Chapter Text
Q could feel the change in the air of his office as Bond strode into the room with his usual swagger, and promptly dumped a pile of what used to be his gear onto the worktable.
Q sighed and swiveled around in his chair, absently hitting a few keys to commit his current code to memory. He reached out to fiddle with the pieces. Clearly broken. He tossed a couple bits of metal to the side, separating out the frayed wires. Heat discharge at close range fried the transistors.
“Again?” Q sighed. “How many times have I told you not to toss the button explosives when you’re still wearing the radio…”
He absently continued muttering. It was an unending, familiar litany he could almost recite from memory. Gripes about the state of the gadgets, the burn marks, the dents in the metal, the unrecognizably melted chips he had painstakingly inserted into that one fancy watch… Q frowned.
It was a worn argument, with no heat in it, Bond wasn’t interjecting as usual.
Q glanced behind his back at the far wall and paused.
James Bond was sprawled as unceremoniously and arrogantly as he usually did on Q’s furniture, but there was something missing in his posture, in the gleam of his eyes. The agent rubbed his forehead absently, head tipping back. Most alarmingly of all, Bond was on Q’s couch.
The couch was a lurid orange artifact Moneypenny had acquired for him as a pointed gift, loudly complaining that since Q spent so much time at the office he should at least be able to sleep on something that wasn’t a desk chair. It was old, lumpy, and had a suspicious faded stain on one of the armrests. Moneypenny claimed she very intentionally had gone looking for furniture from shared houses that had previously been rented by unruly groups of young adult men, just to match the precise level of personal hygiene and sleep discipline she believed Q was aspiring to. She found this particular gem at a former university rugby team’s shared house, and dryly stated that Q slept about as much as those idiots likely did, and thus the couch should fit him perfectly. Q took the admonishment for what it was and gleefully ignored it, then promptly disinfected the whole thing with MI6-grade acids he could have sworn he once heard 003 claim to have used to clear up crime scene evidence.
Now, it was still old, lumpy, and completely speckled with bleach stains, but it Q always said it added character. Of course, that had nothing to do with the delightful little twitch Moneypenny got in her eye every time she walked into his office.
James Bond had sworn he wasn’t touching that crime against color theory with a ten foot pole. For him to be lying on it now… well, the man was either an impostor, which Q would be able to tell thanks the small, inconspicuous icon for the remnants of Smart Blood that he had never managed to bring himself to delete (he refused to interrogate himself as to why, just as he refused to name the small, warm feeling that bloomed each time he glanced at the evenly ticking heartbeats), or James Bond was so exhausted that he had decided Q’s lumpy, sacrilegious couch was better than the alternative.
“You have your own flat,” Q carefully said into the quiet room. He rolled the syllables in his mouth, carefully testing the words. “Do you not prefer sleeping there?”
Bond’s shoulders were hiked up to his chest, unusually expressive for someone with a perfect poker face. His eyes were closed. Q had a sneaking suspicion why.
James Bond’s flat had been bought and paid for him by MI6. Q had looked into it, through street-view cameras and surveillance equipment he had secretly gotten access to. Q had also almost immediately injected a virus that would ensure that anyone without Q’s passcodes and knowledge would never be able to spy on Bond’s flat. He refused to think about why, just as he refused to identify the soothing feeling he got from Bond’s heartbeat. If Bond ever noticed, he didn’t say.
It was a gorgeous space, with top-of-the-line security features, immaculate rugs, and perfectly neutral upholstery. It was also an impersonal desert of perfectly aligned showrooms. Looking through the cameras made Q feel like he was peeping into a museum exhibit, glass cases and untouched, gleaming floors. Q had a sneaking suspicion that not much had changed since then.
He glanced again at the stained, deeply-cushioned, disgustingly orange couch that squatted like a fat proud racoon in the corner of his workspace, and the man in a similar state of exhausted disarray atop it.
Q sighed again, ignoring the way Bond stayed perfectly, unnaturally still. He pushed himself up from the chair and walked over to the entranceway. He could almost feel Bond’s presence behind him, like a burning weight, impossible to ignore. It was uncanny how the man instantly made every room his throne merely by walking in… or perhaps it was just Q who found it impossible to forget the weighty presence of MI6’s best agent lying unnaturally still on his couch.
If he wanted to take a nap, then who am I to stand in his way?
Q quietly reached out to the light switches and flicked over half of them down, reducing the harsh fluorescent glow to a dim buzz. The stark shadows in the white light seemed to soften and blend as the bright contrast slowly faded away.
He ignored a cautious shifting from the couch as he strode towards a small box shoved against the far wall. He dug around for a moment, moving a stack of clothes and some toiletries he had shoved in here as he began to spend longer and longer days in the office, and grabbed the item at the bottom. He pulled it out.
A large, ludicrously fluffy throw blanket unfurled as Q hoisted the thing over his shoulder, stomped over to the unusually still figure of Bond on the couch, and tossed it over him.
Q tugged at the corners, making sure the man’s annoyingly tall body was covered, then smoothed a hand over the wrinkles to even it out.
Bond made a tiny noise. Q absently hushed him and trailed a hand over his head, clearly telegraphing his movements. He half expected Bond to jerk away. Instead, the small noise cut out with a soft sigh.
“Go to sleep,” Q grumbled, too tired to look too much further into it. He turned back to his desk, pulling out his chair and letting himself fall into it. The monitors were still showing security camera footage, logs of background processes Q was running, and data from that one personal drone project Jeff from operations was particularly enthusiastic about and Q was making a point not to ask questions about. Not that his questioning would change anything, given that Q had access to pretty much the entire project. That was what happened when you used your work laptop to field test personal automated drones, Jeff.
Q sighed and glanced over his shoulder, fully prepared to meet James Bond’s narrowed eyes. The agent had a knack for sniffing out the most annoying ways to gather information and seemed to have an almost compulsive need to supervise whatever Q was doing. Q was used to it, expected it even, with a fond resignation that he made a point not to look too far into. But…
James Bond was one of the touchiest of agents regarding literally anyone being around him when it wasn’t necessary for the mission. There were very, very few exceptions to this rule. Q didn’t think he ranked anywhere close that scale.
But when Q turned around, Bond was sleeping, breathing deep and slow and even.
Q blinked.
Is he faking it?
Q stared longer, hardly daring to breathe.
If Bond was faking it… what was the point? Some kind of jumpscare? Q wouldn’t put it past the agent to pull something stupid like that, but this was a lot of effort for just a few moments of payoff. It didn’t seem like Bond’s style. And then there was the way he had watched Q when he came into the office — jerky, wary, like a wounded predator who needed a cave to hole up in.
Q consciously moved his eyes away.
If Bond was faking it, he was doing a damn good job and Q would let him have whatever prank he wanted to pull. If he wasn’t…
He looked soft like this, completely unguarded and curled up on Q’s couch, under Q’s own blanket. Q let out a deep breath, letting his own breathing slow, and turned back to his computers.
Over half an hour later, a length of time which seemed both interminable and inconsequentially short, Q just barely caught a faint, sharp inhale of breath from behind him. Pointedly, he made sure his typing rhythm didn’t even stutter, and kept his gaze fixed on the monitor in front of him.
He could see a faint reflection from behind him in the smaller monitor on the top right that Q had kept off. Moneypenny had suggested he use it as a kind of rear mirror to humble interns and Q-branch technicians who thought they could get the jump on their famed quartermaster, leaving them guessing at whether Q truly did have eyes on the back of his head. Now, it provided him a blurry, uncentered, but decent enough glimpse of the couch behind him.
He watched as Bond carefully sat up. Only his wealth of experience running point on some of Bond’s thornier missions allowed Q to discern his agent glancing around the room, taking stock of his location, and his faint flash of surprise at his unchanged state.
Was he expecting to be tied up? Q frowned. On second thought, though, it wasn’t unimaginable that Bond might have expected to find himself in medical, or foisted off onto some other resting area that would keep a highly dangerous agent of MI6 under invasive guard. Well, not here. Q carefully smoothed his expression and continued typing. I will not be letting the vultures at you that easily, you impossible man.
As if he could sense Q’s thoughts, Bond looked up at the rightmost monitor, and their eyes caught. Q felt the tips of his ears flush lightly, but he didn’t look away. They stayed suspended in the connection for what felt like hours, but was likely only a fraction of a second.
Bond glanced at the door, and Q could breathe again. He resumed his typing.
He didn’t look back up at the monitor. Merely listened to the quiet shuffling, footsteps clearly only making noise for Q’s own convenience, and the creaky door of his office swinging open, then shut.
For the rest of the week, Q could feel the weight of a considering gaze resting on his back. He did not do it the discourtesy of confrontation. He merely let James Bond watch him, irregular sleep schedules and messy office and tinkering and all, curious what conclusions the agent was drawing.
What would a man whose livelihood was predicated around accurately reading people see in Q? How would he judge his own Quartermaster?
Near the beginning of Q’s tenure, this gaze and those questions would have tormented him, fearing the disaster a lack of respect for his position as quartermaster of MI6 would bring to the agents’ operations. Now, as he slowly twined himself around the inner workings of the digital realm of Queen and Country, they had become merely idle curiosity.
How would Bond act once he decided he knew enough about Q as a person?
Q didn’t have to wait too long.
Nearly a week and a half later, Q could feel the change in pressure as James Bond silently slipped into his office. Q made no attempt to disguise his surveillance through the top right monitor reflection, and Bond didn’t seem to care.
The agent’s attention was fixed on the large, impossibly fuzzy blanket that had been neatly folded and placed on the side of the lumpy secondhand crashing couch, as if waiting for someone to use it.
Q allowed his chair to creak as he swiveled around, and studied his agent.
The same tiredness as before clung to the man, like a faint persistent cloud of headache and darkened eyes. He didn’t meet Q’s gaze, his eyes fixed on the tauntingly orange couch and incongruous blanket, his characteristic arrogance and brash confidence dulled by something a little jagged, a little more fractured.
Q stood up. Bond leaned smoothly against the threshold of the door and gave him a rakish grin.
“Quartermaster,” he said.
“007.” Q raised an eyebrow. “How might Q-branch help you today?”
Bond’s ever-present grin faltered imperceptibly. Q knew he had only caught it because he was looking.
“Ah.” Q sighed and rolled his eyes, then took a couple steps forward. He watched as James Bond carefully stilled, but otherwise did not react, as Q’s small hand gently clasped his bicep and tugged him forward.
“How might I help you today?” Q corrected, murmuring from beside his agent as he carefully pulled him to the side of the room.
Bond offered not a single hint of resistance, merely a small expression of broken bewilderment as Q pushed him to the couch and pressed him down into it. The cushions gave way until James Bond was lying sideways on it, still confused but accepting.
Q subconsciously squeezed the hand that was gripping his shoulder, and watched as Bond’s eyes fluttered. Strangely enough, the agent tilted his head and almost… bared his throat?
Q stared at him, frowning. What are you doing, James Bond?
Bond didn’t move. If Q didn’t know better, he would have thought the agent unaware of his gaze.
Q watched Bond’s chest rise and fall, a little faster than resting rate. Q could almost instinctively track the rhythm, the heart rate, how tense Bond’s muscles were and how much adrenaline was likely coursing through the man’s veins; with the Smart Blood, he knew Bond’s body more intimately, perhaps, than the man himself.
Q took a deep breath and reached out a hand. James Bond studiously ignored the movement, but Q could see the pulse point at his neck jump, his throat muscles flex. Q forged on ahead, watching intently. His fingers touched Bond’s ankle, wrapping around it and squeezing gently.
James Bond reacted as if scalded. A flinch ran through his leg and he stiffened.
Q held his breath.
Not three seconds later, Q watched, mystified, as Bond seemed to unravel. The agent went limp, breath stuttering and slowing. The imaginary heartbeat in Q’s mind slowed as he timed it to Bond’s breath, the minute twitches of his face, the tremors still racing up his calf.
Touch-starved, Q mused to himself, and sleep-deprived. He could solve at least one of those. The other would rely on Bond’s own willingness, though Q was happy to help it along.
“Rest,” he ordered softly.
Bond’s shoulders slumped, but before Q could worry that he made a mistake, Bond had already curled up under the blanket, tremors slowly easing away. Somehow, his contrary agent had decided that now would be the perfect time to actually follow orders.
“Obedient now, are we?” Q murmured, amused.
Bond simply hummed. Q blinked in surprise.
“That’s a new response.” He poked at the agent gently, but Bond simply shifted and sighed.
Q’s mouth twitched and he just barely held himself back from breaking into a fond grin. “If you were like this during missions, I might be able to actually halve Q Branch’s explosives budget. Accounting would weep.”
Bond hummed again, and Q let out a small huff. Absently, he moved the finger that had just poked his agent down to his side, hovering over his knee for a bit, before retracting his hand completely. How odd was it, now that he was thinking about it, that Q hadn’t gotten his finger bitten off or otherwise glared at by an agent disgruntled at unsolicited human contact?
Q’s eyes roamed absently over his agent’s prone form. He had something to test. Finally, he reached out and carefully placed a warm hand on James Bond’s ankle.
Bond gave a faint, almost imperceptible twitch, before settling further into the couch.
Interesting.
Q’s thumb began rubbing light but firm circles around the base of Bond’s ankle. As he watched carefully, he could discern very faint repeated tremors with each movement. Again, rather unusual.
Q had a sneaking suspicion where this was headed, but he firmly pushed it out of his mind. He would wait, for once, for the conclusion to present itself to him. He wouldn’t risk crossing any lines. Not with his agent so raw.
I suppose I should leave it there, shall I? Bond isn’t going to sleep much here anyway.
Better he leave a way out early rather than make the agent feel like he was trapped in.
Q reluctantly pulled back his hand. “Good,” he said, mostly to himself.
He turned back to his computers, and thus completely missed the involuntary shiver racing down Bond’s spine at his voice, or the way he eased and melted into the couch at the affirmation. Moneypenny had another project she wanted him to look over—and then veto for the sake of her budget, though Q wouldn’t make any promises—and accounting was dead-set on making everyone’s lives miserable, as pre usual. The least Q could do was hack a couple of their speakers to play obnoxious music on a random trigger. It was for the good of England.
Not five minutes later, Q suddenly felt an intense curiosity wash over him. He couldn’t hear anything from behind him, but with James Bond’s usual skill, silence could mean anything from preparing to test some new explosives from Q branch to the impending end of the world as they knew it. Q rolled his eyes, and couldn’t help but glance back.
He paused. Blinked. Reassessed his understanding of the laws governing physics and the lack of laws governing double-ohs.
Q had thought the previous incident where Bond had fallen asleep in his office to be a rare moment of exhausted vulnerability that would never repeat itself on pain of a very grisly or very embarrassing outcome for Q. But perhaps… he would have to reassess.
Bond was fast asleep on his couch. It was just a little bit small for his height, his feet hanging sideways off the end, knees bent against the armrest. Q’s fluffy blanket had been tugged over him, covering him in a fuzzy mound that gentled his appearance further, more sleeping man than unconscious agent. His features had softened with sleep and a rare blanket of peace had settled over him.
If I’m right…
Q smiled and carefully reached his hand out. He would previously have never even thought of doing so, fully expecting an immediate shoulder throw and quite possibly some sprained wrists at catching an agent unaware. It wasn’t until his fingers gently touched the top of Bond’s head, sliding between strands of hair, that Q finally wondered whether his assumptions might have been wrong.
Bond made a small sound, and Q instinctively combed his hand through his hair. Bond seemed to immediately settle. He then subconsciously turned his head, pressing gently back into the hand brushing at his scalp as Q watched in faint awe, before falling limply into the couch with a bone-deep sigh of contentment.
“Alright then,” Q whispered, something warm and possessive and fond growing in his chest. His hand trailed another pass through Bond’s hair and watched his unconscious agent react beautifully, turning towards him like a sunflower reaching for warmth. “I can work with this.”