Monday, 14 January 2013

"Q."

"You're back," Q observed, heart giving a startled thump in his chest as the dead man walked into his office. He still wore his overcoat, shoulders dusted with melting snow. "Are you — You were reported dead —"

"Again," Bond interrupted, swinging the heavy metal briefcase up onto the workstation where Q stood near the wall monitor. "Tell me you can open that for me, and I'll go out and try harder this time."

"I would rather you not," Q said, pushing aside his keyboard and mouse to look closely at the briefcase. "I do hope you haven't been tossing this about like that since you retrieved it. These are most often trapped with explosives."

"Where's your sense of adventure? Explosives make everything more exciting." Bond's most charming grin flashed to life as he leaned against the side of the workstation. The standing-height desk shifted in protest under his weight; it was built to withstand gentle use, not a solidly muscled, thoroughly lazy secret agent.

"Explosives will damage my laptop, and I'll be very... cross... Hello? What's this?" Q asked, seeing a little gleam in one of the two locking catches. He put out his hand and gestured to the table pushed up against the wall. It was a plastic folding table that had been a temporary stopgap measure three months ago, after Silva's attack on MI6 had driven them underground. Unfortunately, as happened so often, 'temporary' became permanent through sheer inertia.

"You can't just wiggle your fingers and expect me to read your mind. And I think it's a bit soon in our relationship to be holding hands at work, don't you?"

Heat flooded Q's cheeks. He snapped, "The torch, 007. And save your flirtation for Ms Moneypenny. I know better."

"That's what they always say." The desk creaked as Bond stepped away from it, only to creak again when he returned, dangling the torch in front of Q's face.

Q huffed and reached for it, only to have Bond snatch it away, lightning-fast. "Really, 007? I'm not about to wrestle you for a bloody light. There's a magnifying lamp in the explosives lab that will work just as well, and won't destroy fifty thousand quid worth of computers if this briefcase of yours actually triggers a device."

Bond's laugh was the sort of low, charming sound that slipped over Q's skin like a physical touch. Damn him. He offered the torch again and this time allowed Q to snatch it away. "You're too tense."

"And you're reckless and insolent." Q directed the light into the latch and nodded. This time, his heart sped up for an entirely different reason. "Well, that complicates things a bit."

"What is it?" Bond asked, the humour gone from his voice. When he rose from his casual slouch, he did so much more slowly.

"That's definitely the trigger for a trap. I think I'd very much like to evacuate the office now," Q said slowly.

He didn't move, though. He was no stranger to explosives and other lethal countermeasures, but he'd never been three inches away from someone else's handiwork. With no idea what else was hidden away behind the latch plate, he was paralysed. A mercury switch in the housing, which would detect if the briefcase was laid on its side, could arm the trap. Even the shift of air pressure caused by his movement could trigger it. Or it could have already been triggered by Bond's rough, casual handling. There could be just seconds left on the countdown.

"Right," Bond murmured, and extracted the torch from Q's rock-steady grip. He put his hand on Q's shoulder. The touch was grounding and reassuring — very much so, because if either of them saved the day in this situation, it would be Q, not Bond. But just having Bond beside him made him feel better, and he was able to straighten up and start backing away from the briefcase.

After taking four steps, he turned, thinking to go to the office door and suggest his on-duty team evacuate, but he turned too quickly. Lightheaded, he caught at Bond's sleeve, only to have an impossibly strong, solid arm wrap around his waist.

"Steady," Bond said, his voice perfectly calm and controlled.

Q nodded. "I would very much like to know how you managed to not get yourself killed transporting that briefcase from —" He hesitated, glancing at Bond. "Where did you get it?"

"Paris."

"You brought that all the way from Paris?" Q stepped out to the top of the staircase leading to his office. "How are you not dead, 007?"

Bond grinned, cocky and confident and far too charming for anyone's good. "I told you, Quartermaster. My specialty is resurrection."

Q shuddered. "I believe you," he said, a bit awed at the man's insanity and luck. Then he turned and looked down at his senior technicians, raising his voice as he said, "If you'd all please secure your workstations and head for safety, we've a bit of an explosives problem in my office. And I'll need the bomb defusing robot, please."

Q was sitting in the canteen, staring down at the sludge at the bottom of a muck-coloured paper cup. There was probably half a sip's worth of tea, not even enough to dissolve the sugar that had settled, since he didn't have a proper spoon for stirring. Naturally the bomb scare had come thirty minutes after the restaurant on the fourth floor closed, so he was. Without a spoon.

Then a familiar floral scent teased at his nose, and he looked up just in time to see a large cup — also paper, but thick and protected by a cardboard sleeve bearing the logo of the cafe down the street. "Oh, thank god," he breathed, shoving his cup aside to claim the offered new one. Only when his hands were wrapped around warm cardboard did he look up further and meet bright blue eyes.

"It looked like a medical emergency," Bond said, taking the seat across from Q. Not that Q was about to object. For a decent cup of tea, the agent was welcome to every bloody seat in the cafeteria. "Sorry about your office. Was anything damaged?"

"Against all odds, no. Rockwell and Reed are disassembling the device in the proper lab." Q pried off the plastic lid and inhaled deeply. Bond had even removed the bags after letting the tea steep, rather than leaving them in to turn bitter. He was the most wonderful, perfect, brilliant agent at all of MI6 — an opinion that would last at least as long as the extra-large cup of tea.

"And you're not at your desk?" Bond asked. He turned his chair slightly and slouched. His legs brushed against Q's before he put his feet up on the chair next to Q. "I thought you lived there."

"The robot's treads tore up some of the flooring."

Bond let out a cough that was suspiciously like a laugh. "I accidentally brought a bomb into your office, and all you've managed to do was damage the flooring? I'm disappointed, Q."

"Not all of us count the cost of rebuilding towards our successes." Q took a sip of the tea, and his eyes fell closed at the perfect bite of black tea leaves softened by bergamot, milk, and sugar. "This is exactly what I needed. How did you know?"

"I pay attention." Bond crossed his other leg on top of the first and slouched down a bit more, grinning fiercely. "It's in the job description, if you recall."

"Mmm. Speaking of your job," Q said, opening his eyes to look Bond over, "how did you manage to not die? Your plane went down. I watched it on satellite."

"I'm very good. I told you once before, I specialise in resurrection."

Q looked across the table, wondering what it was that drove Bond to such impossible successes. Age and injury and simple weariness should have dragged him into retirement by now, if not the grave, and yet of all the agents in the Double O programme, Bond always returned. Perhaps he wasn't always successful — no one was — but he had a knack for surviving.

"I believe it," he said softly.

Bond's grin seemed to make the years fall away. "Enjoy your tea," he said, and pushed upright again.

A bit surprised, he looked up at Bond. "Thank you."

"Sorry about your floor." Bond's grin turned sly, and a new light came to his cool blue eyes. "You'll have to show me the quality of the repairs."

Unsurprised by the blatant innuendo, Q answered, "If by which you mean you want me to show off my perfect form in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, wherein you'll end up face-down on said floor, I'd be happy to."

To his distinct pleasure, instead of taking offence or storming off in a snit, Bond laughed. "Challenge accepted, Quartermaster," he said, giving Q a nod before he left the canteen, still laughing.

It was well past nine before Q found a parking spot almost at the corner, a bit of a hike from his building. Really, he needed to move to a flat with reserved parking — preferably somewhere with security — but he hadn't had the chance to do more than sort out a few estate agents based on review websites. Every time he tried to schedule viewings, some new crisis called him away, and it was rude to continually reschedule.

Wrapped up against the thick, wet snow, Q locked up his car and hurried back up the street, thinking of nothing more than soup, a cup of tea, and sleep. In the winter, he moved his bed close to the heater; his blankets were perpetually warm, and right now, he wanted nothing more than to nest under layers and sleep.

He should have been paying more attention. He was MI6 — he was an executive at MI6, and he'd gone through all the security briefings. Pay attention to your surroundings. Vary your routine. Always carry a weapon. Have your keys out. But he was cold and wet and tired, and by the first sign of danger, it was too late.

There were two of them, naturally, because his luck was that way. One stepped out ahead of him, and when he heard a noise at his back, he turned and saw the other. They were both larger than him and probably armed, though thankfully neither one had actually drawn a weapon yet.

For a moment, he actually considered running or even charging at one of them, shouting madly. He'd read somewhere that a good shock would often chase away someone looking for easy prey. The problem, of course, was that he'd probably end up slipping on a patch of snow and falling on his arse, making himself even easier prey — not to mention colder and wetter.

The one in front took two steps towards Q. And there it was, the bright silver flash of a blade, the sight of which made Q want very much to keep his skin intact and his blood where it belonged. He took an involuntary step back, and rough laughter sounded behind him.

"You don't —" was as far as he got with his warning, though, because something was suddenly in the face of the man in front. The sound was like sheets whipping in the wind, and everything was a blur of darkness through the rain and snow spotting Q's glasses.

Then the indignant shouts — Get it off me! — turned to screams and then shrieks of gut-wrenching, nauseating pain. The other man ran past Q, knocking him aside, and then let out a scream of his own, and Q saw blood spray from the tawny blur that was batting and tearing at both their faces.

Feathers, Q realised in a daze. It was a bird. A great big bloody bird was attacking two muggers.

Which meant that this wasn't real, because this didn't happen. He backed away, wishing he could see clearly enough to know what kind of bird had accidentally rescued him, but the darkness and weather combined to disorient him.

Finally he fled, because whatever anomalous condition the bird was suffering wouldn't last. Soon it would realise that it was attacking humans, not mice or fish or whatever it was that birds ate, and then it would fly off, and the men would stupidly decide that Q had somehow been responsible for the avian mauling.

He made it to his building and managed to fumble the key into the lock only because he'd done it exhausted, freezing, sick, and drunk. Being panicked was nothing new, either — not in this neighbourhood. He ignored the foyer mailbox and ran up the stairs two at a time, not stopping until he was two storeys up and well out of sight of ground level.

Then he climbed the remaining level on shaky legs, thinking that this was all too surreal. It had to be some sort of uni prank. Right now, someone was uploading a video of his panicked flight to YouTube. The bird was a remote control device on a string or balloon suspended out of range of the street lamp.

By the time he let himself into his flat, he was laughing at himself — and privately promising himself revenge. There was enough CCTV coverage that he'd be able to isolate images of his attackers. He locked the door, thinking he'd have no trouble at all running them through facial recognition.

He smiled at the thought that maybe Bond could go around and have a chat with them. He seemed very keen to make a good impression on Q, after the 'almost blowing up the office' incident. This would go a long way towards soothing Q's ire, though the well-timed cup of tea earlier had definitely helped. Feeling much more sanguine about the whole incident, Q hung his coat to dry, set his messenger bag on the foyer table, and went right to the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

As he opened the cupboard, he heard a rattling sound, and he eyed the kettle suspiciously. He picked it up, thinking it might be empty, but there was plenty of water in it. It wasn't rattling because it was boiling, either. With a little grimace, he opened the lid to verify that there were no dead mice in there — something which had unfortunately happened in uni, but that was to be expected with people sneaking food about.

Then he heard it again, and realised it wasn't in the kitchen at all, but the little living room. Startled, thinking that the wind might have blown hard enough to dislodge one of the windows from the frame, he set down the kettle and started that way.

The snow shifted, suddenly revealing a pale shape, moving and fluttering, filling the window with wings and feathers and night-black eyes. Q let out a startled shout and backed away. His hip banged painfully into the fridge.

Killer bird, he thought madly, wondering if it hadn't been sated by attacking the muggers and now felt the need to come after him.

Its wings flared, and it deliberately — deliberately! — rapped its beak against the window glass.

Q flinched back, mind full of thoughts of glass breakage and window frame strength and the relative hardness of beaks.

The bird gave a little hop and cocked its head, a very sideways sort of tilt that made Q realise he was looking at an owl.

In London.

In the snow.

An owl that had just attacked two muggers and was now knocking at his window.

"All right," he said, a slow-burning fury overcoming his apprehension. He looked around, trying to spot the hidden cameras that someone must have installed. "Very amusing. Hogwarts? Really?" he shouted, wondering which of his oh-so-clever subordinates was going to have to die, slowly and painfully, for this sort of prank.

He crossed the living room and wrenched open the window, thinking that the owl was probably a valuable pet. Besides, this wasn't the owl's fault. No sense in having it freeze to death.

Definitely a valuable pet. It hopped inside, spread its wings, and glided to the back of the sofa without hesitation, even though Q had heard something about large birds not liking being kept indoors. Q slammed the window and looked for the cameras again. "If you tell me its name is Hedwig, I'll fire the lot of you and hire an entire new department from the intern pool," he threatened.

But of course there was no answer. Where was the fun in ending a prank before it had been beaten to death? Sighing, Q turned to look at the owl, wondering if he should offer it water, when he realised its talons — its very long, wickedly curved talons — were bloody. And not neatly bloody. The blood splattered up onto the pale cream feathers covering the upper parts of its legs and belly. There was more blood spotting its heart-shaped face.

Q took a step back, banged into his computer desk, made it around, and sat. He stared at the owl, which folded itself in half and started gnawing at its bloody feathers.

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Was this part of the prank? Fake blood? Ketchup? If so, he swore that heads would roll.

If not, then he'd just locked himself into a small one-bedroom flat with something that had just mauled two men in a matter of seconds.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the deadly thing, Q touched the mouse, waking his computer. He typed in his login information, fingers gentle on the keyboard, and opened a browser with a few quick clicks.

Then he let out a mad sort of laugh, because really, what was he supposed to type? What do I do if an owl attacks two muggers and is now sitting on my sofa?

Finally, he decided to start simple. Owl seemed a logical first search.

Three mugs of tea later, Q was certain that this was not normal owl behaviour.

'This' was now an owl sitting on his coffee table, occasionally ducking its beak into a pot of water and splashing its head around before it resumed meticulously grooming — preening, actually — its feathers. As if it were having a bath. After saving Q from two muggers.

It certainly wasn't a hidden camera prank. He'd swept the flat twice. He would defy 007 himself to slip a single surveillance device past that sort of search, and then only if it was a device Q himself had designed.

"This isn't normal," he told the owl. He peered past his monitor and picked up his half-finished tea. "You. This is not normal. You're supposed to be out hunting mice and living in barns. It's what you are."

The owl twisted its head a fraction of an inch one way, then the other, before switching legs in what appeared to be an anticipatory movement. Q braced himself, and indeed, the owl started flapping its wings to give it enough lift to sail across the room toward him. Startled, Q flinched, chair creaking in protest as he leaned back all the way. But instead of swooping in to claw at Q's face, it landed on the top edge of his computer screen, the great span of its wings causing enough of a stir in the air to send errant sticky notes and other papers flying off the desk.

"Not there!" he shouted, thinking of what an owl could do to his poor flatscreen. He would've batted at the owl, but its talons were even bigger close-up and he didn't want to provoke an attack.

The owl tipped its head, and if Q were the type to assign human characteristics to animals, he would have sworn the owl looked chastising. Perhaps stranger yet, the owl ruffled itself and hopped down, off the screen, and onto his desk where it sat, staring at him.

Q stared back, vaguely recalling some sort of theory that breaking eye contact was done only by prey. Or was it that maintaining eye contact was an act of aggression? Why the hell wasn't he wearing sunglasses?

"Right," he finally said, because he felt the need to say something. He actually wanted his tea, but it was within wing-reach of the owl. Instead of picking up the cup, he repeated, "Right," again.

Then a thought occurred to him. A valuable pet like this would be banded, which was the bird equivalent of microchipping. He set his feet firmly on the carpet and slowly pushed his chair back as he slouched down. "It would have to be on your feet. Let's see them. There'd be an owner's name or an ID number of some sort. National Owl Registry Database or the like, wouldn't there?"

In an incredible imitation of Q's movements, the owl ducked its head as well, moving when Q did, stopping when Q did as well.

"That's unnecessary," Q said, before he could stop himself. He huffed at his own idiocy — apparently it was a theme for the night. The owl was probably just mimicking his behaviour. Animals did that sort of thing.

But that implied, at least to his fuzzy logic, that the owl was accustomed to human interaction. Very, very carefully, he lifted his left hand, thinking that if he was going to be injured or mauled, better to preserve his dominant right hand. He reached out, ready to pull his hand back at the first sign of aggression.

"Nice, er, owl," he said, striving for a soothing tone, though it came out more puzzled than anything else. Surely the owl wouldn't know if he said 'nice kitty' as he almost had, simply out of habit. The last person he'd dated had lived with three cats, and he'd developed certain habits.

The owl twisted its head to watch the approach of Q's hand, and shuffled its feathers lightly every few seconds, but otherwise held still. When his hand was within a few inches of the raptor's body, it stretched its neck slowly and nipped at Q's fingertips. It was a very slow, very gentle movement that didn't hurt in the slightest — in fact, it felt like curved plastic pinching lightly at the nail and pad of his index finger. The raptor shivered its wings again, then pulled back and went back to watching Q.

"Right. Lovely. I do hope that doesn't mean you're hungry and want fingers, because you can bloody well get them yourself, if you do." But assuming that they'd come to some sort of truce, Q went the long way around his desk, opposite where the owl was still lurking. Owl or not, he wanted his soup.

"What do you eat, other than mice and muggers?" he called back. He had the ridiculous urge to simply leave the pantry open and let the owl knock its beak against whatever tin it wanted Q to open and reheat.

In a scattering of pencils, papers, and whatever else was light enough to be dislodged by the owl's lift, the bird pushed itself off the desk, flapped up towards the flat's ceiling, then swooped across the room in a long, graceful movement that was incredibly beautiful. It tipped its wings to deviate from its straight path, and landed on the counter next to Q, skidding slightly on the surface.

Q managed not to flinch quite so badly this time. "Lovely. You're hungry," he assumed, voice strained from how his nerves had been tested through the whole night. "You do realise I have pot noodles and beans, don't you? I haven't had the chance to go grocery shopping for weeks." He eyed the owl's hooked beak and immediately decided soup wouldn't do. As it was, the owl had made a mess of the coffee table with its impromptu bath.

He opened the pantry, took out a tin of soup for himself, then turned back and asked the owl, "Beans, toast, or both? My god, I'm actually expecting an answer." He closed his eyes, wondering if he'd cracked under the stress of his promotion. Probably.

The owl turned its head again in a manner Q thought of as chastising. It looked from the tin to Q and to the tin again. It sideways-hopped towards him, sharp claws inches from Q's arm.

Q picked up the tin. Chicken noodle soup.

"You cannot read this," Q said, eyeing the owl suspiciously. He set the tin down and sorted through the others in the pantry. He obviously had no 'mouse stew', so chicken was probably the best the owl would get. He found a tin of potato soup and set it down beside the first tin. "There. Let's see you pick out the chicken now," he challenged.

The raptor leaned back as it flapped its wings in great beats of air, the tip of the right wing hitting the potato soup tin. It tipped over and rolled across the counter slowly, finally falling off the edge and hurtling towards Q's toes.

With a startled, "Oi!" Q leaped back to safety. He picked up the tin, and his irritation suddenly vanished as he realised the owl had done as he'd asked.

Suspicion turned to something else — something that might well have been enthusiasm, if he hadn't been so bloody cold and hungry and stressed. Ridiculous as it was, he picked up the tin of chicken soup and went to open it.

"If you get this all over my carpet —" he began, before he realised he couldn't exactly threaten to make the owl clean it up. "Right. Heated up or room temperature?" he asked instead, wondering how exactly to get the soup out of the tin and into the owl.

He actually waited for a moment, as though expecting an answer. Then he shook his head and turned away from the owl on his countertop — the owl on his countertop, he thought madly — to find a couple of saucepans.

The owl, as it turned out, was less interested in the soup and more interested in picking out the chicken, which worked much better once Q layered towels over the damp coffee table. In fact, it seemed content to nibble for some time, though eventually it stopped eating and started mantling its wings as though waving to get Q's attention.

Q had given up on such mundane concepts as reality and sanity. He put down his own soup and walked around his computer desk to the coffee table. The way the owl watched him was disconcerting and very... self-aware.

"This would be much easier if you could speak," he pointed out, looking into the saucepan in which he'd served the chicken soup, thinking the aluminium pot was more likely to withstand owl-based abuse than his dishes were.

The owl blinked at him, then let out an ear-splitting screech that lasted for about five seconds, sounding like a cross between a hiss and the sound a dying animal might make. It sent Q stumbling back, convinced the bloody bird was ready to attack now that it had eaten a little snack. He hit the computer desk, splashed tea out of his mug, and nearly toppled his monitor.

"Fuck!"

The raptor ruffled its feathers and turned its head from side to side in what, all together, looked suspiciously like amusement. It swooped from the coffee table back to the computer desk, landing again on the top of the monitor.

Q flinched away from its wings — really, that wingspan was excessive for a house-trained bird — and rushed to stabilise the monitor under the owl's weight. And that thought reminded him... "If you could avoid, uh... leaving any messes... Can birds even be house-trained?"

The owl shuffled its feathers again, but didn't do much more than stare at Q from its apparently comfortable perch on top of the LCD.

"Must you?" Q asked somewhat plaintively. He couldn't resist touching its feathers. They were stiffer than they looked. "You have to belong to someone. You're clearly not wild. Are you microchipped?" he mused, wondering how he could mod something to pick up an RFID signal from a chip.

Not that it mattered. What he actually had to do was call the RSPCA to have someone pick up the owl. House-trained or not, the owl wasn't his, after all. He might have done damage to its digestive system by feeding it chicken soup, for all he knew.

He sighed and walked around his desk, keeping a wary eye on the monitor. He sat down and wrinkled his nose at the idea of finishing his lukewarm potato soup. Pushing the bowl aside, he pulled up Google to search for the phone number for the RSPCA.

The owl stayed still at the monitor, watching, until Q actually reached to pick up his phone from where it lay on the desk. Then the raptor hopped down off the monitor to swoop towards his hand, talons out. But instead of clawing Q's hands, it scooped up the phone and carried it over to the window, where the bird flapped in place for a moment. Then it turned away and flew up to the top of Q's bookshelf, where it landed. And stayed.

Q stared at the owl. The thieving owl.

"That," he said threateningly, "is a secure MI6 mobile, and you're not leaving this flat with it."

Then an idea occurred to him, and a tiny smile tugged at his lips as he quickly typed, sending himself a text. The mobile was in a drop-proof case; at worst, the screen might crack, and he had spares at the office.

A moment later, the mobile vibrated, and the bird hopped on top of it but didn't try to send it crashing to the floor in fear. The bird turned its now-familiar chastising look at Q again, then — leaving the mobile on top of the bookshelf — flew back at the window. It scored its talons along the glass, causing a high-pitched squeal that was accompanied by the owl's own screech. Then it flew back to the bookshelf and stared at Q again.

"Absolutely not!" Q protested before he could stop himself. "You're not going out there in this weather. You'll freeze. Besides, you belong to someone..." He trailed off, looking up at the owl. "Oh. Did you run away? Er, fly away?" he asked more gently. He got up and walked to the bookshelf, holding out his hand a bit less tentatively.

The owl dove off the bookshelf, but didn't fly right to Q's hand. It flew out to Q's living room, then returned seconds later with the blanket Q kept on the back of the couch in its talons. It dropped the blanket to Q then circled the room.

The poor thing probably wanted a rest. Q gathered up the blanket, bundling it in his arms, and held up the makeshift nest for the owl. "All right. Here, uh..." He tried to think of anything creative beyond 'Hedwig', which felt awkward; he didn't even know if the owl was female, nor was he willing to check.

The owl swooped in towards the blanket, but didn't land in it. Rather, it tore the blanket out of Q's hands and circled the room again. When it came back, it dropped the blanket over Q's head and shoulder. He let out a startled shout, but before he could reach up to pull it off, the owl was so close to him, he could feel the tips of its feathers on his face.

Moments later, it was comfortably settled on his shoulder, sharp talons digging into the blanket but barely scoring Q's own skin through his dress shirt. It was heavier than Q imagined — it was, after all, a flying creature — and he had a momentary vision of losing his balance, almost dropping the owl, and it tearing his shoulder apart in an effort to keep from falling.

"You're far too clever — Oh, bloody hell, did you escape from Baskerville?" he asked, trying to look at the owl without actually looking, because that sharp hooked beak was very close to his eyes, and his glasses offered no protection at all. "Are you from a lab? God, this is that movie, The Rats of NIMH, isn't it? That or I've gone completely mad."

The bird leaned over to nip at Q's ear with the same light, gentle pressure it had used on Q's fingertip earlier. Its body weight shifted as it moved, talons gripping to keep it balanced, but it didn't fall or tear up Q's skin. In fact, it seemed quite comfortable.

It was rather nice, actually. By necessity, Q lived a busy, solitary life. He'd always wanted a pet, but between his parents and school and his ambition to join MI6, he'd never had the time. Even his house plants died of neglect.

Carefully, holding up a hand in case the owl needed stabilising, he walked back to the computer desk. "I'm just checking my email, so don't go stealing my mouse," he warned. He sat down cautiously, though the owl seemed able to anticipate his moves and shifts in balance. It rocked forward and back to stay upright, and then ruffled its feathers up as Q settled down in his chair.

He gave the owl a cautious pat on the softer feathers over its chest, and then opened his personal email. The owl seemed to settle comfortably, the only movement its occasional shifting with Q's movements and its body as it breathed. It didn't chirp or hoot, but stayed completely silent.

Q moused with one hand and kept petting the owl with the other, relaxing under its weight. His flat was usually so empty in the evenings, which was why he worked late and on weekends. This... this companionship was definitely very, very nice.