Chapter Text
Bond broke in.
Unfortunately for the sanctity of the window in the guest bathroom, the front entrance was too heavily fortified.
He slipped in, vaguely grunting as the action pulled at his barely scabbing wounds. His deerskin loafers made no sound as he crept forward, avoiding the subtle tripwires hidden carefully in the warm wooden flooring.
At last, he reached the master bedroom, and carefully turned the knob. The gentle pull to open it was nerve wracking, even for an agent as experienced as him.
There was an immediate flurry of movement, and his heart started to pound, his network of capillaries flooding with adrenaline as a sleek, modified glock was pointed at him.
It lowered a moment later. ”Bond?”
“Q,” he breathed. “I need-“ He wasn’t quite sure what he needed. He just knew that he was in pain, and he knew he didn’t want to be alone. He missed M – she had been a great not-quite-willing victim for his post mission maelstrom of emotions.
The Quartermaster was already getting out of bed, weapon already tucked away as he flipped on his bedside lamp and donned his glasses.
“Your flight isn’t even supposed to take off for another 16 hours. Did something go wrong?”
The agent shook his head wordlessly, not resisting when Q picked up his hands to examine the cuts littered across his knuckles. They made their way through the standard are-you-in-danger questions as Q catalogued his injuries, and then shepherded him through the guest bedroom into the bathroom he entered from.
It was more spacious than he thought, the recessed lighting revealing a shower stall as well as a decently large tub, and a foldable chair in the corner. Q opened it up and gestured for James to sit while he dug out a medical kit from under the sink.
“Anything beyond the hands?”
James hesitated. He couldn’t hide his hands, but his back was a great weakness that he didn’t quite want to bare.
“Bond? Still here?”
He nodded slowly. He wasn’t disassociating, he was just. Deliberating.
Q sighed as he began cleaning up the right hand. “Agent 007. Injuries report, please.”
James snapped to attention. “Flaying injuries on back and sides, standard damage on hands, sprained the left wrist, twinged knee, general soreness, sir.”
“Thank you, Bond.” There were no inflections of emotion in his voice – just a clear notification that information had been filed away for later use. James felt grateful for his M’s hiring decisions – he didn’t know what he’d do without Q’s support now that he’d gotten so reliant on his eyes and ears everywhere. Most people would find it intrusive or disturbing, but James found it to be a vaguely comforting safety net.
Q looked for breaks, and then tested his carpal range of motion, turning his wrist in a manner of ways before doing the same with the other. “You can talk, if you’d like. It’s not like anyone would believe me on anything you said.” He started wrapping the sprained wrist. “Sometimes it helps.”
James considered the suggestion, closing his eyes. That had been a benefit of breaking into M’s house. He’d not quite enjoyed , but had definitely appreciated going over the harrowing details of his missions before writing his reports, no matter how brief or scathing their conversation was. Q even had a security clearance higher than his own. He was the perfect candidate, but James still hesitated.
It didn’t seem like Q would be as pointedly cruel. He was always scathing on comms, but had clearly been nothing but kind since the moment he discovered it was just Bond trespassing. “Just” Bond. Despite the shower and meagre medical attention he had received in Barcelona, he felt, in short, like shit.
He repeated the last part out loud, smirking at the laugh it elicited from Q.
“I can see that. We’ll put you back to sorts yet, don’t worry. Would you take off your shirt?”
James complies, not breaking eye contact as he undid the buttons of his shirt. Q waited patiently, far less bothered by the intent stare than the average person looking at a 00 would be. Curious.
They shuffled around a bit so Q could access James’s back, with Q clearly projecting his motions so James didn’t get startled. He thought about calling it out but then thought better of it - he did appreciate the gesture.
Q hissed in sympathy when he saw James’s ruined back, reaching out to touch before yanking his hand back. “How were you even wearing anything on top of this, let alone dealing with the flight? Damnit, Bond, you’re bleeding.“
James shrugged. He was used to being in pain. What he wasn’t used to was the lean hand curling around the side of his waist.
He looked down to double check, but it was true: Q was not-quite-stabilising, not-quite-holding him with his left hand as he rooted through his kit with his right.
He pulled out a spray bottle of lidocaine and spritzed it liberally over James’s shredded back. James went to protest - he really didn’t need the numbing; a quick bout of disinfectant would do. Q brushed it off like lint on a keyboard. ”Just because you’re used to it, didn’t mean that you have to be in pain when there is an alternative.”
James nodded. He was too tired to argue on this. He’d tried to sleep on the flight, but his post mission paranoia had kept him on edge for the entirety of the ride, and his back hadn’t exactly helped matters. He was hurt, worn out, and just really needed a nap.
Q started on the right shoulder, where the wounds were deeper and more pronounced, taping little butterfly bandages after disinfecting. The sensation was odd, which would ordinarily be considered normal because of the numbing, but James thought it was more because of how very tender Q was being. He didn’t hesitate, his nimble fingers were clearly adept at this kind of medical care, and James wondered how frequently Alec showed up at Q’s. Maybe the other agents showed up too?
The notion made James feel vaguely jealous, and very left out.
He raised his arms to the counter so Q had better access, and rested his head upon them with a sigh. Q looked up in alarm at first, then patted the junction of his shoulder and neck. “Almost done, Bond. Then you may rest.”
James nodded, letting his eyes slip shut and drifting away from awareness.
—
“James? James, come on. Up, up, up,” Q called softly. “This is no place to sleep. Let’s get you to bed, yes?”
James opened his eyes blearily and looked up at Q, who seemed to have finished patching him up. Strange, he hadn’t noticed.
He did notice the worried lines on Q’s forehead, and tried to focus on what he was saying. Q called him James. Q’d never called him James. He liked Q calling him James.
He said it again, sounding more worried. He reached a hand to the agent’s forehead, presumably to check for a fever, and James sighed happily at the touch, leaning into it like a puppy demanding pets. He would very much like if Q stayed there for a bit - even James couldn’t tell how desperate he was for some gentle attention. A misfortune mark in Spain had closely resembled Vesper, and he still felt rattled.
“You’re not feverish. Can you tell me if you’ve been drinking, or something? Or is this just the exhaustion?”
“Exhausted,” James confessed. “Also drank.”
“Alright, noted. We’ll get you comfortable in a flash, then you may sleep. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
James nodded, and let Q pull him up. Q led him back to the bedroom with long fingers wrapped around his wrist, and dug out a pyjama set from the dresser. “Would you like to wear the shirt or prefer not?” At James’s furrowed brow, Q gently picked up his hand and set it on on the silken fabric. “I think this will feel nicer.”
James nodded again, and Q took a knee to help him out of his loafers and creased pants, which prompted the agent to stare at Q like he’d grown a third head.
“James? All right?” Q’s habit of constantly checking in used to grate on James’s nerves, until Q’s omnipresence had fully blossomed, and his requests for confirmation that the field agents were alright became endearing. It was nice to see it persist into London.
“Yes.”
“If you say so. Hold onto the dresser for support, please. I want no pressure on your knee.” He helped Bond into the pyjamas, and the soft material was an immediate comfort. He sighed in pleasure, more tension leaving his body.
Q huffed a laugh. “You 00s and your penchant for nice things. It’s cute.” He closed the dresser drawer up after tidying the stacks, and James… just stood there.
“Q?” The scientist looked up immediately at James’s sombre tone. “I’m hurt.”
“Physically? I can’t give you anything until the alcohol clears your system, but if it’s dermal I can get the lido-”
“No. I’m fine. I…” He trailed off, and his quartermaster, his incredible, talented, genius Quartermaster with a capital Q, understood him immediately.
“Oh darling. Come here, come here.” He pulled James in, grabbing onto him as solidly as James wished to, yearned to. He didn’t want to think about how long he’d wished for any connection that wasn’t an assignment. He dropped his head on Q’s shoulder and breathed, taking in the ever present scent of earl grey tea and gunpowder. “You’ll be alright, James. I know it hurts… and she’s gone and she hurt you and you can’t get that closure you need… but you have to move forward. You have to. I’ll always be here to catch you.” Q held his shoulders from that back, arms slipped through the hollow between the agent’s arms and torso.
He kept clear of the gashes in his back, Bond noted latently, and it was the final key to James’s complete trust.
It wasn’t like the agent didn’t trust Q. That was the “issue,” really: that he trusted Q as an agent . They’d snarked and sniped at each other; Bond had made sure to endearingly bother Q from time to time, and Q retaliated with jokes and teasing about equipment Bond had proven himself too irresponsible for. However, this was the first time he had spent time with Q in a personal setting.
The first time it was just James and Q.
He liked Q. Had from the first day. Had trusted him with his life before he learnt his name.
Now he knew he could trust Q with his vulnerabilities.
Alec had encouraged it earlier, when he’d told him that Q’s place was a “ wonderful substitute for M.”
James had retorted that there was no replacing their M, with everything she had been, and everything she hadn’t.
And Alec had laughed and pointed out that he never used the term replacement. M’s place had been an unloading dock. Q’s was a home.
And now James understood why.
He’d hit the nail on the head immediately. Now that he’d said it out loud, James could admit that he was right. He did miss the closure only she could’ve provided. He’d jumped right back into work after Skyfall, never allowing himself to even think on it for a moment.
Until now.
Q didn’t let go until James raised his head of his own volition, several minutes later. He maintained eye contact despite James’s bowed head and asked if he wanted something specific, or if sleep was the most appealing option right then. He spoke so softly, as if he was talking to a spooked pet or a scared child, and James wanted to protest, but a part of him did feel that way.
He held Q’s hand as he was led to the bed and guided to lie down, and was so very reluctant to let go when he was sandwiched between the layers of bedding that Q laughed again. It was a nice sound. James wanted to hear it again and again and again. Q deserved to be happy. Unlike James, who was a selfish, cruel being that caused misery wherever he went. But most significantly, selfish.
He tugged at the hand, and Q apologised. “I will be right back, James. I just need to check on the cats and turn off the lights, please.”
James acquiesced. Having the lights out sounded very nice indeed, even if it was just the exhaustion talking. He shifted around, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, soothed by the muted sounds of Q talking to his cats. He moved around more, getting vaguely irritated: his usual preferred position was on his back, or even on either side - you don’t spend this long in the business without fucking up your nose at least once - so trying to get comfortable and being able to breath was proving difficult.
“Thought you’d be asleep by now.” There was a click, and the room was engulfed in darkness. Before James even had the chance to request it, the engineer was there on the other side of the bed, tucking covers and adjusting his pillows. He reached a hand out to James as soon as he was horizontal, and the agent clasped onto it like a life boat.
After several minutes of pained squirming, Q gave up on hoping James might verbalise whatever was wrong. “Is it the nose?”
James sighed. He partially regretted not getting the reconstructive surgery after the third(? Who knows which?) time his nose was broken. “Yes. I’ll be fine. Go to sleep, Q.”
“What did I say earlier? No unnecessary suffering. I do not particularly enjoy repeating myself, Bond. Come here.”
He pulled James over to his side, raising his own covers as the only guidance as to what he wanted the agent to do. James followed, a little bit dumbstruck, and a lot bit exhausted.
“Yes, almost. Thank you, James,” Q encouraged softly. He arranged for James to align his battered body above his, and then coaxed him to lie flat, despite the agent’s protests about his weight or his size or… something or the other that Q didn’t bother to catch. He wound his fingers into rough blond hair and guided him to tuck his face in the hollow between the pillow and Q’s shoulder.
It felt… really nice, actually. James’s spine was straightened out, he could breathe comfortably, and his back wounds were almost completely unbothered. He snuggled in closer, for lack of a better word, rubbing his cheek on the side of Q’s neck, feeling drunk on endorphins.
“That’s better, isn’t it?” Q murmured, pulling the blanket up around their shoulders, and James rumbled a confirmation.
Q kept a hand in James’s hair, scritching lightly, and the agent fought the urge to purr. He squeezed the long fingers still in his grasp, and Q laughed.
“Alright. Sleep, darling. I’ll be here when you awaken.” He laughed again, starting to massage the back of James’s head. “Not sure if I have a choice.”
The agent - warm, comfortable, well taken care of - couldn’t even muster the energy to laugh with him. He drifted off into a deep sleep, feeling as safe as a fortress.
—
“Morning.” Q murmured when James started to stir. It was several minutes after he’d actually woken up – Q had picked up on the change in breathing – but it was a habit of nearly all agents to examine their surroundings before outwardly indicating they were awake. Q had gotten used to his 00s pulling that trick months ago, and James’s closeness didn’t do the him any favours.
“Mm. A good morning, even.” James pushed himself up to look at Q in the face, pleased by the long fingers still in his grip.
“Hm, I don’t know what’s quite nice about it,” Q teased. “How are you feeling?”
James flexed his back and considered. “Could be a lot worse. Could be a lot better. Recovering.”
“And your back?”
James froze. He took so long to respond that Q’s brow furrowed in worry, reaching up with his free hand to run it through short blond hair.
“James, darling? What’s going through your head? Do we need to check your back?” He was back to speaking in that soft, kind manner and it was the encouragement James needed.
“No, I… thought you were asking about it in the first place. It’s fine.”
“And you?”
“Will be fine.”
Q smiled at that, and James found himself smiling back.
“You want to get up now or stew a little longer?” Q asked.
“I find myself thinking of a third option,” James murmured, leaning down so his lips just barely brushed Q’s. “What do you think?”
Q’s eyes slipped shut as James demonstrated exactly how phenomenal a kisser he was, sucking the engineer’s lower lip in and nipping gently. Q moaned softly when James wound his fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, mindful of his curl pattern and if that didn’t get Q a little hot and bothered…
“I think you find our relationship to be far more transactional than it is, and you’re trying to pay me back for last night with the simplest way you know how.” Q’s eyes snapped open, hazel green piercing deep into crystal blue. “You don’t want this right now either. Do you?”
James pulled back like Q had pushed him back by the throat. “Q, I…” He trailed off, feeling so uncomfortably seen that it reminded him of Vesper.
Q, kind as he’d ever been, didn’t force him to respond. “What we’re going to do is this: you will lie back down and let me hold you for a little longer, just let you recover as much as possible, then we’ll get dressed, and if you still feel like you owe me something, you can make breakfast before I have to head out. Sounds good?”
James sighed, wishing wholeheartedly that he weren’t so tired. He missed his usual smoothness. M would have burned him at the stake if she’d seen him so… so clunky and pathetic . He lay down again, adjusting his grip so he could feel Q’s pulse.
The scientist pressed his cheek on the top of the agent’s head affectionately. “What are we going with you, darling?” He’d suspected that James was extremely touch starved, with his incessant pursuit of marks as honeypots rather than literally any other way of conducting missions, even if it would be detrimental. He’d seen the wounded demeanor and lingering feelings in the wake of every person he bedded, and figured that even if a part of it was his training, a lot was his romanticism of his life. He craved connection above almost anything else, save perhaps only the adrenaline rush.
It wasn’t that Q was opposed to sleeping with agents - they were gorgeous, intelligent, storied men and women, and even just their vicinity felt electrifyingly thrilling - he’d done it enough for the ones that needed it, but James wasn’t one of them. In Q’s analysis, all he needed was some semperlenity without a goal in mind. No information to extract, no data to steal, no lives to reap, just to be.
James relaxed at the warmth in his voice, closing his eyes when Q wrapped his free arm around the narrow stretch of uninjured flesh at the top of his shoulders. “Thank you, Q.”
“You’re welcome.”
James didn’t quite fall asleep, but drifted off into a comfortable, warm place that he’d previously only associated with bourbon and sea spray. He was safe, protected, and no longer the one in charge for whatever crises were going on. He’d never really noted how much of a protector Q was - his caretaking was noticeable in the attention to detail, the personalised equipment, the live comm support - but his presence just felt so safe that it beckoned James’s mind to an era before assassination and infiltration. He came back immediately the moment Q crooned his name and asked to check his back over.
James climbed off of him, not missing the sharp intake of breath when the scientist was no longer inundated by his weight. He flexed his hand, feeling strange after having clasped Q’s for so long. He started undoing the snap fasteners of his shirt, making a show of it almost reflexively, and Q smacked him on the arm.
“Behave,” He said sternly, but with a hint of a smile.
It was very reminiscent of their comm exchanges so, to keep the energy going, Bond responded very professionally by throwing his shirt at Q.
They made quick work of checking James’s wounds, and Q disappeared into his room across the hall to get dressed while the agent traipsed down to the kitchen, eager to snoop through his cabinets.
It was, in James’s opinion, simply ludicrous. He’d expected scores of takeout containers and frozen meals, so it was a relief to not see that, at the very least.
No, the appalling part was the complete and utter lack of breakfast items, and the bereft spice “cabinet.” It really looked like their Quartermaster consistently ran out the house with a travel mug of tea as his breakfast.
There were boxes upon boxes of tea, clearly from all over the world. Several shelves stacked high, and James laughed out loud while investigating through them.
He set about cutting up fruit and starting a custard for french toast, glad that Q had good taste in bread if nothing else.
He came by soon, dressed in the familiar attire that didn’t quite befit an MI6 quartermaster, but fit Q .
“Smells good,” he murmured, brushing unruly curls out of his face.
“Thanks, honey ,” James teased, sliding a plate over towards Q and stacking several pieces of toast. “Eat. Breakfast is important, even if you seem allergic to the notion.”
“Snooping, were we?” Q didn’t seem miffed, so James just shrugged.
Q waited for the second serving to be prepared, then walked both plates over to the couch, much to James’s bewilderment. He called the agent over and pulled him to sit flush with the engineer, and James melted into his warmth yet again.
Q put the plates on the coffee table when they were done, letting James lean against him fully. “I have to leave soon, but you’re welcome to stay. Take a bubble bath or read or cook or whatever you like. There’s extra MI6 sweats in the top drawer if you want.”
James frowned. He did feel miles better, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want Q to stay. His work ethic was simultaneously legendary and notorious - there was no predicting when Q would return.
Q seemed to sense his thoughts with that supernatural precognition he seemed to have. “I’ll probably be back tomorrow evening; bit of a busy project ahead. You’re welcome to visit whenever you need - both my home and office are open to my agents when they need me.”
James nodded in acknowledgement, then immediately dove in to savour the remaining few minutes he could afford, utterly at ease. He felt the overly prominent ribs under his face, and resolved to drop by sometimes, if only so he could feed Q up in return.
It was a generous thought from a selfish man, but he looked forward to it all the same.