickering sepia then greyscale and, finally, to black. In a haze of delirium he hears the notes of a violin and the ringing voice of his mother, the music of his childhood. Images rush past him, fleeting and wistful, ghosts of his life past and present. His brothers arguing over something petty, his mother reminding him to behave, his professors complimenting him, M shoving piles of code in his arms, and Bond. It always comes back to Bond. 007 returning from a mission, bleeding but triumphant, Bond waiting for him at the end of a long day, James cradling his body as they sleep. Somehow, it always comes back to Bond and that, well, that gives him hope.
—————–
Q had never been one for field work. He found solace in the lines of binary, poetry in the sequences of numbers; computers were his friends and labs were his allies. The only time Q had ever held a gun, besides the required MI6 training, was to take it apart and rebuild it from scratch. He was a tech expert, an inventor, a genius, he was not an agent.
Bond agreed with him, however, M did not. And, while the title of M had a new face, the authority remained in place.
They were on a train now, Bond and Q, on their way to Dublin, Ireland for a mission. Both of them in the field, both of them holding weapons, both of them about to risk their lives.
Neither of them were excited. 'The target is exceptionally intelligent', M had said when convincing (forcing) Q to join the mission, 'and, while 007 is adequate, we need someone who can handle the target with equal intelligence and aplomb.'
Q supposed he should be flattered that M thought so highly of him, but all he could think of was everything that could go wrong. He could be kidnapped or poisoned or killed. He never expected any of the three to actually occur.
—————–
The drink had seemed so innocuous. A glass of mineral water while discussing foreign technological security systems with a criminal mastermind. He should have known better, he should have listened to Bond.
Colours barrage him from all sides, pleasant memories morph into his worst nightmares. And the fire, there was fire coursing through his veins and it was white hot and he was screaming and writhing in pain.
Except he wasn't, not anymore. Q was safely tucked into Bond's arms, shaking and mouthing silent cries. He was worlds away in a universe of monsters and hell, trapped in his own imagination as the poison raced to complete its mission before the antidote reacted.
Bond held him as Q twisted violently, as he lashed out, as he was paralysed with fear. And then there was nothing.
There was nothing and Bond couldn't breathe because he needed Q, he needed the man to remind him to be careful, to smooth his scars, to be there at the end of the day. He needed Q and there was no way he was letting him go.
Skin on skin, cool on burning, cracked on bleeding, Q's lips tasted of fancy drinks and gunpowder and something sinister. They were perfect.
Air poured into his lungs and Q gasped for breath, still shaking, still sweating, but safe. He was alive. Bond was alive. Everything will be alright. They repeated the words like a mantra as a car from MI-6 arrived at the scene.
'Everything will be alright.'
As Q was tucked into Bond's side on the ride home.
'Everything will be alright.'
As they debriefed to M in the middle of the night.
'Everything will be alright.'
As Bond drove Q to his flat at dawn.
'Everything will be alright.'
As they stripped and showered and slept.
'Everything will be alright.'
As Q woke with the remnants of nightmares and Bond made him tea.
'Everything will be alright.'
As Q recovered and Bond refused missions and both discovered how much they truly needed each other.
'Everything will be alright.'
And it was.