The second he laid eyes on the agent he knew it was mistake going to Austria. Nothing said exasperation like James Bond brushing a hand through his thin hair. Q gulped at the sight, aware of how difficult it would be to explain his intentions for turning up at a rather lovely resort in the middle of nowhere while Bond was on his own rogue mission desperately trying to avoid MI6 from knowing his whereabouts. As he strode towards him, one hand still on his gun, Q could see him cursing under his breath.

'You can't be here.' It had the tone of an instruction and Q realised this was usually the way he dismissed girls who were trying to get more involved than they should. He tried to work out if he was flattered by the thought or concerned.

'I know I know but you have to understand the implications that your actions are having on Moneypenny and I. We are at serious risk of los-,'

'And you're at serious risk of losing your life here Q. They know who you are, they're watching, and no offence but I don't need another person to protect.' It had the vocal equivalent of him turning his back on Q; the pity in his voice almost vaporising in the air. As he spoke, his eyes slipped to a girl waiting across the room. She was probably the same age as Q, but her puppy dog eyes and bashful blonde curls made her seem a teenager.

'I don't need protecting James.' He practically spat the words at the older man's feet, although they were both fully aware they were lies. James smiled at him, a spark of something in his eyes. A small tear in his shirt sleeve revealed a rather harsh cut which told the tale of the men who wanted him dead, who were only metres away, waiting.

'Ok then. Take this.' And then he pressed the hand gun into Q's palm, flashing him a toothless smile and literally turned his back on him. The silence he left was deafening.

Cursing under his breath, Q walked very hurriedly back to his room, watching his back as if he had a hope in hell of saving himself. It was a very rare situation to be in for someone who hardly ever saw the world outside of his laptop, and as he sat at the tiny desk the possibility of actually being attacked became very real. He obviously hadn't thought it through. The idea of turning up in Austria to try and convince 007 to come back to London seemed very realistic and appealing as he had laid in bed at home having just told his 48th lie to M about the agent's whereabouts. Given their rather ambiguous relationship he had imagined it to be easy- slip into bed with him, make him realise what he was missing. It seemed now, however, to be the most ludicrous idea he'd ever had.

Of course James had moved on. How could Q even think that he might wait? So they had a couple of nights together, big deal. He always moves on during a mission when he's away from London. Only, it wasn't a mission, it was a personal enquiry, which hurt a little more. He tried desperately to convince himself that the stupid girl was just a chess piece of whatever game Bond was playing.

Unfortunately, his convincing was short lived. The door shattered open with almost as much grace as an atomic bomb, and Q, expecting to see his unofficial partner in crime, turned around with a cocky smile painted on his face. That too, was short lived. A man of 30 blocked the doorway with his own body mass, his shaven head and rather distasteful tattoos compiling a rather aggressive image. He wore the smile that Q had lost, as if he'd just won the jackpot.

'Can I help?' He was a clever boy, but it had to be said, there was not a lot of forward thinking behind saying this. His fingers crept towards the gun he'd put on the desk, but a raised eyebrow from the apparently now armed man stopped him dead in his tracks.

'No not really.' The man's voice carried a thick Dutch accent and his voice was almost too deep to understand. He kept his own gun trained on Q's head, as if he knew how hard his brain was working, trying to find a way out.

He wasn't trained in that. He knew how to get other people out of situations, people with muscles and courage, but not a pathetic boy like himself. He scanned the room frantically, practically whispering what would James do? to himself. The man, who began taking gradual steps closer to Q, was also apparently hurt. A large gash in his white tshirt was stained with dry blood, a sign that he'd already encountered James.

The sound of rushing blood made it very difficult for Q to devise a cohesive plan, the hairs on his neck standing like soldiers. Due to the man's size, he reckoned himself to have faster reactions, meaning he probably had about 2 seconds to move and catch him off guard, leaving the door free of menacing figures with guns. The fatal problem with this was that 2 seconds wouldn't clear his entire body from being shot if he followed his plan of plunging the blunt pencil in his pocket into the wound in his stomach.

The gun was against his head, the man saying things that he couldn't really understand with the amount of fear careering round his body. It was, quite literally, now or never. With one last breath he ducked underneath the man's arm. The sound of the shot seemed to rebound of the walls for eternity, blocking out the sound of piercing flesh as Q firmly wedged the pencil into what he could now see was a gunshot wound. The man let out a grunt of pain, doubling himself over but not dropping the gun. And with that, Q was actually sort of running.

Well, he would've been, if he hadn't have been shot as he reached the doorway. Apparently being stabbed with lead was not enough to immobilise the man who lay on the floor of the room, his last bullet having hit Q in his left arm, just above his shoulder. The shock was incredible, his entire body wanting to shut down, screaming at him to stop moving. The impending sense of James being right was enough to make him feel sick, without the warmth of his own blood sliding down his arm. The adrenalin kicked in, however, and sent him rather slowly out of the room and down the corridor, searching for something that seemed logical.

There seemed to be a lot of blood, Q thought to himself as he underwent his 7th minute of wandering around the resort, trying to find anyone who might be able to direct him to a bathroom. The world seemed to shift a lot, blurring and focusing despite his glasses remaining unmoving. It was hard to comprehend what to do, despite having watched it happen from behind a desk countless times. He needed to stop the bleeding, but how seemed to be a mystery. It was as if not only his arm was out of use, but his entire brain was. That's a sign of blood loss he thought to himself as he leaned against a wall with his better shoulder.

His pride hurt almost as much as his shoulder, as he let himself collapse against the corridor wall, his legs giving way to the rest of his lean structure. James had been right, he shouldn't have come. Worst of all, he now needed saving. He was the damsel in distress, and however much he enjoyed fooling around with the man, he didn't like the idea of relying upon him. Unfortunately, there wasn't a lot more to do, seeing as he was unable to stand up or see straight. For a split second, Q is scared. It's not the kind of fear that was there when the man was 3 inches from his face, but more of a huge overwhelming concept. He's scared that no one will find him, and that he will die here, and no one will remember him. He's scared, also, that James is going to be angry, that he won't want to see Q or help him, because truthfully it is his fault.

He tried to keep his mind busy, counting the amount of floorboards in the corridor. He tried to count the windows too, but discovered that there weren't any windows, only harsh white lights which seemed too bright, yet too dark all at once. He then tried to remember the conversation he'd had with Bond in that brilliant shiny foyer not thirty minutes ago, for the hope of something to keep him happy. He thought about the night they'd had two weeks ago, where an official debriefing turned into something much more. He tried to remember every detail of that night, the cold of the brick work against his back as James' lips dragged kisses lower down his body. In the back of his mind maybe he hoped that this would keep him alive, the mere happiness of memories, though his A* Biology A level laughed at this. The weary call of unconsciousness echoed around him, the sweet relief of pain it would bring and the peace…

James rounded the corner just to see Q's head fall back against the wall, his eyes closed. He stopped sharp, taking in the sight, although he already knew what had happened. Having been to Q's room, finding it empty, the man lying half-dead, it had only been a matter of time before he found this.

Panic filled his body as he saw the rather impressive amount of blood both on the pine floorboards and the man's cardigan. His skin was deathly pale, though James was keen to avoid using that word.

'Oh Q…' He whispered as he got closer, crouching down and holding a finger to his neck. Though cold, a faint pulse raised its head and James let out a shaky breath.

His own body wasn't exactly in perfect condition, having just tackled three men, succeeding to send them fleeing for at least a week or two (if that was how quickly a bullet to the leg would take to heal). He cursed himself for not making Q stay with him. He knew he couldn't defend himself, not to level that these men were trained, yet he let him go. A flash of two weeks ago filled the agent's mind, the way Q had explored his body so carefully, as if James was a mere piece of research, then how he shivered as he let himself succumb to him.

He leant down and kissed him then. He didn't know why, but it seemed right, it seemed like an apology and a reassurance all at once. He wouldn't let him die, not his Q, not today, not ever.

Now back to his professional demeanour, James took off the once blue cardigan that was now half a deep burgundy colour. With a pen knife, he slowly cut through the shirt that remained, creating a circle around the area of the gun shot which he peeled off.

'I'm glad you're not awake for this.' His voice was barely more than a growl as he took the knife and stuck it deep inside the wound, the raw flesh haggard and brutal. With some effort the bullet dropped to the floor, small and still intact. James didn't have time to look at it but instead dropped it into his pocket, just in case the man was someone gone and he needed to pay him a little personal visit.

With the hole now free of shrapnel, he took the cardigan and fashioned it into a bandage, tying it tightly around the wound. If Q lost any more blood it would be a very difficult situation to recover from. Taking a step back, James surveyed his work, a sick feeling of worry descending into his stomach. He couldn't give him the medical treatment he needed, but seeing as he wasn't on a mission, MI6 couldn't take responsibility. They'd have to, James reasoned, they wouldn't risk the life of their Quartermaster; without him the whole organisation would shut down.

He took Q's glasses off, reminiscing about the time he did this when the man was conscious and kissing him with a smile. He keeps that thought in his head as he carries him like a bay back to room 12. He's as light as a feather and James can't help but also worry about the amount the younger man eats. He makes a promise to monitor this once they're back safe.

The room is empty. A small bloodstain marks the spot of Q's great escape, however the man is gone. James barely even notices, too focused on getting Q to wake up. He's never cared this much, he realised as he lay him down on the bed, crossing his hands over his stomach and brushing his hair out of his eyes. There was something about the way he held himself, the pride and determination and sheer shy sass that rather endeared Bond to Q. Yes, he was a pain in the neck sometimes, but he got under his skin in a way that no girl could. Even Madeleine (the young blonde girl) couldn't make his heart beat like Q. There was something different, something…special.

James waited. He sat by Q's body, checking every ten minutes for a pulse, and waited. Q's laptop had seemed inviting but upon trying to enter it, Bond found a series of impossible security measures, and found the whole thing rather a lot of effort for a game of solitaire. So he waited.

It was five hours before Q stirred. James was still sat on the wooden desk chair beside him, bent over his knees, counting the seconds before he could next check on him, when his eyes fluttered open. Spurred into action, the older man practically threw his glasses at Q, trying not to hold him as he badly wanted to.

'Aren't you the knight in shining armour,' Q remarked with a croaky voice, smiling at James with weak eyes.

The agent gave in then, moving to sit beside him on the single bed, but touching him with the caution of a mother. He shuffled them around until he was holding Q in his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead as they spoke. Q let his eyes close again, taking in the smell of sweat and worry from James.

'I need to get shot more often.' He grinned as Bond leant down the kiss him, but stopped halfway,

'Don't you dare.'