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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"She's busy, or I'm sure I would've gotten something incredibly detailed."

He stares at the potato in his hand, doesn't reply about the thing they should talk about until he's done with it. Doesn't for a while even after he starts another.

"We've saved each other from a bit of trouble. Does it have to be more than that?"

Regardless of the fact that it is.

"No, it doesn't."

Q worries at his lower lip and then breaks off, wincing as he reopens a small section of the split. He licks away a bead of blood.

"It hasn't been more than that. Not for me. Since Morocco."

How long ago was that mission? That utterly disastrous mission where Bond nearly died more than once and Q somehow managed to guess(?) where he was, how to get him out, and that he was still alive. That he wouldn't believe anyone who said he must be dead and that they needed to offer support until he could take it.

"...Christ. I was in a bit of a jam there. Only got out thanks to you."

Which means it's been a while.

"You didn't say anything then."

"No, it seemed to be a one-way arrangement and, well, occasional bouts of murderous pricks aside, I rather like my job. I know why it's frowned upon. If I can feel what you feel, or vice versa, it's easier to hurt one or both of us, to blackmail, but I've done well enough since Morocco."

Thud. Another potato in the bucket.

"You've been through some shit." His is not an easy life, that's for certain. "I'd apologize, but that might imply I'll be more careful in the future." And he most certainly will not.

"I never expected it. I, ah, I am sorry that I ...that I pushed that twit too hard and called on you. Not that it's worth anything, I didn't mean to." He's glad he did, because he strongly suspects that 004 might've killed him or beat him even worse.

He looks about to say something else when Marie opens the door with a heavy bag in hand. "You too, idiots, take your dinner and go get into the cab outside. Blondie, you take him home and make sure he eats before he has to take more pain drugs. You, S-...stupid, get out of here before I kick your face because I can't tell it from your arse."

She will also give Q a kiss on both cheeks before he leaves.

He's been called far worse than just blondie, and catches that stupid was certainly going to be something else. He comments on neither name, thanking her for the food because he's not a heathen even if he tends to be rude.

He'll help Q to the cab, if he needs it, settled with a quiet worry. They can talk later with slightly fewer people around.

"That twit, by the way, didn't need much pushing. I imagine he was looking for an excuse." Because they can talk about that without fear.

As much as he might not like to admit it, Q could use a hand getting into the cab. As the last of the shock and adrenaline fade, he's slowly starting to stiffen up from the beating he's going to be miserable in about an hour. He'll have hot packs at home and that ought to help.

"He's been increasingly awful lately. Always difficult, but given the way he'd been speaking to my staff, I reported him. He came to confront me, and well, I might've been a bit lippy. A shade sharp-tongued."

"You mean you were you about it." He has to at least give a smirk, because Q can be terribly aggravating to the right (or wrong) people.

"Glad I could help." So thanks for reaching out instead of letting yourself get beaten most of the way to death if not to death?

"I should make you something lovely as a thank you." He is starting to unwind a little. This isn't ideal, no, but it's not a complete disaster. It's a process to build his walls back up, and the occasional feeling likely tumbles through whatever this thing is between them.

"A tactical pen. I could do two, since I need to replace mine."

"But would it have anything fancier to it? A laser that cuts through steel? Would it explode?" Gotta have an exploding pen. "You ought to consult with your fellow nerds on that one. They might have some ideas for yours as well."

"You'll have to wait and see." Q's smile is a gentler thing than Bond might be familiar with. He enjoys looking out the window of the cab as they wind their way through London, out of anywhere that's particularly upscale.

Eventually, they pull up alongside a row of shops with little flat above them and Q pays for their ride. He gives a substantial tip and the cabbie already has a coffee and snack from Marie, so it's been a good deal for everyone.

"C'mon, Bond, you can help lever me up the stairs." The entrance to his flat is hidden off the main street and there are some rather creative, and probably exceedingly illegal, safety measures.

Help he will, because like hell is he going to let Q navigate all this on his own with his injuries. It doesn't even occur to Bond that he doesn't necessarily have to bear responsibility here, because of course he does. Part of this is on him. Not 004, although he's sure he can find a way to blame himself for that, too, but this whole situation they've found themselves in.

"This food better taste as good as it smells, because I had half a mind to open all this up in the cab."

Q's home is a strange, liminal space. Long, narrow, with hidden nooks and crannies that suggest how it hugs the shops to one side and the mews to the other. It doesn't appear to be the kind of place that should even be zoned as housing and, in fact, may not be.

"It will. Kitchen's just ahead. I want to change into something a bit softer." He hurts all over and the lure of a t-shirt and the softest pajama pants he owns is too great to resist.

There is the thought, idle, stray, unbidden, that he could perhaps help Q change. But he certainly doesn't say it.

No, he'll go set out food in the kitchen that, while definitely a kitchen, he wonders if it was ever really meant to be one. Compared to Bond's flat, this is terribly humble. By the time Q's done, Bond's hung up his jacket, tossed his tie over it, and rolled up his sleeves.

"Cozy place you've got."

Don't fret, Bond. Q had the exact same thought. As he gingerly strips down in his room (which is less a room, and more where he keeps his closet and it's still open to the rest of the flat), he continues to talk. Does Bond see his reflection in the windows? Maybe.

"I rather like it. It used to be part of the farriers below, which is now more laneway than horse-way, but it's private and I've access to a workshop." When he returns to the kitchen, he's wearing what might be the world's oldest and softest t-shirt. The ink on it is so faded that it's hard to make out a picture of a bee and the saying 'if we die, we're taking you with us'.

Oh, he sees. Not looking deliberately, but, well. Clearly Q doesn't get much company. Unless...he does and is a tease about it. Hm.

"Well now I'm feeling overdressed," he jokes.

He wants to touch, if he's honest. Suss out all the bruises, find every bit of hurt on him and ease it away. Offers up some utensils instead.

"You heard the lady, food before pills."

Does he see? Well then, hopefully he enjoys a wide range of bruises, clearly some old scar tissue, and a smattering of ink. Q is certainly keeping an eye on Bond's ~~forearms~~ mood.

"I'd loan you something, but I think you'd stretch it out. I refuse to allow your shoulders in my good shirts." He accepts the utensils and goes to sit at the table. It's a proper beef stew, with sides, and various veg. There's even two slices of pastry for desert. "If you really want, I think there's a pair of sweatpants that are hilariously oversized lurking in the back of a closet."

Men's sweatpants. That don't belong to Q.

Bond quirks an eyebrow, the mild amusement coming through between the cracks of worry. "I would never stretch your good shirts, but do I want to know why you've got hilariously oversized sweatpants in your closet?"

He won't take them (yet), but keeping the mood light over food seems like a good idea. Or, a not bad idea, anyway.

"My ex came through town on leave a while back and forgot them here." He makes a pleased hum at the stew and mops up a bit with some bread. "Years ago, never felt right to donate them or toss them away."

This is probably the most personal information anyone has gotten out of Q since he was hired by M. Is it shocking?

Given it's just said, out loud, just...out there for Bond to hear? It's not the content that's shocking, just the sheer personal detail of it. But then again, here he is, in Q's flat, avoiding the topic of them being connected.

"But it feels right to let your overdressed coworker slip into them," he teases. "I'll have to remember not to forget clothes here."

Q opens his mouth as if to say something, and then quickly, thinking better of it, takes a bite of his meal instead. Can Bond tell that he'd had a sudden image of himself wearing only Bond's dress shirt? Maybe.

Christ, even if medical cleared him from any sign of a concussion, maybe he'd had one too many hits to the head.

"I'm not saying that I'm a thief. Merely that if it's left behind, I'll claim it as my own."

"And offer it up to blokes who it might actually fit, which is not you."

He's not grinning. Nope. Nary a smile on these lips. How about an image of Bond in just sweatpants? That could become reality soon enough.

"Promise I'm comfortable enough as is."

"Caring is sharing, 007." He can certainly imagine it. It's unfair, really. Deeply, profoundly unfair, although it might be unfair enough to improve what has been a generally pretty rubbish day.

"Alright, but if you need anything, I like to be a good host." Even if and when he's sore all over.

Briefly, Q hopes and prays to any and all little gods that might be listening that while Bond can (maybe) tell if he's hurt, that he won't be able to pick up on if he's turned on. He really does need to get his shields back in place, nice and solid.

"And, ah, once I'm neatly drugged with the very nice things medical provides, you don't have to stay. If you don't want. I'm ...I don't want to impose."

"I don't have any plans. I'm the one who shouldn't impose." He takes a bite of dessert, mulls it over. If he senses anything, he's not saying anything, but they're also Not Talking About It right now, so. "Do you want me? To stay."