Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's dark, it's late and Q is alone in his apartment. It's neither something he is used to nor, feels comfortable with, because this time, even though James isn't here, he knows that he's not coming back. He's fine when he's away on missions, because there's that hope. A hope that he'll come back and that he can count the days until James is home again, that his presence can fill his apartment until it's not just an apartment any more, but so that it sort of feels like home again. He sees now how stupid he's been. He's always had that small voice at the back of his head telling him to get out now, while he can, without his heart breaking. There's a part of him that wishes he'd listened now, but not as big as the part that's glad he didn't. The part with the happy memories, of waking up to Bond laying next to him, holding Q's favourite Scrabble mug in his hands, waiting for him to wake up so he can give him his Earl Grey. To laying on the couch watching the most boring of TV programmes, his head nestled into James's chest and the older man grumbling and complaining about the things he does for Q, when he's secretly enjoying it and Q knows as much. The part of him that can recall every night they fell asleep in his bed, Bond's strong arms wrapped tightly around him, holding him close and making him feel safe and content. When there's a knock at the door Q almost doesn't respond, too caught up in watching the wisps of steam rising from his cup of coffee, no milk and no sugar for a change, hoping the bitter taste will take his mind off there's a second knock and Q sighs to himself, glancing at his phone by the side of him which he switched off hours ago. If they know where he lives and haven't gone away, chances are it's important, even if he doesn't feel like he could do any actual work right now. Something as simple as opening the door seemed tedious to the computer expert right now. Still, he got up and padded his way through the dark apartment, groaning quietly as they knocked a third time. He didn't even have the energy to snap at them. He pulled the door open and he felt as if his jaw was going to hit the floor. Stood before him was the last person he had expected.

"James Bond, you fucking idiot." He breathed out, throwing himself at the bruised and bloodied man, arms wrapping around his shoulders pulling him close. It took the agent a few moments to respond, jet lagged, tired and rather worse for wares, but his arms snaked around his lover's waist nonetheless.

"It's nice to see you too, Q." He whispered, lips pressing a soft and gentle kiss to the younger man's neck.

"I thought you were dead!" Q yelled, tears streaming down his face as his arms tightened around Bond. "For two weeks I heard nothing off you, and I thought you'd died, you fucking idiot!" He practically sobbed, not caring that he was ruining Bond's suit, although it was probably bloodstained already.

"I know, I'm so sorry, I couldn't.." Bond's voice trailed off, his tone both sincere and quiet, and for the first time ever, Q thought he may even sound vulnerable. That was new, and not something he wanted to get used to, just like his empty apartment. His anger quickly dissipated at the thought of James being vulnerable, of being hurt so badly that everyone thought he had died. Again. The fact that, despite everyone else, everywhere he could of and probably should have gone, he came to Q first and suddenly he couldn't be mad at him for much longer.

"No, I'm sorry." He murmured, and that was all they needed, the two of them. It was short and to the point, like everything had always been between the them, but his voice was so full of raw emotion that the simplicity didn't matter. James always said that the old ways (or the easy ways as Q liked to think) were the best. This was certainly one of those times. They broke apart reluctantly, Q leading Bond inside the dark apartment and closing the door behind him. James flicked on a light switch and rolled his eyes at the increase in clutter inside Q's home.

"Did you forget to clean?" He said playfully, although his cocky demeanour that would usually have accompanied that comment wasn't present, as Bond was leaning against a wall for support, his chest rising and falling as he took deep and heavy breaths.

"My mind was a little preoccupied with more pressing matters," Q mumbled in reply, walking passed James and through to his kitchen, hearing the older man's footsteps following behind him. He crouched down, opening the cupboard beneath his sink and pulling out the well stocked first aid kit he kept there, something he used a lot more frequently than he would like to. He set the box on the worktop before turning to Bond, who was now relying on said surface to keep him from collapsing. Q bit his lip and set to work on undressing the agent, although not for the reason he liked to, but to do damage assessment on him. He was always scared what he'd find, but if Bond had lasted two weeks when everyone thought he had died, then Q was fairly certain he should be okay. Assuming he hadn't gotten himself into anything nasty since, which, knowing 007, was probably the case. He took off his jacket, unable to contain the small gasp that fell from his lips as he saw deep red marks on Bond's white shirt, blood seeping through on his right arm and left side. Q quickly undid the buttons, wanting to inspect the wounds further, praying that they were nothing fatal. He wasn't going to let James Bond survive near death twice just to have him die bleeding in his kitchen. No way. He let the shirt fall to the floor, noticing James try to disguise his wince as Q pressed his gentle fingers to the wound on the older man's upper arm. "That hurt?" He whispered, getting nothing but silence in response. "007, if you don't tell me, I can't help." He stated, voice turning all matter-of-fact and professional, both from frustration and worry. Bond huffed and nodded his head, eyes closed as he faced away from Q, who hummed in thought. "Bullet wound, I'm assuming?"

"Mhm... And a knife one there," James replied, nodding down in the direction of the gash on his side.

"Is it still in there?" Q enquired, and by the grimace Bond gave in response, he guessed there was. "You know I'm going to have to get it out?" He whispered, knowing it was something neither men were particularly keen on, but knew it was necessary.

"I know.." The agent hummed quietly, letting out a small sigh. "I know." Q nodded, taking that as confirmation to proceed with whatever it was he needed to do. He pulled out antiseptic wipes from the kit, ripping open the packet and pressing a chaste kiss to Bond's cheek, his stubble rough against his own smooth face.

"This is going to hurt, I'm sorry." He whispered, even though James knew all this already. He didn't wait for a response from the man before he began cleaning the wound, his actions careful and slow, not wanting to hurt Bond even more than was essential to make sure he was safe. James managed the sting of the disinfectant fine, and the cleaning of the wound that Q did over the sink too. But when he felt the cold metal of the tweezers inside the fresh cut, searching for the piece of metal embedded inside him, it all seemed a little too much. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the worktop, jaw clenched as he tried his best not to make any sounds that showed he was in pain, but Q noticed and winced anyway. He was as quick as he could removing the foreign object from Bond's arm, running it under the water before examining it. "Maybe I could get this tested, find out who-"

"They're dead." Bond cut in, voice cold and unforgiving, a tone that seemed so strange to Q. Because this wasn't the James he loved, nor was it the Bond he knew so well and worked with, but it was 007; licence to kill and cruel when he needed to be. James Bond certainly was a complicated man.

"Oh, well then..." He mumbled, feeling slightly silly now. "I'll hang onto it anyway." He said with a nod, pulling an evidence bag out of the box and dropping the bullet inside of it, setting it down before he set to work on dressing Bond's wounds, a task that wasn't so hard. Padding and rather tight bandages on the gunshot wound, a quick clean up of the gash that ran along his ribs, not far below his heart, followed by butterfly stitches and some more bandages.Q had learned that you could never be too careful when it came to Bond. He decided cleaning James up properly could wait until tomorrow, helping the double-O to the bedroom and then into a pair of cotton pyjamas that Q had gotten him as a joke, but turned out to be something he loved. Q turned out the lights and snuggled down under the blankets, happy that James was laying next to him again, that he got to spend at least one more night sharing a bed with the man he loved, their body heat keeping one another warm as they pressed close, both mindful of Bond's major injuries. They kissed slowly and tenderly for what felt like hours, limbs tangled and bodies pressed close in the darkness of the room, yet still feeling as though they could see each other clearly. They broke apart eventually, nestling down and pulling the covers tight around them as James wrapped his arm possessively around Q's waist. There would be no sweet words whispered tonight, no soft pants and moans as their bodies moved together and no declarations of love falling from their lips. Because tonight they had each other, safe and warm and just here despite all odds, and that was more than enough to keep them happy for now.