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“Now! Second door on the left, 005. You're nearly there.” Q types furiously at his keyboard to stay on track with his agent. She's almost there, she can outrun her pursuers, the extraction team is waiting, and…
“Safely out of the building, Q. Well done.”
Q exhales a sigh of relief and signs off, finally taking off his glasses to rub his face. He winces as he tries to pull some goo from his right eye. Frowning, suddenly aware of the tension in his head, he examines his face in the small mirror he keeps in his desk for emergencies.
No, he isn't bruised, though the shadows under his eye are certainly darker than usual. He gently presses against his closed eye with a single finger. Oh. Ow.
He feels as if someone (like 007) has punched him hard in the eye. The muscles are tight and aching, and even his eye feels swollen. Damn. He has to start overseeing 006’s infiltration in forty-five minutes. This is the worst possible time to be getting a migraine. It couldn't possibly get any-
“Q?”
Fuck.
“007.” Q fakes interest in his voice and puts his glasses back on, turning to usher the agent out of his office. “Lovely to see you, terribly busy-Ow!”
James has poked him gently in the eye, frowning. “Your muscles are very tense, Q. Are you alright?”
The Quartermaster opens his mouth to lie, but at James's concern (why is he concerned? Is that what concern looks like in blue eyes?) he folds. “I get migraines on occasion. It's not a problem. It'll be gone in a few hours.”
“Q.” There's something in his tone that brooks no argument. “Tell R to cover your next mission. She's more than capable.” Bond is walking around the office and switching off lights. “Save what's on your computer. I'll be right back.”
Bewildered, Q obeys, saving and shutting off his computers. The room feels very silent without the constant hum of machinery, not to mention dark without the glow of his screens. Sure enough, James returns a few moments later with some pills, water, and a face mask. “Take these and drink the whole glass.” He sits down on the sofa in Q’s office and waits.
“Are you expecting me to put my head in your lap?”
Bond’s lip twitches. “As much as I would like that for many, many reasons other than this, yes I do. It's more comfortable than those rocks you call cushions.”
“Don't insult Sofa. He's nice,” Q mumbles as he sits and then lays down. He rests on his back, his head cushioned on Bond’s thighs. James sets his glasses aside and fits the face mask over his eyes.
“Sleep, Q. I won't move.”
Q opens his mouth to protest but James's hand sinks into his hair, stroking slowly, and isn't that nice, and maybe he could close his eyes for just a minute. His eyes ache, and his face is too warm…
***
James smiles as the tension drains from Q. He relaxes in sleep, and even with the face mask on, he still looks so young. So handsome. So… so Q. Bond continues carding his fingers through the luscious curls and wonders, not for the first time, what would happen if he opened up to the boffin. Could he? After Vesper he'd sworn never again, but Q brings out something in him he’s long since buried and mourned.
With Q, he feels hope growing in his soul.
Maybe it isn't too late to save him after all.