Bond lurked in the doorway.
He's been staring at Q in silence for the past quarter hour and it was getting to be ridiculous.
With an exasperated huff, Q twisted in his seat to examine Bond, forcing himself to pause and look up from his tinkering for the first time in what felt like hours. His neck softly cracked in protest forcing him to hide a wince.
Even in his impeccable suit, Bond was inarguably looking worse for wear. A nude butterfly bandage barely managed to cover half of the nasty cut on his forehead and his left wrist was held too stiffly next to his torso. Mementos from latest mission in Beijing, a mission that ended up less covert than Q would have liked.
"If you are looking to return any of your surviving equipment, I remind you that R was assigned to you for your post-mission debrief," said Q, his voice sharpened from fatigue.
Oftentimes the best way to deal with the 00s was to be direct. More subtle means of influence have always been a gamble with how much the absurdly overtrained agents are willing to humour your attempts at manipulation.
Bond narrowed his eyes and finally stepped out from his post in the threshold to meander over to the side of Q's desk.
Leaning over, Bond picked up one of the tiny screws to examine, a perplexed look flickering across his face.
"Are you trying to drive yourself to an early grave?" Bond pausing to look meaningfully at the electronic chaos on Q's desk with an amused glint in his eyes, "I thought that was my job."
Q plucked the screw from Bond's hand and glanced down in mute confusion at the disassembled parts of the next generation of miniaturized countersurveillance devices before deciding it was altogether too much effort to try to puzzle the meaning out of Bond's words let alone come up with a witty retort.
"Quit being a nuisance, drop off your equipment, and get yourself to Medical for once in your life," Q repeated, hoping to get the message through Bond's unusually thick skull and be left alone once again.
Bond looked unsettlingly amused at the mild scolding, ratcheting up Q's well developed sense of paranoia.
He immediately took a mental inventory of himself. Fully dressed in work clothes, check. Glasses on face, check. Hair normal, check.
The last time he had seen that look from Bond, he had lost his shoes somewhere in the bowls of MI6's servers. On its own, not a completely disastrous situation but his socks were… less than professional to say the least. At least Eve and Bond kept the teasing about the penguins to a minimum.
All in all, that was an experience he didn't care to repeat. It's difficult enough to be respected as an upper level MI6 official when you're half the age of agents under your command without also accidentally undermining your own authority.
"As touching as your concern is, I have already safely delivered my equipment to R," said Bond voice tinged with his exasperation, deftly omitting any mention of Medical.
"You, however, are in your office, dead on your feet, on your weekend. Why are you here and not at home sleeping. Like a normal human being." Bond elaborated, eyebrows drawn incredulously upward.
Aggravated at the assessment, Q swivelled in his chair to check the wall clock on the far side of the office partially obscured by the dusty relic of a file cabinet.
It was 3:42 am; he'd been up nearly 38 hours.
Q nearly choked in surprise, his retort shriveling up inside. He only vaguely recollected changing out of his binder and scarfing down a cold-cut sandwich but it certainly hadn't seemed that long ago.
Blinking rapidly in affront at the time, Q peered back up at Bond looking remarkably like a disgruntled owl.
Q forced himself to look straight in Bond eyes with his most impassive face he could muster.
"Yes, well, it's a bit too late for that now isn't it? In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that."
Huffing out a laugh, Bond pressed onward, "It's too late to go to bed? That's the poorest excuse I've heard in a long time. Go home Q."
Q tilted his head back in his chair and stared up at the concrete ceiling, trying to come up with a better excuse. The florescent lights, something not even MI6 was safe from, accented the bags under Q's eyes.
"Sacrifices must be made; sometimes the work comes first. You know that just as well as I."
One eyebrow raised, "I might actually believe that if there were any genuine crises Q," said Bond.
Q's evasiveness was starting to concern Bond. Workaholics are abundant in MI6 but Q's reluctance to sleep rubbed wrong against Bond's hard won instincts.
This was the third time in the past six weeks that Bond had caught Q was working himself to exhaustion. As colleagues, Bond usually wouldn't interfere but he'd begun to seriously wonder whether anyone else had even noticed the habit let alone had the guts to stand up to the unyielding Quartermaster. After all, it was only thanks to the late night international flight arrivals that he had noticed himself.
It took a moment but Q reluctantly offered with a wry twist of his lips, "Last year's fuck up fucked me up Bond." Before schooling his face, a stunned look twisted across his features, surprised that he answered honestly to Bond of all people.
Finally the truth of the issue but Bond couldn't say he was pleased to hear it. It wasn't a shock to learn that Q was effected by the whole Silva situation, especially considering how the previous Q had died, but Bond was ashamed of himself for not having considering the impact.
Bond responded with a small soft sound and moved to settled himself against the desk, keeping Q in his sightline.
Q righted himself in his seat and looked out of the massive long bulletproof window overlooking the main floor of Q branch. Everyone, including R, had left already. The only people remaining were Q branch's night shift and a caretaker busying herself with emptying the numerous rubbish bins.
"And," Q pausing to gather some courage, gave a self-deprecating laugh and a plastic smile, "I can't say that returning to empty flat has helped."
Bond's eyebrows rose in understanding, last he'd heard Q had a beloved cat. Uncoiling from where he was leaning against the desk, Bond moved to stand next to Q's chair. Resolve bubbled in Bond. He couldn't face Q's demons for him but he could make sure Q sleeps tonight.
"Come along now, I'll drive you," Bond commanded.
Squinting up at Bond at the non sequitur, Q weighed the inscrutable look on Bond's face and after a moment acquiesced. Agents were often an odd lot; if Bond was dead set to be this bafflingly strange after he showed vulnerability, then it was best to just go along with it.
With a sigh, Q stood up from his spot, flicked off his monitor, and gathered his jacket and briefcase, following Bond out the door.
Together they made the long walk to the carpark through the deserted mausoleum that was MI6. Eerie, still silence was only interrupted by the hum of floor buffers in the distant interspersed with the rhythmic sound of their steps.
The absurdity of it all had Q starting to wonder if he had entered some fugue state triggered by sleep depression. Nonetheless, any burgeoning complaints dried up once Bond's sex on wheels Aston Martin DB5 came in sight.
Eyes wide, Q quickly tucked himself inside before Bond could rethink his offer. The interior was pure sin and Q had to quickly quash his inner car nerd. He barely stopped himself in time from stroking the butter soft interior leather but not before his observant escort had noticed his aborted movement.
Q snatched his hand away from the door as if burned. Feeling very much like a school boy again, he awkwardly folded his hands on his lap and quietly disclosed to Bond the classified address to his flat.
Bond, for all that his face was stone, was deeply entertained by Q's reaction. Eyes wrinkling but suppressing a smile, he started the car. The familiar sound of his baby's engine turning over releasing the last of his tension.
Bond smoothly pulled out of the car park and onto the lightly populated London streets. The intermittent passing of street lamps and stop lights were the only markers of time.
Out the corner of his eye, Bond could see Q losing the fight against unconsciousness, the smooth purr of the engine lulling him to sleep. The tousled head of hair nodded and blinked awake until he slowly collapsed against the car door snoring lightly, his lips parted. The corners of Bond's mouth couldn't help but twitch at the scene.
All too soon, Bond pulled into a nearby parking spot and reached across to wake up Q. Flustered, wide eyed, and heart pounding, Q glowered accusingly at Bond. Only the rising blush on his cheeks betrayed his shame for dozing off.
Smirking from the reaction, Bond superfluously stated "We're here."
"This is most certainly not my building," Q said flatly.
Earlier, Bond had impulsively turned left on Victoria Road towards his own flat. Years had passed since he last brought another person there. As an experienced emotional repressor, Bond emphatically prevented himself from thinking too deeply as to why it felt so right to bring Q here.
Ignoring Q, Bond rolled his eyes and moved to get out of the car with Q cautiously following suit.
As they approached the building, Q began to wonder if Bond had taken him to a safe house. He knew 00 agents often took security measures to new and dazzling heights but honestly, he's the bloody Quartermaster. His security system topped even M's.
Bond remained frustratingly elusive and led Q up to an elegant building. After some fussing with keys and a complex security code, Q found himself herded up the stairs without a word edgewise and into an unfamiliar flat.
Indignant, Q began to protest the treatment but the words caught in his throat as he examined the interior. A designer had clearly purchased everything. The only signs that someone actually lived there were the half empty bottles of liqueur and the haphazardly strewn paperback books on the coffee table.
"Bond, is this your flat?" Q questioned barely above a whisper.
Bond's shoulders tensed minutely but again he failed to elaborate. Q's head whirled in confusion or perhaps more likely sleep deprivation.
Lit from the leaking light of living room's lamps, a large king-sized bed was spotlight within the open door. Q shuffled closer unconsciously gravitating towards it, unable to fight its inviting pull.
Extending a hand, Q fingered the comforter made from soft plush down feathers. Pressing more firmly down, a mattress topper of thick memory foam absorbed the outline of Q's hand.
"You'll sleep here tonight."
Q jumped, berating himself for not noticing his rudely wandering feet nor Bond behind him.
"What- Why- " Q started to ask but thought better off it. "I couldn't."
Bond shot him a look uncannily like Q's former schoolmarm.
"I insist."
What little brain cells that Q still possessed recognized when he woke up tomorrow he'll be drowning in embarrassment but right now, in his drowsy stupor, that seemed like a problem for future Q.
"Thank you Bond."
Bond gave a small pleased smile.
"James, please."
"… Thank you James."