heroichearts | (no subject)

(no subject)

When Q found himself on 004's bad side (worse side, worst side?), it had been like a lightning bolt of fear through him, a sudden knowledge that Q was in danger, like they were in the same room and could hear his frantic cursing. Bond hadn't given it a second thought, hauling himself down to QBranch, pulling the wayward 00 from his victim, and putting up a resoundingly one-sided fight (given the tactical stabbings 4 had already received).

Hadn't given it a second thought, but in the hours since, he's given it plenty of thought. And plenty of thinking that he's not going to bring this up. It's not allowed, if it's what he presumes this is, not for people like him, like the both of them.

He gives voice to none of it, later, when he's out and about with only a few scuffs and bruises to his name. Could call Q, he supposes. Text him. But he finds that he doesn't need to, and if he was still in doubt as to what this is, he isn't any longer. Tracks him down, not by any of his usual means, but simply knowing where he is, down some side street alley, practically a hole in the wall of a cafe he doesn't think he's ever heard of before.

He knows Q's here.

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"I'm here." He's the one who came. He's the one who's here. He's staying, if that's what Q wants.

"Suppose we'll just have to learn how to keep ourselves to ourselves. You have more practical experience at this, probably." Sure, Bond's got walls, defenses, but they're more...figurative.

"I've been in sync with others before, it's ...it's not a bad thing, not always, but it's usually only lasted a couple days, maybe a week." Not however long it's been since Morocco.

"And if it does get bad, you can just put some physical space between us. That ought to help." Q finishes off the last few crumbs of his pastry and then knocks back whatever dosage medical suggested. "Until then, I'm planning to sit on the sofa with a hot pack on my shoulder and ignore Netflix."

M had thought, before, that Bond was this type of liability. After Vesper. God, he wishes he'd been that way with her; maybe he could have prevented all that went wrong, at least half the mistakes he made. Maybe she'd still be--

That's a door slammed shut. Focus. "Then I'll ignore it with you."

Very quietly, almost so soft that Bond can't hear it, he responds: "Thank you."

They can just leave the dishes in the sink while he heats something up for his shoulder. "If you want anything, just help yourself. Tea, coffee, that sort."

It's a small kitchen, but clearly well-used. He can cook, but it's not something that he does beyond necessity.

"That's very kind of you. I'll try not to be too much of an intrusion." Maybe a spot of tea is all.

"He won't be hurting you again. Not ever. And if I get my way, or M hers I imagine, not anyone else."

"Good." He gestures towards wherever the tea and tea-things are kept and slowly makes his way to the sofa. There are big soft cushions and it's clearly where he prefers to spend a good deal of his time. Wincing as he settles in, Q can't help the noise of relief once he's in place with a hotpack on the worst of his aches.

The only way it would be better would be if Bond was right beside him. (Not that he'd say such a thing and the pills don't work quite so fast that the thought will easily escape.)

But honestly, where else would he go? Linger awkwardly on the arm of the sofa, maybe? Hardly. He makes himself a cuppa, sets it down where it won't spill, and ends up right there next to him. In fact, he is so bold as to throw an arm (gently) about his shoulders and tug him in a little. Protective and comforting.

"Not hurting you, am I?"

"No, not at all." If anything, he's content and finally unwinds the rest of the way. He'd been afraid of dying today. He could've been beaten and bled out on the floor of QBranch. Something to think about later, when he's alone in the small hours of the night.

"You can watch whatever you like, I mostly just want the noise." Cautiously, as if he's afraid one or the other will spook, Q leans against Bond. Touch makes it stronger, so occasionally, fluttering flashes of emotion or thought appear.

Don't mind if he scrolls through some netflix then. Something that's noise, something that's not too dark and serious. He'll take to the leaning like it's natural. The thing that's less natural is the shared connection. The one that shouldn't exist. Not if they want to keep their jobs.

Some cooking show or another it is, then. Might even pick up a few tips and tricks along the way if he even half pays any attention, which, maybe he won't, with a Q against him.

"Nadia is a saint."

After a time, Q begins to drowse. The painkillers have taken the edge off and he doesn't hurt so much as he doesn't mind that he hurts. With a lazy hum, he adjusts how he's sitting and if there are no complaints, will likely end up with his head on a pillow in Bond's lap.

The only thing that's readily slipping through their connection is that Q is content. (And, occasionally, very distracted by Bond's shirt sleeves, how they're rolled up, and/or his forearms.)

Hard to resist petting that fluff of hair when it's right there in his lap, so he doesn't resist it at all. He'll do some very light petting and revel in the contentedness. (And the forearms? That's fair, people like the arms. And the arse.) Even Bond's worry seems to start ebbing away. Not gone, by any means, just less intense.

"Bed?"

"N'yet. This is good." Q smothers a yawn while he could sit up, he would much rather just laze about on Bond. Very comfortable, he is. Cozy, practically.

"You're good at that. Petting. My hair, I mean." A long, slow blink. And another. "Ah, yes, there's the drugs. Working very nicely, because I am not bothered by anything and I would really rather like to say too much."

"If I suggest that I would like to do anything appalling to you, I hereby grand you permission to tease me about it, so long as it's not in front of the QBs. Or Eve. Use your power wisely."

He laughs. "I would hate to meet someone who could somehow screw up petting. And, if you do say something appalling, I will most certainly tease you, maybe even take you up on it latter, depending. We should find excuses to get you loopy more often."

"You do it very well. I like your hands a great deal. I like how they look and, hmm, I like how they hold things I've made. It's good to kit you out." Loopy, indeed. He's not even complaining that Bond is destructive towards his beloved gadgets and guns.

"And when you say 'take me up on it later', I, ah..."

"I'll be sure to poke fun at your enjoyment of my hands later." Get them a bit more back on track before Q says something he may regret in the morning. "And so little of what I get kitted out with survives my outings. It's a failing of mine, I'll admit."

"You should be ashamed." His eyes drift shut, but he's still talking, "Although, if you do think you can bring something back, let me know so I can adjust my betting accordingly."

QBs need their joy where they can find it.

"...but, hmm, bed. Yes. I am going to sleep and ...and I am probably going to need your help tomorrow morning." It's always the day after that it hurts the worst.

"Then I'll stay the night and help you in the morning. I'll be out here on the couch, unless you're planning on drifting off right in my lap."

Maybe there's a smidge of softness that bleeds through. Clearly that could be Q's, though. Obviously.

"I could, but I'd be even more sore. And I will not force you to take the sofa. I have something like manners." Slowly, gingerly, and making little sore sounds, he sits up.

"I'll keep my hands to myself and steal all the covers." Definitely Q's softness. He wants to keep Bond's hands on him, to know that he's close, and safe. "And you're a good cushion."

"Should I carry you to bed like a fair maiden?" He laughs, but, y'know, he would, if asked. Just putting that out there. "Good to know I'm actually comfortable, I suppose. I'll take it as a compliment."

"I can walk." Q puts the hotpack aside and using Bond as a support, stands up and slowly gets himself ready for bed. "If you're not tired, by all means, stay up. There's books and whatever else and...and I can brush my teeth by myself."

"...I can put out the sweatpants for you?" Unhelpful brat.

"I'm sure you can. Don't worry about it, Q. You go get comfortable, and I'll go be the perfect gentleman."

"Perfect gentleman? Don't strain something." Even in another room, little fluttery, flickery thoughts drift from his mind: he thinks about having a shower tomorrow, about Bond sleeping on the sofa, or in his bed, about the coffee he'll have tomorrow. Sudden flickers of anger and terror as he remembers the fight.

Shortly after he comes out of the bathroom, he looks towards the sofa and then rummages in a closet until he can find and throw the dreaded sweatpants. Tough. You can't sleep in your suit, Bond.

He could sleep in his underthings that are definitely not ridiculously patterned, but, sure, fine. Ex's sweats. From Bond's end, there's a flicker of...of something closed off but present. Not quite anger, but something dark. Possessive? Something along those lines.

He changes. The sweats fit, more or less. He does not know how to feel about that, or how to feel about the fact that he doesn't know how to feel about that. Better to just not feel, then.

All right. Fine then. Bed it is. But only because the brief views of Q's terror make him want to protect him from...what, from the boogeyman? From bad dreams, bad memories, maybe. If he can.

Possessive? If that's the case, it makes Q squirm a little and want to really get a good look at Bond. He ...wants and that thrums through their connection clearly before it's smothered under a less than perfect barrier.

But, yes, bed. Sleeping. He'll be out quickly, but painkillers always give him strange, intense dreams. Images of fear, excitement, a long hospital stay, sleeping in a tent, the sound of his voice talking to agents on missions.

Well, he can't protect Q from dreams, but the glances he gets are interesting. Can't help but think, though, that they're not for him. None of it's for him. It's...a bit wrong. Natural in people, in people that aren't agents, that aren't 00s, that aren't in the business of attachment. He shouldn't have this. Can't.

But he does. His sleep doesn't come nearly as easily, but he does sleep. And keeps his hands to himself the whole time, even though that's clearly not quite the case with Q.