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“It’s going to hurt,” James said, trying to keep his voice soft. Q had been so close to the blast, his ears were likely still ringing.
It had happened so quickly. One moment he’s standing in the hall to M’s office, shooting the breeze with Ms. Moneypenny. As usual, she was having none of his sweet talking, telling him to fill out his reports himself. Then the building rocked and sirens began to wail.
An explosion in Q division, Tanner shouts.
Then Moneypenny was pulling a Glock out of her desk drawer.
“Go find him,” She said over the noise, “I’ll cover you.”
He was on his feet when they reached him, a lone pillar of calm and sanity in a sea of shattered glass and utter chaos. The whole left side of his face was painted with blood from a cut on his forehead. There’d be no saving his shirt and vest. His lip was split, and he cradled his left hand against his stomach. But his glasses were straight and his eyes were locked on the screen in front of him, even as he typed one handed.
“Intruder in west stair well, three stories up. He’s headed towards the roof,” Q called, locking eyes with Moneypenny, she nodded, motioning the agents behind her to follow.
The sirens cut and the lights returned as agents began to pour into the ruins of Q division.
The Quartermaster himself refused to be moved, refused to be touched, until he knew his people were accounted for. Sanders was dead, along with Daniels and Patel. Tommlinson, Zhang, Orwell, Leads, and Jahar would need to be hospitalized. The others could be treated in house.
Only when the head medic had given him the all clear had Q allowed Bond to steer him into the remains of his office.
Q sat on the desk and let out a shaking breath. Bond retrieved the first aid kit that hung on the wall, tossing his jacket over the upturned desk chair and rolling up his sleeves. He tilted Q’s chin up, pushing that unruly hair back to get a better look at the cut in the light.
“That looks nasty,” Bond confirmed, “It’ll need sticking, and you’ll want to get checked for a concussion. I’ll get one of the medics.”
“No,” Q cut him off, “Just give me a moment. I can’t deal with them right now. Do what you can for the rest and we’ll go from there.”
Bond nodded. He understood where Q was coming from. Q wasn’t any better at letting his guard down than Bond was; he wasn’t good at vulnerable.There weren’t many people he trusted to see him like this, raw and tired and hurting. James loosened his tie, shrugging out of his button down. He folded the cotton into a square and pressed it to the cut on Q’s forehead.
“Hold that.”
Q did as he’s told but his eyelids looked heavy. All the adrenaline gone, he was starting to feel the individual hurts.
“Lets try the hand then,” he said, taking the wrist gingerly. Q hissed and Bond couldn’t blame him.
His middle, ring, and pinkie finger were all twisted at and unnatural angle. Clearly broken.
“What happened,” Bond asked, reaching into the first aid box, fishing out a roll of tape and something to splint the fingers with.
“The blast caught me by surprise. Tried to get my hands up when it knocked me, as you can see it didn’t work.”
Bond nodded.
“This will hurt,” he warned, his grip on the wrist tightening. Q took a deep breath and nodded. Bond took the first finger, tugging sharply to force the bones back where they belonged. Q’s jaw tightened and he exhaled sharply, but he made no other sound. It was the same with the second and third finger, even while Bond splinted the digits.
But the Quartermaster remained quiet afterwards. Bond checked his pupils, felt along his neck, shoulders, and extremities for damage. He got a sharp hiss when he touched the right shoulder and the left ribs but it was nothing more than bruising. Well practiced fingers probed the soft area of his abdomen, checking for any internal damage but Q seemed fine in that regard. Q endured, his eyes closed and he pressed James’ now ruined shirt against his head. Bond gave him a pitying look.
“I’ll go get someone to look at your head,” he said, taking the silence as his queue. But a slender hand caught his wrist, stopping him.
Q was looking up at him now, his the first tears just beginning to cut tracks through the half dried blood.
“Not yet. I-I just need a second,” he choked, trying too his voice even and failing.
Bond was there in an instant, tucked between the younger man’s knees, gathering the smaller body against him, curling around him, stroking his hair. Q clung to him as the sobs racked his body, the fingers of his good hand fisted in the back of James’ undershirt.
“They’re dead because of me,” he said, over and over again, like a mantra, “I failed them. Who tell will there families? God, they're dead because of me.”
Bond wanted to comfort him, wanted to tell him there was nothing he could have done. Wanted to tell him it was the bomber who should be held responsible. That Q had no way of knowing. The man had worked here of months, he’d had nothing to do with Q division. But he stayed silent. Because it wasn’t alright. It would never be alright. Because while that may have been the truth, in this moment it didn’t matter. Lives had been lost, lives that Q felt responsible for. And nothing anyone could say would change that, would redirect that guilt. It was a pain James was familiar with, one that had to be allowed to run it’s course, one that has to be felt and grieved. Q could only come to terms in his own time. A James would always be there so long as Q needed him to be.
~~~
Sorry, no fluff but I hope I got all the other stuff right :D