Lay It Down

by Dhampir72

[Post Skyfall; Craig films.] Bond and Q agreed: their relationship was nothing more than physical. Until it suddenly isn't. (Or alternatively: The one in which Q gets sick, Bond takes care of him, and the truth comes out.)

2. Chapter 2

Thank you for all the favourites and watches everyone~ I hope you enjoy the second installment.

00Q00Q00Q

Q swore that his head had just hit the pillow when his alarm clock blared to life. He listened to the shrill whine for a few minutes, unable to move right away. When Q finally had enough strength, he moved his arm to hit the snooze button, fingers catching on the correct button on the second attempt. Turning over onto his side, Q moved from his part of the bed to Bond's and breathed in the scent of him that still lingered on the sheets and pillowcase. That, in combination with the quiet and gentle rain against the sill, had his eyelids falling shut of their own volition. He told himself it would just be five more minutes and then he would get up...It felt like only seconds before the alarm clock went off again. Q blindly beat at it until it quieted. With a groan, he slowly moved up to sit with his back against the headboard, and pulled his legs up halfway to himself. His whole body hurt, centred around the ache in his chest that seemed to have gotten worse over the past few hours. Q leaned forward to press his forehead to his knees and coughed feebly. The hard, dry cough had matured, leaving behind a heavy wetness that felt like trying to draw breath through a damp sponge. Coughing brought only momentary relief as some of the pressure alleviated, but it left behind a soreness that Q had a feeling would linger all day. He lay there for some time, forcing his lungs to expand and contract despite the pain in each effort. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but duty called. He had meetings to attend and paperwork to do, but most of all, he had Bond out in the field, counting on him. It was the thought of Bond that gave him the strength to put on his glasses and slowly climb out of bed.

Shivering, he dragged one of the blankets with him and kept it around his shoulders as he shuffled into the kitchen to make tea. He put the kettle on and then sat at the kitchen island, hunched over in the warm microfibre. Q tried not to think about what Bond would do if he was there, but because he felt cold and miserable, he allowed himself to indulge, just this once. He imagined it would be much like the previous morning: waking to the press of tender, stubbly kisses on his forehead, a warm body flush against his, and the feel of lazy fingers carding through his hair. He knew that Bond would make him stay in bed all day and force food and tea on him at every opportunity. If he learned one thing during their time out of bed together, it was that Bond liked to see him fed, which is the only reason he had actually started taking breakfast instead of drinking straight caffeine as a substitute.

The kettle whistled and Q got up slowly to take it off the hob. Then he dropped a teabag into a mug, added the hot water and two spoonfuls of sugar, and returned to his seat at the kitchen island. A few sips of scalding tea had him burning up, and Q dropped the blanket onto the floor carelessly. Then he spent a few minutes coughing into his elbow before leaning forward to rest his forehead against the cool marble countertop. The dizziness threatened to overwhelm him for a moment and his stomach twisted uncomfortably at the sensation. It constituted an impressive display of self-control that Q did not retch right there. Needless to say, he felt a bloody mess.

"Get up," he told himself. His voice sounded cracked and weak to his own ears. But with a few more words of encouragement, Q managed to lift his head, dump out the rest of his tea, and trudge towards the bathroom. It was only when he caught sight of himself in the mirror that Q realised two things: the first that he had fallen asleep in yesterday's clothes and the second that he looked like death warmed over. So not only did he feel a bloody mess, but he looked like one too.

Stripping down, Q stepped into a hot shower and stayed there for an indeterminable amount of time. The heat eased the dull ache in his back and shoulders, but it soothed him almost too well. Q started violently when the water suddenly turned cold, nearly falling through the curtain in his shock. It took a moment for him to conclude that he must have fallen asleep, which was probably not a good sign about his physical condition. Shivering under the cold spray, Q hurried to wash, huddling into a towel as soon as he rinsed. Afterward, brushing his teeth took longer than it should have and shaving actually bordered on dangerous. But in the end, Q managed to get not-rumpled clothes on and looked somewhat more presentable. He tried not to think of his warm bed as he shrugged into his windcheater and pulled on his bag in his hurry to get to work. Outside, it rained relentlessly; even his umbrella did not keep him from getting soaked on his way to the Underground.

He took the late tube in, catching the tail end of the morning commute. It forced Q to wedge himself in an uncomfortable spot near the connecting doors, but that did not prevent him from dozing the entire way; he almost missed his stop.

When Q arrived, it was 0932. The day shift was back and they all openly stared at him as he walked in and made for his office. Q rarely came in past 0900, only breaking this habit on occasion when his agents were in drastically different time zones that required alternative hours. Even when his work stretched into the early hours of the morning, Q was always back at HQ by 0900 without fail. This was the first time in his appointment as Quartermaster that he had arrived late. Try as he might, Q could not figure out where the extra half-hour had come from, but then gave up his attempts at an excuse. There was nothing wrong with letting his people think that he had overslept or-heaven forbid-had a life outside of MI6.

"Okay..." Q said to himself, as he entered his office and began to prioritise his day. A nasty round of coughing distracted him for a moment and Q suddenly wished that sleeping at home was the only thing on his list. With a wheezing sigh, he dropped his wet umbrella in the stand behind the door, pulled off his dripping coat, and had just started up his computer when Moneypenny arrived. She had his Scrabble mug in her hand.

"Good morning," she said cautiously. He saw her eyes look him up and down.

"If you say so," Q replied, sitting down to hide behind his monitors. He had 704 unread email messages, destroying his valiant attempt from the previous night to get his inbox down to under 600. It took all he had not to begin pulling at his hair. When Moneypenny did not say anything for a few minutes, Q looked up at her. Everything she wanted to say was written all over her face. She opened her mouth, but Q beat her to it: "Before you ask, again, I am fine. Just very tired."

"I've seen you tired, Q," Eve said, and stepped closer to his desk, setting the steaming cup of tea down on the edge. "You're looking ragged." Q looked back at his screen, knowing that if he met her gaze, he might be overcome with guilt for lying to her. She was very good at knowing when people were telling the truth just as much as she excelled at making people do what she wanted. When he did not say anything, she added: "And not ragged in the good, just-been-shagged way."

Q felt his face burn uncomfortably warm, at odds with the chills he had been fighting all morning.

"Maybe you ought to go home," Moneypenny suggested.

"I have a lot of work to do," Q replied, patting the giant pile of paperwork next to him with a grimace. "Audits."

"You were here until two in the morning," said Eve. "I think that warrants a rest."

Q finally looked up at her and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Strange. I didn't think you to do Bond's bidding so easily, Miss Moneypenny," Q said.

"You think he put me up to this?" Eve asked. She at least had the decency to try and look surprised.

"Yes."

"You're right."

"I know. I'm just not sure why you're going along with it."

"Because it's cute," Eve said, and she smiled. "You two, I mean."

Q grumbled swears under his breath as he leaned back in his chair. He barely had enough energy to breathe, let alone deal with this upcoming conversation.

"Q," she began, more serious now. "He's worried about you."

"He shouldn't be. That's not his job," Q replied, a bit more forcefully than he intended. Eve raised an eyebrow at him and Q pointedly looked elsewhere. "We agreed. We have boundaries. He knows that."

"It's not like him, you know," Eve said, her voice very soft. Q found himself holding his breath to hear her words. "You've read his file. He doesn't...do that sort of thing."

"Exactly," Q answered.

"But he is," Eve hedged. "And that must mean he wants to. Even after what happened in Venice."

Q, for once, did not know what to say.

"Don't push him away when he's trying so hard, Q," she said, looking at him pleadingly. She really could get anyone to bend to her wishes by just batting her eyelashes. Q pointedly opted to be British in the face of such a demand, and drank some tea.

"No promises," he replied, setting the mug down. She shook her head.

"I don't know how you accomplish anything together, what with the both of you being so bloody stubborn," Moneypenny said, before her expression turned thoughtful. "Though I suppose the sex must be excellent."

Q felt a flush threatening his cheeks again.

"Is that all, Miss Moneypenny?" Q asked, trying for a dismissive tone, but failing when his voice broke on the last two syllables of her name. He tried to clear his throat, but ended up coughing again. Eve politely waited until he finished and could breathe before speaking.

"No, one more thing," Eve said, as she made her way to the door. "I've postponed your team meeting at 11 and rescheduled it for next week. You have an appointment with Medical at that time. And if you don't show up, they have specific orders to physically retrieve and then detain you until 007 returns from the field."

"Eve..."

Q openly glared at her.

"Oh, and I'll bring by lunch afterwards," she said, and smiled cheerfully before departing with a wave. Q kept glaring until the click of her heels faded away. Then he leaned back in his chair and drank the rest of the tea she brought him. If nothing else, at least he did not have to get up to make his own, and if he could prevent himself from coughing, he could probably keep it down. A reminder alert popped up on his screen, indicating that he had fifteen minutes before he could expect Bond's call. And, oh, if Q was not going to dig into Bond for meddling after specifically telling him to just focus on the bloody mission and not worry about him. As sweet as it might seem to some... Q touched the mark on his clavicle, rubbing at it with his forefinger until his anger dissipated. Sure, maybe it was sweet, but Q could never tell anyone that, especially Bond. Despite what he had said about it not crossing any lines, Q was still not sure. They were overstepping, they had to be, and yet it seemed that neither of them cared, even with all the potential for this thing to go so wrong. What did that even mean? He cursed the returning headache that made his thoughts jumbled and hazy. He did not have time for this now (or ever) and sought to get back to work.

Refocusing on his computer, Q pulled up the Westin's video feeds again, searching for the footage from earlier that morning. He found Velasco waiting at the pool at 0130, where he met a man-no, a boy, really-who he kissed thoroughly and then with whom he disappeared. Q used the best angle of the boy for facial recognition. Even though Bond had said not to investigate, Q would not get sloppy. There was no way he would not consider everyone Velasco came in contact with to be anything less than another ETA operative.

While running the software to search the face in all known databases, Q swallowed a Panadol dry and tried not to cough it back up moments later. His program opened a new window just as he was getting his breath back. The Dirección General de Tráfico listed him as Tomás Gutiérrez of Madrid. Q pulled his plate numbers and driving record, but did not find anything so much as a speeding ticket attached to his name. The DGT had everything from his birth certificate to his current address and phone number (which did not match the burner phone, so Q tagged it for later), which Q used to compile a profile. Everything was ordinary: average job, height, weight, grades, family. But it was almost too nondescript for Q's tastes, which sent up a red flag. Q used the facial scan again, but set the bar a little lower, from an 93% match to below 75%, and let the program run through the scripts.

His phone rang at exactly 1000. Q put it to speaker.

"Call me darling and I will make you regret it," Q said, before Bond could get in the first word.

"I take it Eve gave me away," was the cheerful reply. On the other end, Q could hear the sound of a strong breeze and far-off waves. He stubbornly did not think about how much he would have liked to be there with Bond, making good use of that 400 quid per night mattress. He had to remind himself that he was angry with Bond, though that had now faded into nothing but exasperation.

"I don't even want to know why on earth you decided to get her involved," Q sighed.

"She asked."

"Lovely. I wasn't aware that this arrangement would be a ménages à trois."

"I wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself."

"I'm not a pet that needs taken care of, James," Q told him firmly.

"Will you eat or drink otherwise when I'm gone?" he asked.

Q remembered then that he had completely foregone breakfast that morning, but like hell he would admit to that.

"Of course. I'm an adult."

"Then you'll go to Medical today like an adult and get checked out."

"Hypocrite," Q retorted, knowing that Bond would rather let all of his limbs rot off before admitting that he had to go to Medical for treatment.

"If you're fine, then there's nothing to worry about. Just do it for my peace of mind."

"So you essentially want me to rearrange my entire schedule today to humour you," Q said.

"Exactly," Bond replied, and Q felt his shoulders slump in defeat. He just did not have the energy to be as miffed as he should.

"You're an arse, you know that, don't you?" Q asked, rubbing at his temples. "You are so very lucky I find you useful or else I would have rid myself of you long ago."

"Why, Q, I believe that that is the most romantic thing I've ever heard you say."

"I will change the locks and then program the trigger on my alarm system to be set to the shoot first and ask questions later mode"

"I do enjoy a relationship that keeps me on my toes."

"You're infuriating," Q said, realising too late that he was smiling and that Bond could probably tell.

"You couldn't have it any other way," Bond replied smugly. Q could practically hear his ego swelling.

"I'm still not pleased," Q said, "but now isn't the time for that. What about Velasco?"

"He disappeared with his date and then came back to the hotel at around 0300," Bond said. "I saw him leave the dining room at 0900 this morning. He and his wife are at the spa for a couples' massage." A massage sounded lovely, Q thought, rolling his aching shoulders as he watched the video from that morning while simultaneously pulling up the hotel's appointment book.

"They're scheduled for another outing today at one. A tour of a nearby orange orchard," Q said.

"That might be convenient..." Bond replied. He most likely was thinking about the advantages of an assassination in an orange grove. Lots of plant cover could sometimes be beneficial (it had been for Bond in the Congo a month ago), but it could also serve as more of a burden, too (which 006 had found out the hard way in Venezuela). It was Bond's choice, either way. As long as Velasco was taken down, M did not care, and the Spanish government would not either.

"I'm sending the details to your mobile, now," Q said, sending Bond the intel via secure SMS. "You'll find all the equipment you need in the boot of the Audi."

"Already have. It was almost Christmas," Bond replied, the grin apparent in his voice.

"Almost? And here I thought it would be just your style, what with the .50 BMG being overkill and all," Q said, thinking of the huge cartridge utilized by the Accuracy International sniper rifle currently hidden in the compartment beneath the spare tyre.

"I'm still holding out for my exploding pen."

"I'll have to try harder next time."

"I must be your favourite."

"I told you, I don't play favourites, but if you manage to keep that AS50 in good condition, I may consider changing my mind."

"Hmm and what do I get if I am the favourite?"

"What's the fun in telling you?" Q asked. It was so much easier to flirt with Bond than it was to be mad at him: their relationship in a nutshell.

"That's true. You'll have to surprise me," Bond said.

"I'll make it worth your while."

"You always do."

Q did not have time to bask in the compliment or ponder its innuendo. His computer pinged with an alert. The facial recognition software had returned several hits. The one with the highest match rate matched all of Tomás Gutiérrez's identifying features. This name was different: Julien Rodriguez, of approximately the same age as Tomás Gutiérrez, but of much a much different background. He was from Navarre, in the Greater Basque Country, and one of the youngest-known members of the ETA at 19. He had disappeared about three years ago, once the ETA began drawing up ceasefire agreements with the Spanish government. Perhaps Rodriguez, like Velasco, wanted to prevent a peace settlement and continue fighting violently for independence?

"You may be interested in this," Q said, and proceeded to fill Bond in on what he had discovered about the call boy. The other line remained dutifully quiet, as if Bond were taking thorough notes.

"I suppose I won't be catching the afternoon flight after all," Bond sighed regretfully, once Q had finished.

"Your flight doesn't leave until tomorrow evening," Q said, double checking the reservations to ensure that he had not been mistaken.

"I was thinking about coming back early," Bond replied. Q bit down on a retort about how he did not need to be coddled. He kept it more professional, instead, all previous playfulness gone.

"You will not come back until your mission is completed," Q said, with clear finality, thanking gods he did not believe in that his voice did not give out. He needed to make it transparent in this instance that he would uphold the clear divide between their personal and professional lives. MI6 came first and always would. He knew that Bond knew that instinctually, but Q wanted him to also know that he had not forgotten that commitment. Work would always primary and the mission could not be compromised, no matter how (secretly) endearing Q thought Bond's plans. Q frowned at himself and shook his head as if to clear it, attributing his sentimentality on his probable fever. He should have been more concerned about his deteriorating health making him susceptible to such childish thoughts, but there were more pressing matters at hand. "Velasco is still your primary target. Terminate on sight. As for Rodriguez, adhere to all protocols for information extraction. Deadly force should be used only as a last resort. If M authorises a kill order, you will be informed."

"Understood," Bond replied.

"I will update M on the situation and be in contact," Q said, already beginning to type up a draft email to send to Mallory. "If you need assistance, you know how to reach me."

"I'm sure I can manage," Bond answered.

"Don't be cocky, 007. You might get shot at," Q said and Bond laughed. It was a rare thing to hear Bond laugh, really laugh and not pretend. Q was probably one of the few people in the world who had heard it. That brought a smile to his lips before he could stop it, his professionalism melting away.

"God, I hope so," Bond replied. "Things would be much more exciting. I can't remember the last time I was so bored doing fieldwork."

"You're very lucky I don't report your desirous self-destructive habits to Psych," Q told him.

"Pot, kettle," was Bond's smart answer.

"Unfair assessment," Q replied, finishing his email to M, which he copied to Tanner and Eve before sending it off. "I am not even half as bad as you."

"No, but you're involved with me, which makes you by default more than half as bad as me."

Q was very glad that there stood no one to bear witness to the colour that came to his face. He definitely resolved to blame all of his uncontrolled reactions on his illness.

"If you're done, some of us have work to do," Q replied, trying to ignore his hot cheeks.

"And appointments to keep," Bond said. Q could hear his grin as he taunted: "You don't want to be late for your date with Medical."

"I do hope you're looking forward to sleeping on the couch when you get back," Q replied sweetly, cutting the connection before Bond could get in another word edgewise. He had less than a half hour to get some work done, over ten minutes of which he spent on the Bluetooth with Tanner to explain the situation in Spain. He then spent another ten minutes reading through a surveillance status report on 004, who was in deep cover in Kiev. Luckily 006 was on leave and he did not have to concern himself with another hot-headed Double-Oh agent. The remaining time he wasted on the email pileup in his inbox. He was just contemplating officially petitioning for a secretary to help him with all his tedious work when his phone beeped. Q turned the headset over to speaker on the second ring.

"This is Q."

"This is Eve."

She did not sound happy. Q looked at the clock. 1107. Oh, right.

"About that appointment, Miss Moneypenny," Q began, nervously glancing at the door when he thought he heard something just outside of it. Eve would send in a fully armed extraction team just to embarrass him, so he felt his anxiety justified. "Can we reschedule it to 1400?"

"No."

"I have-"

"No."

"But-"

"Q, if you are not down in Medical in five minutes, I will take you there by force myself."

He had a feeling there would be much unpleasantness to it, characterized by an authorised use of handcuffs, and Q did not want to deal with the drama. Or the resulting gossip that would spread through MI6 like wildfire.

"I'm going," Q sighed. The words left him on a breath that left his chest too quickly, resulting in a round of coughing that left Q clutching at his desk to keep from losing consciousness. It was only after the pain and dizziness subsided that Q saw the green light on his speakerphone, indicating Moneypenny was still on the line. "Not a word from you," he told her hoarsely. "I am going."

"I'll bring you soup for lunch," was all she said before ringing off.

Q groaned and put his head into his hands for a moment, trying to centre himself before he stood up to make the embarrassing trek to the clinic. He hoped that when Eve rescheduled his team meeting that she had not been forthcoming in the details as to the reason why. But as he walked through the bullpen, he felt the stares. Pointedly, Q walked straight-backed and with a gait that said he had more important places to be, hoping that it would be enough to quash any notion or rumour that he was ill enough to go to Medical. At least no one stopped him on his way out.

When he stepped off the lift at the appropriate floor, Q was surprised to find there was actually a queue outside of the med station, made up of miserable-looking MI6 employees from almost every department. Q recognized a few from accounting and several others from R&D. The majority of them wore facial masks to prevent the spread of whatever nasty thing was going around. The corridor was filled with the cacophony of coughs and sneezes that made Q nervous. He did not like being ill, let alone being around ill people. Q thought it might be best to leave despite the threats Moneypenny had given him, thinking of at least four hiding places she might not be able to find him, but he did not make it far. A hand came down on his shoulder, preventing him from escaping back the way he had come.

"There you are, Quartermaster. I've been waiting for you."

When he turned, he came face-to-face with Sarah, the senior nurse practitioner. She had grey at the temples and lines around her eyes from too many years of late nights at the A&E, but held a presence that could cow almost any unruly patient. Even Bond begrudgingly sat still for her the few times he had been sequestered. Q wondered if Bond had specifically told Eve to request Sarah for the job as a sort of punishment for the time he had hauled the Double-Oh to Medical two months ago to have her tend to his torn and infected stitches. He knew there would be no getting out of this now that Sarah had spotted him. She already had his health folder under her clipboard.

"Hullo there," he said, for lack of anything else to say. He could not see her mouth below her facial mask, but her eyes came across stern.

"You weren't leaving, were you?" she asked, a challenge in her voice. "Especially when I had to rearrange my appointments today to fit you in?"

"No...of course not..."

Sarah did not seem convinced, but did not comment. She instead led him past the queue and into the main waiting room. There, she bypassed the rest of the line and the masked secretary as she led him through a door and into a space that smelled strongly of disinfectant. At the end of a short corridor, she had him stand on a scale.

"You've lost almost half a stone," she said, marking down the number on her forms as he stepped down. Q knew he was sick when the first thought that came to mind was how disappointed Bond would be if he knew, especially with all the effort he had been putting into making breakfast each morning he happened to be in London. Q must have forgotten to uphold this ritual when Bond was on his last mission, resulting in the unintended weight loss. When he did not say anything, Sarah shook her head. "If you keep neglecting yourself, you'll just end up in here more often."

"Are you saying you don't want me to come visit anymore?" Q asked, trying for humour. He had only been in Medical twice for himself since starting at MI6, both because of minor injuries he had acquired from R&D. That did not mean he did not know Medical well, whether it be because of staff injuries or exposures in his department or personally having to force the Double-Ohs to get checked out after they returned home. Most of the time, though, he came for Bond. It started immediately after Skyfall, when Bond had been brought in, suffering shock and hypothermia. He slept for two days, whether out of exhaustion or grief, no one quite knew. Regardless, Q had thought it only right that he stay-even if just for a few hours at a time-just like the time after and the time after that. He felt responsible, on some level, as Bond's Quartermaster, then even more so as a friend, lover, whatever he happened to be to the agent. He had a feeling he did not want to know Medical's opinion on the matter; half the staff were overt romantics. Sarah was not one of them. He gave her a wounded look. "I thought we were friends?"

"Don't be cheeky," she said, leading him into another room. There were several examination tables that took up the space, each one curtained off for privacy. All but two were in use, and Sarah led Q to the one furthest from the door. She pulled the curtain closed with a flick of her wrist and had him sit on the table. He could hear other people murmuring and coughing behind the other screens. "So what brings you in today?"

"Miss Moneypenny threatened me with sequestering," Q replied.

"Hmm, yes, good girl," Sarah said fondly, flipping through his folder. "I suppose I should rephrase that question. How are you feeling today?"

"I've been better," Q replied, and she gave him such a look that he elaborated: "Just feeling a bit run-down."

"Your colour is poor," Sarah said, as if agreeing with him.

"I don't get out much," Q supplied, as she pulled a thermometer off the wall and placed a disposable cone at the tip.

"None of us do," was her response. She went for his right ear, but upon seeing the Bluetooth, she switched to the other and pressed the device gently into his left. It clicked after a moment, and she looked at the screen as she dropped the plastic cover into the nearest bin. "You do have a mild fever," she said, jotting down the numbers onto his chart. "37.5." Then she recorded his pulse and had him remove his cardigan so she could put a blood pressure cuff around his right arm. After it decompressed, she studied the dial and frowned as she said: "Your blood pressure's on the low side."

"I take it that's not a good thing," Q said, not asked.

"Not usually," Sarah replied, before she proceeded to check his ears, eyes, and mouth with her penlight. "Are you experiencing anything else besides malaise? Headache? Sore throat?" Sarah prompted, as she began her examination of his lymph nodes. Her fingers felt cold against his skin.

"Headaches," Q replied, "but that's not uncommon for me."

"I'll bet you have a lot of those, dealing with the Double-Ohs," Sarah said, drawing away from him to return to the form on her clipboard.

"You have no idea."

"Oh, I think I do."

They shared a smile.

"So, headaches," Sarah said, bringing the conversation back round to its original purpose. "Anything else? And don't bother lying to me. I did go to medical school." Q sighed, wincing when it hurt. He knew it did not go unnoticed.

"I've had a dry cough," Q supplied.

"How long?"

"It started yesterday."

"Well, let's have a listen, then."

She listened to him breathe through her stethoscope for what seemed to be a long time. Q was not so unobservant that he did not notice that she kept coming coming back to his right lung. The right did not hurt any more than the left, but Q did not have the training to make any sort of judgement. Then, Sarah asked him to cough so she could hear it. Q obliged, not expecting to end up in a horrible fit that left him doubled over and gasping at the end. When the pain eventually subsided, Q realised that Sarah was no longer listening to him through the stethoscope. It was back around her neck. In her hand, she held out a cup of water, which Q gratefully took and sipped. His stomach riled against it, but he held it down somehow.

"If that is your definition of a dry cough, I think we need to have a discussion," she said.

"It's gotten worse this morning," Q replied defensively, voice strained.

"It's been on its way to getting worse for a while. This doesn't happen overnight," Sarah informed him. It sounded as if she were trying to bite back on another lecture about self-neglect and the importance of taking care of himself.

"Well go ahead and give me the bad news. Am I dying?" Q asked, but Sarah did not smile.

"You and everyone else," she said. "You have bronchitis."

"Is that what's going around?" Q asked, pulling his cardigan back over his shoulders.

"Mostly it's the common cold, but it can escalate to bronchitis," Sarah explained.

"But I haven't had a cold at all," Q said honestly. Even though he had been busy, he would have noticed that.

"Sometimes you don't have to. Some people can just develop bronchitis without having a cold first, especially if their lungs are susceptible," she replied. Q nodded in understanding; he always had been weak against chest colds.

"So it's highly contagious, then," Q murmured, thinking of Bond with some guilt. The last thing the agent needed was to come down with this, which he most likely would. Not only had they shared a bed, but kissed, shagged, hell, they even drank off of each other. If Bond caught it, he would be out of commission, and it would be Q's fault.

"Yes," Sarah said, "but not everyone will catch it. People with strong immune systems may be able to fight it off." She meant it as a hint (or jab) about Q's poor health. But he was less concerned about himself and more relieved for Bond, who happened to be in excellent physical shape. At least one of them could do their job.

"But for the rest of us, what? Antibiotics?" Q asked, hoping that it was the case. If he could pop a pill and take some Panadol, he might be able to finish out the day.

"Antibiotics don't work in this case, I'm afraid. You need some good old-fashioned rest," Sarah replied, and Q felt his shoulders slump.

"As lovely as that sounds, I don't really have the time," Q said. The words had no sooner left his lips when Q began to lean backwards, away from Sarah's blazing stare.

"I will happily write up a letter to send to M, which will explain how you are going against medical advice and that your illness constitutes you as liability to yourself and those under your authority," Sarah replied. Q did not have to see himself to know that whatever colour left in his face had successfully drained away. "But you do have a choice to avoid all of that by voluntarily going home."

"Can we come to a compromise?" Q asked, and before Sarah could reply in the negative, he pushed forward. "I have 007 out in the field now. His mission will be wrapped up by the early evening. At least let me stay on until then to see that everything goes smoothly."

"You have a second-in-command for a reason," Sarah replied.

"With whom 007 refuses to work," Q countered. "Just let me finish with him, make sure he doesn't burn down the country, then I'll go home. I promise."

"I will accept that under certain conditions," she said, and Q frowned at her. "The first is that you will go home at 1700 today, not any later, even if the mission objective is not obtained by that time. The second is that between now and the point in time you work with 007, you will rest. No meetings, no lab work, and certainly nothing involving R&D. The most I want you to do is sit at your computer and play Solitaire." Q was going to protest, but her glare silenced him. "And thirdly, that you will not be on premises tomorrow. Instead, you will be in bed, where you belong."

Q's frown deepened. He had too much work to do to take the day off.

"Accept these terms or I send you home now, by force," she said, as if reading his mind. He weighed his options, choosing to do as she asked so that he could be there for support if Bond needed him. It was not as if he could not do some of his work from home tomorrow.

"Fine," he conceded.

"Oh, and one more thing," she said, pulling a box from the cabinet beside her, which she then handed to Q. It was a small sample box of five facial masks. "You'll have to wear one of these."

"What," was all Q could think to say. Wearing a mask outside of medical would be like painting a target on his back. People would be constantly patronising him throughout the day to ask if he was feeling well. Or looking at him suspiciously while wondering what sort of contagion he picked up back in the hot rooms.

"Wear it or go home," she said. "You're contagious, remember?" He grudgingly opened the box and fished one of the masks out. To make it sit on his face properly, he had to take off his glasses and remove the headset to fit the loops around his ears. Once he got everything back on, Q found himself scowling as the lenses immediately fogged up when he breathed. Q had a feeling it would get very annoying very quickly and resolved to remove the mask the moment he was back in his office. Sarah must have seen this train of thought because she added: "And don't even think about taking it off. Miss Moneypenny will be informed of our agreement to ensure that you adhere."

"I do not need a babysitter," Q replied, a bit angrily. His lenses fogged up again when he coughed again. "I don't," he repeated, after his hacking had subsided. He had been nothing but cooperative so far, but having Eve neglect her work to watch him bordered on stupidity. But Sarah apparently did not see it that way. She picked up her clipboard and began writing aggressively.

"I'm also going to prescribe you some cough medicine, which I want you to actually take every six hours," Sarah continued, as if he had not spoken. "You'll want to have something to eat beforehand. Once you take it, go to bed. If it's doing its job, you won't want to do anything but that." She ripped off a page from her prescription pad and made to hand it to Q, but stopped halfway and took it back, as if thinking (rightfully so) that Q would destroy it and/or never come to pick up the prescription. "I'll have someone bring it round once the chemist has it filled."

"Don't you trust me?" Q asked.

"About as far as I can throw you," Sarah replied.

"Well, you did say I lost almost half a stone," Q said. "Can't be that hard."

"You're almost as bad as 007, did you know that?" she asked, shaking her head at him. Q grimaced, knowing that Bond had been rubbing off on him, but how much, he had not been sure until now. Sarah laughed at whatever his expression looked like with only his eyes visible and went back to her paperwork. "I'll want you to come back in a week so I can check on you, understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Q said.

She swatted at him with the clipboard and shooed him out. Q was more than happy to escape, keeping his head down as he left Medical, past the miserable-looking queue, and the back way to his office that bypassed the bullpen. His relief was short-lived when he saw Moneypenny sitting in his chair, tapping away at her mobile. She had gone through great lengths to clear off the clutter on his desk and arrange everything into neat, tidy rows and stacks for him. A bag of takeaway perched on the corner. It was from the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away and one of Q's very few guilty dining pleasures that not many people knew about. Q knew now why M would not let anyone else have Moneypenny, for any price. She was just too damn good at what she did. Eve knew it, too, because she did not have to say a word or even look up. She merely pointed at the couch and Q obediently went to sit on it.

"So in the five minutes you've left Medical, there's already a rumour mill started that you have the new strain of bird flu," Eve said cheerfully, as she put down her phone.

"Good. Maybe everyone will leave me alone," Q replied, pulling off the mask.

"Not likely. You know some people here would be dying to get their hands on a blood sample. It's a good thing you have locks on your door," she said, glaring at the mask in his hand.

"What? You've already been exposed," Q said to her look. "That's what you get for meddling." He glanced at her up and down. "And for sitting at my desk. It's contaminated, you know."

"I disinfected," Moneypenny replied with a smile as she got up and began pulling things out of the takeaway bag. "I got you egg drop soup and some plain rice for lunch."

"That sounds terribly exciting," Q said, disappointed that there was no General Tso's or at least lemon pepper chicken on the menu. He retracted that disappointment when his stomach turned at the thought.

"Bland foods are best when you're sick," Eve said, sending a glare his way when Q began to get up off the couch. He moodily sat back down and allowed Eve to bring over his small lunch portion. Q balanced the box of rice on the arm of the couch with intention to bring it home with him, as he doubted he could eat it in his current state. But he had to eat something or else Eve would not leave him alone, so he worked at the plastic lid on his hot cup of soup.

"I'm not going to die," Q replied, placing the lid next to the rice.

"Bond would go on a murder spree if you did," Eve said, opening her own box of what smelled like Egg Foo Young.

"At least I'll be avenged," Q mused, not letting his secret pleasure at that statement show. Instead, he focused on his meal. He did not bother with a spoon, bringing the bowl to his lips to drink directly from it. Despite it not being Q's favourite chicken dish, he conceded that the soup was rather good. And it did not make his nausea worse, which was a good thing, but that did not mean he wanted to risk the rice. Eve seemed placated enough with the fact that he took the soup and did not force him to eat more.

Over the course of their meal, they chatted for some time, though Q made sure to keep the topic specifically about work because he knew that she wanted to talk about all the things he did not, like Bond and their relationship and the illness Q felt draining his last stores of energy. During this time, Q's office phone rang three times, but since Moneypenny had apparently disconnected his Bluetooth (how Q had no idea), he was unable to answer. Instead, she took messages for him and told people off in a very firm voice when they undoubtedly tried to get around her. Q felt torn between grateful and annoyed at her efficiency. It leaned more towards annoyed when she would not let him get off the couch to check his computer for updates on the situation in Spain.

"Eve, I'm working," Q said.

"No, you're resting. Doctor's orders," Eve insisted, and put a forceful hand on his shoulder to keep him from rising.

"Look, I'm sitting down here," Q said, definitely annoyed now, "and I will be sitting down at my desk as well. What's the difference?"

"The difference is that you're going to put your feet up and lie down for a while," Eve replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You'll have plenty of time to get intel updates before you speak with Bond later this afternoon." She had the blanket he kept draped over the back of the sofa in her arms. It was the one Q usually kipped under when he worked long stretches at MI6 and needed a quick power nap in between projects and keeping the Double-Ohs alive. In his current state-slightly feverish and now well-fed-Q conceded that a quick nap would do him more good than harm, even with all the prep he needed to help Bond and the impending deadline for all the paperwork on his desk.

"Fine, but only for a little while," Q gave in, too tired to argue, but not too tired to have missed the glitter of triumph in Eve's eyes. "But you are not tucking me in." She laughed and dropped the blanket over his head, which he pulled down over himself to rest the material over his knees, messing up his already wild hair.

"Get some sleep," she said, swiping his headset so quickly that Q could not even react. Damn spies. "And don't get up from that couch. I'll know if you have."

Q made a mental note to sweep for any bugs she might have planted.

"At least bring me my tablet," Q said.

She looked suspicious. He smoothed his expression into something innocent.

"I want to play Angry Birds."

Eve fished the tablet out of his bag when he directed her to it, but held it just out of his reach.

"No work, just games, promise?"

"Yes."

"No, you have to say: 'Eve, I promise'."

"Are we in primary school?"

She dropped the tablet onto his lap with only a few more threats and a promise to return in two hours. It was only after she had closed the door behind her and the sound of her heels dropped away that Q picked up the tablet and hacked into his MI6 email. The sight of an additional one hundred and three emails had him coughing in a rage.

"Fuck..." he wheezed, after it was all over. The room gave an uncomfortable lurch when he lifted his head, causing Q to lean back against the arm of the sofa and close his eyes. Not only his head and chest, but now his stomach hurt from coughing. His skin felt tight and hot, borderline suffocating with discomfort. With no dexterity, Q loosened his tie and undid the top few buttons of his shirt. Then he lay there awkwardly for some time, steadying his breaths and trying to build up his strength to move again. When he managed, Q used that bit of energy to slide down to more of a horizontal position onto the cushions and drop his tablet onto the back of the sofa. Work be damned, he would do it later. Q flipped his glasses up to rest on the top of his head, not wanting them on the ground where he might break them accidentally, and, overheated, kicked off the blanket Eve had thrown on top of him.

Lying down felt wondrous. His body practically sang in relief as it sank deep into the well-worn sofa cushions. His eyes closed almost immediately despite his best effort to keep them open. Just a half hour he told himself, because truly, he had so many things to do and not enough hours in the day...But even the thought of the emails and paperwork and his agents in the field could not keep Q from slipping into a much-needed sleep. Just as unconsciousness began to overtake him, Q remembered that he had forgotten to set an alarm.

Bugger all was Q's last coherent thought.

00Q00Q00Q

The streets were unbelievably crowded at midday during the workweek. It rivaled London's morning and evening commutes considerably. Bond tapped a finger on the steering wheel, staring ahead at the unending line of traffic before him; it extended on forever in the rear view mirror. Q could have probably changed all the lights in his favour, but it would have done nothing due to the number of vehicles lined up in all directions. Bond felt himself frown at the thought of Q, who was by no means taking it easy or taking care of himself. Without someone there to tell him to sleep and eat, Q would not, even when he desperately needed it. It was the curse of his work ethic. Bond glanced at the clock, annoyed, and not just at the fact that he could not make it close to the motorway, but because Moneypenny still had not called him. When they spoke that morning, she said that she would after Q's appointment with Medical. It was over an hour later and still, nothing. His annoyance gave way to some anxiety, which Bond found distastefully uncharacteristic. He was even more worried than before, and the lack of anything to focus on while stuck in the monotonous crawl of traffic just made it worse.

When his mobile finally rang, Bond nearly crushed it in his haste to answer.

"Bond," he said, with more calm than he felt.

"It's Eve."

"Well?"

"You're perfect for one another, did you know that? I have never met two more stubborn people in my life."

"Flattered," Bond said, gripping at the phone hard when she did not immediately reply. He knew she was waiting for him to ask, and Bond threw his pride away to do so, not even sparing a moment to give it a second thought. At this point, he did not care about what people might think of him. "Is Q alright?"

"It's bronchitis. He'll be alright if he takes it easy for a few days," Eve replied, sounding unconcerned at the news. Bond, on the other hand, gripped the steering wheel tightly with his free hand. The memory of a long-ago conversation came to mind, when Bond had survived a close shave on a mission because he could hold his breath for an unusually long period of time. After returning from the field, over drinks, he told Q he had the Royal Navy to thank for that. In response, Q had self-deprecatingly admitted that he never learned how to swim because of his inability to hold his breath, which he blamed on his repeated chest colds he had suffered as a child. I still have terribly weak lungs he had said, by way of explanation, and Bond had teased him for it in good humour. Now, there was nothing funny about it. Bond knew the dangers of chest colds; he had seen many people succumb to them, often during the harsh, prolonged winters in northern Scotland. They crept up slowly, but got worse quickly. Bond thought of the way Q had started coughing in less than a few hours and how deep it already sounded. It took everything he had to not illegally drive up over the kerb and make his way to the nearest airport. Bond gripped the wheel so hard that he felt the skin over his knuckles strain under the tension. He had to calm down. This was a mission. He could not just walk away because he felt like it, no matter how good of a reason. He had a duty to the Crown. Besides, Q would be angry, M would be furious, and who knew when they would be able to get Velasco out in the open like this again? The rationality helped centre him and though he still wanted nothing more in the world than to return to London to see Q, Bond at least knew his priorities. He would do the job: do it right and do it quickly. Then he could go home.

Home? Since when had Q's flat that he most-of-the-time stayed at become home?

"Bond?" Eve said.

"Traffic," Bond replied, as an excuse for his silence. He swallowed, trying to sort his thoughts and feelings into some semblance of order. "Did he take the day?"

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Send him home."

The command came out in such a way that Bond heard Eve hesitate.

"I tried, but he said he wanted to stay on with you," Eve said, sounding careful, as if deciding which words were the most appropriate. "Medical has given him permission to remain here until 1700."

"I don't care what permissions he has. Send. Him. Home," Bond replied.

"In exchange for staying on today, he's agreed to take off tomorrow entirely," Eve continued, as if he had not spoken.

"That's not good enough," Bond said. "He's going to run himself into the ground. He needs rest."

"Strange, I wonder where he got this bad habit."

"Eve, I'm serious."

"I am, too."

"It's different."

"How?" Eve asked.

"It's Q," Bond said. Emotion bled into his voice like ink on paper. He could not stop it despite his best intentions. Thoughts of Vesper inundated his mind all over again and something sharp twisted in his chest at the thought of her. He swore he would never repeat that: never lay himself so bare and open before someone, never trust someone's words and actions so implicitly, never love someone so selfishly, so selflessly, again. But he had done it. He had let Q get so close in such a short amount of time, until he had infiltrated every aspect of Bond's life. He should have been running in the other direction, but he felt a draw, a pull, a magnetism, and Bond knew he could not stop this, not now. He was in too deep, cared too much, and, Christ, this was not what he had been expecting months ago when he and Q had accidentally fallen into bed together after a mission gone wrong. It was supposed to be a one-time thing because they both needed to forget and Bond honestly preferred women, but that did not matter because it was not supposed to last. And then he found himself coming back to Q, two-three-five-ten times and by that point it felt too right to throw away, so Bond had not. Now over four months later, in the longest relationship Bond had ever had, he was happy. It came at a price, because happiness meant weakness: insecurity, anxiety, irrationality...all of the distractions that could get him killed. It was with terrifying clarity that Bond realised this while simultaneously affirming that Q was absolutely worth it.

"I'm not there..." Bond said, hating the way his voice quivered on the last word. Eve must have heard-it was impossible that she could have missed it-but she did not comment on the unspoken ...and he's always there for me.

"I just made him take lunch and have a lie down," she replied. "I'm going to check on him in about two hours. If he's worse, I'll take him home. In the meantime, focus on the mission."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Bond said, inching forward as traffic began to move.

"It's just a reminder," Eve replied, and he could hear her smiling. "Don't worry. I'll look after him."

"Thank you," Bond said, honestly meaning it, and rang off. He spent the rest of the ride pointedly not worrying about Q, who was thankfully in better hands than he was previously. By the time he arrived at the orchard, Bond felt more level-headed, calm enough to carry out his orders without cocking everything up. Velasco's rental car sat vacant a few metres from the Audi, parked outside the main gate of the property. As Bond approached, a man came out and told him in broken English that the tour had already left, but he could wait for the next one if he liked. In the meantime, he was allowed to walk about the main area behind the gates, where there sat a welcome house and garden for guests. Bond spent the time looking at the maps of the property, following the marked trail of the tour. He knew immediately that this would not be the best place to do much of anything: there were few stops on the trail, meaning Velasco would be a moving target, difficult to hit, and surrounded by civilians. In addition, the orchard and surrounding area were flat; Bond would not be able to get a good position from any direction. Even if he did want to risk a shot from the ground, there was no way he would be able to get the rifle in and out without being seen, suspected, or remembered.

Trashing his entire plan, Bond made an unobtrusive exit, resigning himself to sit through another forty minutes of gridlocked city traffic. He knew he could not follow Velasco any further without seeming suspicious; blond-haired, blue-eyed Englishmen were not common enough here. That meant he would have to finish the job in the hotel, which meant he would need help: video evidence erased, doors opened, and an established virtual alibi. Despite the Spanish government's cooperation, it did not mean Bond could be careless. The less evidence left behind, the easier it would be for the authorities to sweep the incident under the rug. It also might keep a certain terrorist organisation from trying to exact revenge in their customarily unpleasant manner. Contrary to popular belief, Bond could go a few weeks without having something explode.

Out of habit, Bond made to contact Q, but stopped himself just in time. Ever since Q had taken on the role as Quartermaster, Bond had come to rely on TSS more than before, finding the department actually competent and useful under Q's direction. Bond had never willingly worked with them before Q (though he did have to admit they were helpful when he had been poisoned at the Casino Royale in Montenegro), but now he could not imagine completing a mission without them. A year ago, Bond might have seen this as a form of weakness, using Q Division minions as a crutch to keep him alive when, really, that should have been solely his responsibility. The other Double-Ohs might see their services as a handicap, whereas Bond now saw them as an asset, Q most especially. The young Quartermaster took the guesswork out of things (told Bond to go right instead of left, instructed him to cut the blue wire instead of the red) made missions more convenient (there would always be a car or a train or a plane just when Bond needed one) and Bond knew Q was always, without a doubt, watching his back. Bond trusted him completely, even more so since their relationship became more intimate, which is why it felt wrong to cancel the call and put the phone down. But Q needed the rest. If Bond asked for help, he would undoubtedly stay, pushing himself past his physical limits, again, which would only make him worse.

Bond stared straight ahead as he crawled through traffic, pointedly not thinking about Q going home alone tonight: ill and with no one to take care of him. Instead, he focused on the logistics for the mission, for killing a man, perhaps two, maybe even more, all while keeping thoughts of home and his lover at the very back of his mind. The less distracted he was, the faster he could finish the job and the sooner he could return to London.

Home.

00Q00Q00Q

When Eve returned with a piping cup of Earl Grey approximately two hours later, she found Q exactly where she left him. She took that as both a good and a bad thing. Good because it meant he slept, but bad because it signified Q might be sicker than she thought. He lay in a half-foetal position on the sofa and Eve might have believed it a peaceful sleep if not for the indications otherwise: the apparent flush of fever on his cheeks, the slight dampness at his brow, and the hard way he rasped for each breath. She quietly closed the office door behind her, set the mug of tea down on his desk, and approached the couch. There, she roused him with a gentle shake to his shoulder; he felt bird-thin under her palm. He did not come to with a jolt of surprise (like he had the few times prior she had accidentally woken him from one cat nap or another) but rather slowly, as if struggling to wake.

"Wake up, lazy bones," she said fondly, sliding her hand over Q's narrow shoulder to rub at his back encouragingly. He groaned weakly and closed his eyes again, as if thoroughly disinterested in her. She smiled, albeit worriedly, able to feel the heat radiating from him, even through several layers of fabric. Like Bond, Eve had taken a liking to Q after Skyfall, but whereas Bond's interest had been more romantic, Eve's had taken a more platonic route. However, they both had one thing in common: a strange sort of protectiveness over the young Quartermaster. It had everything to do with the fact that he looked far too young for someone over the age of thirty and that he could not take care of himself if his life depended on it. Someone had to look out for him, and while Bond was gone, that duty now fell to Eve.

Q turned his head away from her, hiding his face in the flat pillow he had been using, and coughed harshly. Eve felt each one rack his small frame and winced in sympathy. Maybe Bond had been right telling her to bring Q home earlier. He could have gotten better rest at home in his own bed, at least.

"I brought you some tea," Eve said, after he calmed down. Q did not answer and lay still as he took loud, wheezing breaths for the next few minutes. She rubbed at his back again, until Q made a sound that came out like a sob, as if her touch pained him. Retracting her hand, Eve said: "It'll get cold." Then, "Do you need help getting up?" After what seemed to be a long time, she saw him nod once into the pillow. Carefully, she manoeuvred her arm beneath his and slowly pulled him up into a sitting position, stopping once or twice when she felt Q begin to tremble weakly. The moment he was upright, Q leaned over his knees and began coughing again. His glasses, which had been resting atop his head, fell forward and onto his nose with one particularly violent motion. Once the fit passed, Q rubbed at his face with the sleeves of his cardigan, then straightened with obvious effort. His cheeks had flushed dark pink with the exertion and his breaths came out uneven and wheezing. Even behind his glasses, she saw that his eyelashes were wet.

"You look a mess," Eve told him, reaching out to straighten his collar and do up his tie properly again. She did not even bother with his mussed up hair, knowing that the unruly strands were going to flip out every which way despite her best intentions. As she fixed him up, Q regarded her, glassy-eyed and half-conscious.

"Tea," he croaked, succumbing to another round of painful coughing when he tried to clear his throat. The frequency had increased and the coughs sounded worse than they had that morning, like the infection had settled further into his chest. Eve made the decision then and there that she would not let Q stay until 1700, resolving to take him home as soon as possible. Bond would go on a rampage if he came back to find Q had pushed himself hard enough to wind up in the hospital.

"Here," she said, handing the mug off to him, not letting go until she was sure Q had a secure grip on it. While he drank, Eve fired off an email to Sarah in Medical from her Blackberry, requesting the promised prescription be delivered immediately. She then sent a message to Tanner, explaining that she planned to be off property for the next hour and to take her messages. Q did not say anything about her rapid texting and Eve wondered if that was because he was preoccupied with his tea or because talking seemed painful. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

"What time is it?" he asked eventually, looking a bit more aware, but not by much.

"Time for you to go home," Eve said, pocketing her phone.

"But, Bond..." Q began, but Eve interrupted him.

"Will be fine. Come on, now. Up you get," she said, and made to take the near-empty mug from Q, but he held it back, just out of her reach. She could have easily taken it from him (his movements were lethargic and he did not have a strong grip on the cup in the first place) but she did not. "What?"

"More," he said.

"More what?"

"Tea."

"You're a charmer when you just wake up," Eve observed, smiling as she held out her hand politely for the mug.

"Please," he amended, handing it to her. His hands were shaking and he looked so tired that she took pity on him.

"Of course," she said, standing up. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

Eve made her way downstairs, avoiding the stares of the Q Division staff. They knew something was wrong; they were not idiots. Q never cancelled their team meetings (except for the one incident with the missing nuclear codes that caused quite a bit of hysteria, but thankfully not global destruction) and never secluded himself in his office for hours at a time without answering the phone or his email. It was also suspicious that Eve was back and getting Q a third cup of tea. Usually they only saw her catering to his caffeine addiction during the long evening hours when their work schedules undoubtedly overlapped. Then there was the rumours about Q going to Medical. Accounting had started a betting pool almost immediately following the conclusion of his appointment, and the odds seemed in Q's favour that he would stubbornly (but effectively) finish running Double-Oh Seven's mission before going home. Another large percentage pegged him to collapse from overwork before the day was out. The remaining numbers seemed to be clinging onto death via Bird Flu. Almost all departments were in (even Tanner might have put money down, but Eve could not be certain) which just proved that MI6 was hard up for entertainment and that they should all get out more often.

After making the tea to Q's usual specifications, Eve returned to his office, only to find the Quartermaster at his desk, typing away, as if he were not feeling like the welcome mat on Death's doorstep. He certainly looked the part.

"You had better be logging out," Eve said, as she set the tea next to him.

"Not quite finished yet," he replied distractedly. His words came out a bit gravelly, as if his throat hurt, but he looked a lot more aware than when she had left. Eve wondered if she had been played and regarded him suspiciously. No, he was obviously sick, she could tell by the way he held himself upright in a forced display of proper posture. He wanted to pass as normal, as fine, but he looked a stone's throw from a visit to the A&E.

"You're finished. You're going home," Eve answered, and began collecting up Q's things from around the office.

"Just let me check the status of this mobile..." Q said, not looking up as he reached for his tea. The fingers of his right hand continued to type out strings of numbers without stopping, but Eve noticed that it was much slower than his usual rapid-fire pace. Definitely ill, then.

"No, now," Eve said. Her determined expression faltered when there came a knock at the door, but then returned when she saw who stood behind it.

"Eve."

"Sarah."

They both smiled at each other; Eve heard Q groan behind her.

"Quartermaster," Sarah said in greeting as she came into the room, her consonants clipped tightly to show her disapproval at seeing Q at his desk. She set her medical case down on the edge of Q's workspace with enough force that he cringed away from it. "I do hope you're playing solitaire."

"Of course," Q replied, trying for an unruffled expression. But unlike the majority of people Q associated with, he did not make his living off of falsehoods, which made it blatantly apparent when he was lying. Eve had told him this once, and then begged him to never ever play cards for money.

"Because I wouldn't want you to be in violation of our agreement," Sarah continued, her tone warning. "Lest I be forced to remove you from duty."

"Yes," Q said carefully.

"You aren't wearing your mask," Sarah pointed out.

"I quarantined myself here so I didn't think it necessary," Q replied, and although his voice did not give out, Eve could hear the strain in it. And she noticed his jaw tensed at the end, as if fighting the urge to cough. Sarah must have noticed too, because the nurse looked at Eve as if to ask her permission, and Eve, at the end of her patience, gave it.

"Miss Moneypenny, would you mind stepping outside for a moment?" Sarah asked sweetly; Eve saw Q turn a colour reminiscent of sour milk at her tone.

"Of course," Eve said, and left. She stood outside the door, but could not hear anything (not that she was trying to listen, but still) because of the soundproofed walls, much like the materials that were used in the construction of M's office. To pass the time, she replied to Tanner's email inquiring why she would be out of the office, delicately explaining the situation to keep Q's reputation from any additional damage. By the time she was through with that and rearranging her afternoon schedule, Sarah emerged, her gait triumphant but the rest of her something else.

"How did it go?" Eve asked, and Sarah sighed.

"Well, it took a bit of coercion but he's agreed to go home," Sarah said.

"You're a miracle-worker," Eve replied, and meant it. She did not care if one had to resort to trickery or blackmail, as long as the job got done. One day, she and Sarah would have to sit down and discuss their tactics for dealing with bull-headed Double-Ohs and stubborn Quartermasters. Perhaps they should have traded notes long ago.

"I wouldn't go that far," Sarah said. "His blood pressure is still too low and the fever is up. It's hovering round about 38 now. I recommend some paracetamol and rest. Also," she paused and pulled out a white prescription bag from the medical case, "make sure that he takes this every six hours. It's a cough suppressant mixed with a mid-grade narcotic so that he can actually get some sleep. I'm giving it to you because I'm not certain he won't throw it away."

"Wise choice," Eve replied, taking it from her.

"Get him home and into bed. He'll be fine in a few days," Sarah said, and they bid their farewells before Eve turned to reenter the office. Q glared up at her with a stormy expression when she appeared, but then turned back to his computer without saying a word.

"Don't give me that look," Eve told him as she closed the door. "You're being stubborn and you know it."

"I'm perfectly capable of doing my job," Q said. "You're interfering."

"I'm looking out for you," Eve corrected him, dropping the prescription bag onto the desk in front of Q. He gave it only half a glance.

"I don't need looking after, Miss Moneypenny," Q replied, and the way he said it made her want to smack him. There was no one else around, excluding the need to be formal, and he was not teasing her like he sometimes did; this time he was patronising her. Q could use that tone all he liked with almost everyone else, who technically classified as his subordinates, but not with her. They held the same clearance level and pay grade and she thought they were friends, for Christ's sake. She clenched her fingers into a fist, digging her nails into her palm. She knew that she should not take it personally; Q was ill and defensive. People had been going behind his back all day, and she understood that it could be misconstrued as malicious, even if that was not the intention. But Eve was not going to back down, either. If Q wanted a drag-out fight, he would get one. Eve had a feeling she would win; she had nothing but stamina.

"You apparently do, letting yourself get like this," Eve said, coming closer to his desk.

"Yes, because who would not voluntarily take on a debilitating illness?"

"You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't. Enlighten me."

"You, not taking care of yourself."

"I don't need anyone to take care of me," Q said, and even though his voice sounded weak, it did not waver, nor did the intensity of his gaze, when it settled on her. She had only seen him react in such a way a handful of times, mostly when he was at the end of his rope with one of the Double-Oh agents (Bond) who would not listen to him. "Not you, not Bond, not anyone. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." The way he breathed out each word like it pained him said otherwise.

"Which is why you don't eat or sleep unless someone forces you to?" Eve asked, raising an eyebrow. She saw the way Q's pale fingers clenched at the edge of his desk and his jaw tightened.

"I have a demanding position," Q replied, and each syllable sounded wet. She glared at him, and he at her, until Q ducked his head and began coughing pathetically into his elbow. Eve waited until he was finished and said:

"You're killing yourself."

"An over exaggeration."

She looked at him, really looked at him, and felt something like understanding flitting at the corners of her awareness.

"What is this really about?"

Q leant back in his chair. They were almost the same age, but Q seemed so much like a child in that moment that Eve wanted to reach out and touch him, hold him, rock him to sleep like her mother had done for her. The silence stretched for a while, and then Q took a sharp breath that made him wince, but let it out without a sound.

"I have a lot to prove," he said quietly.

"To whom?" Eve challenged, but with no harshness.

"To everyone. Do you know how many people think I shouldn't have this job? Let's start with the overwhelming majority in my own department and work our way up, shall we?" he replied, and it was with some venom, but not at her. She did not take it personally. Q was like a cornered, injured animal, lashing out at anyone who came too near.

"So this really is all about your pride?" Eve asked, and wanted to laugh. Of course Q would be more concerned with his professional rather than personal pride. He cared more for what people thought of his mind than anything else. It made sense that he would not care if people thought him weak and sickly, but would very much be offended if that affected their opinion of his work.

"My work is all I have," Q replied, answering her question. Eve nodded at his admission, and then switched her tactics.

"Then think about this in terms of your work," Eve said, and she knew she had his attention when he looked at her inquisitively. "Let's say you have a brilliant machine that does brilliant work-don't ask me what exactly: something with numbers and all that stuff that we need to keep MI6 from falling down around our ears. Anyway, this machine does everything that you need it to do perfectly and you have no problems with it-"

"Sounds implausible-" Q began.

"Let me finish," Eve interrupted him, and he quieted. "So this brilliant machine does all this brilliant work and it's doing so well that you stop taking care of it. You stop giving it system updates and stop greasing the gears and tightening the other bits and bots that need taken care of. What happens to it?"

"It malfunctions," Q said, and then, upon recognizing her metaphor, gave her a bored look. "You are aware that humans are much different from machines."

"What is the human body but not a machine?" Eve asked. "You have to take care of it in order to have keep it functioning. What I'm saying is, you were so focused on doing a brilliant job that you forgot all of the other things you need to remain at top performance. This doesn't make you any less dedicated; it shows you your limits, that's all."

He looked less than impressed. Eve changed her approach again.

"Fine, let's look at a broader picture. On any given day, what's the worst that could happen if you make a mistake?" she asked, and his glare somehow seemed sharper when glassy with fever.

"People die," he said, in that precise, stoic way he used during the meetings with M, when something went wrong and civilians or agents were killed. It was the same tone he used every time forced to cite the words collateral damage aloud for the record, ringing with a hollowness that only someone burdened with responsibility and guilt could produce. He cleared his throat and looked pointedly not at her. "And not the people we would like."

"And what if your pride gets Bond killed?" she asked. It was like bringing down the hammer. Eve saw it immediately, the way her words had an effect on him. He looked at her as if he could not believe she asked such a thing-the thing that needed to be asked to get him to actually listen to reason. She should have hated herself, but she didn't, even though she had Q scared and backed up against the metaphorical wall. It was where he needed to be.

And she pushed.

"What if you're too slow? What if you just can't think fast enough and something happens? Bond is relying on you. He trusts you, and given the state of things, I would say he trusts you more than anyone else. If you're not your usual one hundred and ten percent, he could die. And all because you're too stubborn to admit you're not well. Do you want that on your conscience? Do you want everyone to see you as that person who can't admit when he needs to relinquish control?"

Q took her attacks with a grace that Eve envied. He did not flinch away from her or try to refute her words. He took it and thought on what she had said, truly thought about it, and then when he had finished, looked at her earnestly.

"Bond trusts me," Q said, swallowed, looked marginally pained at the thought. "You're right...But that means he won't... he won't take help from anyone else. I...tried when we...when we first started out, because I thought I would be emotionally compromised. But I realised that... having that...connection made us both more careful. Just a little bit. He's safer in my hands than anyone else's. He might one day even start bringing back his equipment in one piece." Q let out a laugh at the ridiculous thought, which ended in a painful sounding cough. When he stopped, he took in some wheezing, shallow breaths, and leaned back in his chair slowly. His fringe was damp with sweat. "But maybe it's me... maybe I don't trust anyone else..."

"And that's fine. You guys are disgustingly perfect for each other in that way," Eve said, and Q smiled a half-smile at her, warming the air between them. But it was not over, not yet, and Eve continued softly: "But it comes down to this: he does trust you. He trusts you with his life. And I think that also means he trusts you enough to admit when you can't do something. He won't ever begrudge you for it, you know that."

Q looked very helpless for a moment. Then he leant forward to rest his elbows on the desk, slid his fingers up under his glasses, and put his head into his hands. She could see every bone and vein beneath his near-translucent skin. It might have been a dramatic thought, but Eve could only think that he needed rest and food immediately, or else he would literally fade away.

"Do you think... Bond will work with R?" Q asked into his hands.

"I think he'll do anything to get you to go home," Eve replied honestly. Q made a sound that was not a laugh, but something close to it.

"He hates R," Q continued.

"But he'll suffer through," Eve replied.

"Maybe I should put someone else on it..." Q mused aloud, and Eve did not have to be in his head to know that he was thinking over a thousand thoughts per second at that very moment. Q was very good at over thinking things.

"R has the most training," Eve said definitively.

"And hates Bond the most out of everyone I know..." he added.

"Smart girl."

"Not helpful, Eve."

"Don't worry. We'll sort it out."

"It's my job-" he began, but Eve beat him to it.

"Yes, it is, but there is nothing wrong with asking for help," she said firmly.

Q's shoulders slumped and he let out a shallow breath that sounded more pained than all the others. When he dropped his hands and looked up at her, Eve saw just how conflicted he was about everything. She gave him her most encouraging smile, the one that Q had told her one night (over Thai takeaway and a bad film) could make men move mountains for her. He shook his head at her, as if knowing she had smiled like that at him on purpose.

"Well if that's the case, my tea is cold," he said.

"I said I would help, that doesn't mean you have free reign to be a cheeky little shit," Eve replied and smirked at the expression of surprise on Q's face at her swear. She saw him try to hold back, and he succeeded momentarily before succumbing to laugher, which turned into a bastardized hybrid of amusement and pain when he began coughing halfway through it. When it passed, Eve raised an eyebrow and gave him a look. He held up his hands.

"You win, I surrender," he said.

"Oh, say it again. I want to make it my text tone."

He gave her the finger.

"So professional," Eve teased him, as she gathered the last of his things and set them on the sofa. Q did not reply, just shook his head at her and reached for the phone, paging R to ask her to come to his office. As Eve was folding the blanket left on the couch, she found the box of facial masks and threw it at Q, who narrowly avoided being hit in the face with said item.

"No," he said, tossing it back at her.

"Remember you're contagious. Wouldn't want to get your second-in-command sick, too, would you?" She ignored his withering glare when she walked over to drop the box onto his desk. He grudgingly put the mask on, mumbling under his breath. When R knocked, Eve politely opened the door for her and then stepped out to give them privacy. In the meantime, she arranged for a car to meet them topside, as Eve was not about to forfeit her good parking space.

Not even ten minutes later, R emerged, looking even more confident than usual. Q had chosen her for the role after being named Quartermaster, not only because of her exquisitely high IQ, but also for her ability to get the work done correctly and efficiently. It did not mean that everyone liked her for it, not even Q, and especially the Double-Ohs, whom she bullied mercilessly for the smallest of infractions. But R at least respected Q's authority it seemed, and that was enough for Eve.

"Miss Moneypenny," she said with a curt nod as she passed.

"R," Eve replied, watching her go. When she returned to Q's office, she found him shrugging on his coat with a preoccupied expression. Even though he still wore the mask, Eve could tell.

"You don't think there will be a mutiny, do you?" he asked.

"You know R. She would probably kill them before they could even organise," Eve replied.

"Hm. You're right," he agreed, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"Don't worry. It will all be fine," Eve said.

"Unless the power goes to her head..."

"Q..."

"Entirely possible, actually, considering her psychology..."

"No."

"Think of all the damage she could do...maybe I should stay..."

"Absolutely not."

Eve put her hands on her hips and Q backed down.

"Fine, fine," he said, and even took up the prescription bag without Eve having to threaten him.

"I've called a car," Eve told him, passing him his umbrella as they walked out the door.

"Thank you," Q replied, turning off all the lights before closing the door and locking up for the evening. When he started in the direction of the bullpen, she followed, past the curious gazes of the Q-Division employees peeking up over the walls of their cubicles. They took a lift to the main floor and it was only when Eve continued after Q towards the front doors that he looked at her. The white mask made him seem even more washed out than before; the bruises under his eyes were deep and dark. "I'm not going to double back around."

"I know," Eve said, "because you know I would make your life unpleasant if you did."

"Yes, well, there's that," Q replied and then coughed a bit, clearing his throat. The next words came out a bit stronger. "You don't need to walk me to the car, is what I'm saying."

"Oh, I'm not just walking you to the car," Eve said. Q made an annoyed sound at her insinuation.

"I don't need a chaperone to take me home."

"Of course not."

"Eve, this is going too far."

"Doctor's orders."

"Ridiculous."

He still walked out the door when she held it open for him, and got into the waiting car at the kerb. They did not bother with the umbrella, as the rain was light and misty. She gave the address to the driver, then flipped the divider screen to give them some privacy. Q pointedly did not say anything as the car pulled out into traffic, staring hard out the window. Eve could tell he was still trying very hard to not seem affected, but his strength had all but depleted in fighting against the needs of his own body. He lasted for only a few minutes; by the time they passed Trafalgar Square, Q had slumped against the window and dozed off. Eve watched him sleep for a few moments, then picked up her Blackberry and fired off a message to Bond to keep him updated.

---

Messages +44 20 xxxx xxxx Create New

Nov 15, 2012 1545

His fever is worse.

I'm taking him home.

EM

Nov 15, 2012 1549

How much worse

Nothing to worry about.

EM

He'll be fine. I'll even tuck

him into bed for you.

EM

Tell me

Focus.

EM

I'll take care of things.

EM

Nov 15, 2012 1552

Thank you

---

When they arrived outside of Q's flat, it was still drizzling outside. Eve flipped down the privacy window and told the driver to meet her in the same place in forty-five minutes. Then she shook Q gently awake and coaxed him out of the vehicle. He was surprisingly agreeable to doing what she asked, still half-asleep, and went on autopilot for the first few steps without regarding her. It was only when he began searching through his bag for his building keys that he must have realised she followed him.

"I think I can manage from here," he rasped out.

"Yes, because you don't look like you're about to keel over or anything," Eve replied, taking over for him. She found the keys buried at the bottom of his bag, located the building key on the first try, and opened the door. The place was old, but well kept, and Eve would have considered it nice if not for the fact that the lifts were out of order and they had to take the stairs. Any other time, Eve might not have minded, as she was not adverse to exercise, but making that trek with someone suffering from a chest cold was a completely different story. At the landing of the third storey, they had to stop, because Q could barely breathe. For once, Eve did not know what to do, helpless to do anything but watch as Q wheezed desperately for air, hunched over and clutching at the railing until his knuckles turned white. The rest of the journey afterwards was just as painful to watch as they made their way slowly to the top floor. By the time they reached it, Q abandoned whatever was left of his pride and took Eve's proffered arm for the length of an obscenely long hallway. At his door, he took the keys from her, put one in and turned it, then removed it to put in another, which he turned the opposite way. Eve heard the locks click, a final one giving way only after Q let the peephole perform a retina scan. He pushed inside and immediately turned to disengage a secondary security system. Eve supposed that, as MI6's Quartermaster and the lover of a Double-Oh, it could not hurt to be overly cautious.

"Nice digs," Eve commented, closing the door as she stepped into the flat. She had never been to Q's place before, just as he had never been to hers. They always met somewhere public, now that she thought about it. Even among friends in MI6, she supposed secrecy was something that just happened naturally. The space reflected Q well. It was wide and spacious, with plenty of windows, but (her trained mind supplied) not directly facing any other buildings, making it nigh impossible for a sniper to get a good shot. Everything was streamline modern in the kitchen and the living space a balance between aesthetically pleasing and comfortable. There was very little clutter, but a great many books. Wherever there were no windows, there were bookshelves lined with volumes of all sorts of subjects, ranging from computer programming to foreign languages. Surprisingly there was very little tech; the most she saw was the flat screen television mounted on the wall above a handsome piece of furniture that housed several game systems and DVDs behind glass doors. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor.

"Thanks," Q said from behind her, not bothering to hide his exhaustion any longer. He dropped the unused umbrella in a stand behind the door as he toed his shoes off. Eve watched his slow movements as he then proceeded to take off his coat and bag to hang on the rack on the wall. The fact that he did not immediately reach for his mobile or tablet proved that Q was most certainly not well, and far past the point of trying to say otherwise.

"Okay, to bed with you," Eve said.

"Shower first," Q said weakly, and made for the bedroom. Eve followed him, poking her head into rooms along the way. She found a worklab (complete with all the tech she had been looking for, like the server towers, computers, and toolkits) and a handsome-sized bathroom. At the end of the hallway sat the master bedroom. Q's reaction to her sudden presence was slow, but when he saw her there, it was as if he did not know exactly what to say. And Eve could see why. The bedroom was a private place, not only for him, but for who Q was when he was with Bond. She could see the traces of him in the room, but did not let her eyes linger for too long in any one place.

"You know," he said, looking at her pointedly, "I can manage this on my own."

"You sure?" Eve asked, leaning against the doorframe with a little smirk. "Imagine how jealous Bond would be if I told him I washed your back for you."

Q just shook his head, amused at the insinuation.

"I mean... you don't have to stay. I'll be fine," Q clarified.

"So I get you all the way home and leave, only to have you fall in the shower and drown? Not likely," Eve said, then pointed in the direction of the bathroom before he could protest. "Go on."

Surprisingly, he obeyed, gathering some clothes. Eve was not so blind to not notice that he took up one of Bond's button ups, which had been lying carelessly over the footboard, with him as he disappeared into the bathroom. It was only when she heard the shower turn on that Eve stepped into the bedroom. Although it was infringing on their privacy, Eve felt curious. She had not said anything to Q, but Bond had been different the past few months. Not quite tame, but not as reckless either. He seemed more collected, calmer, and there were less incidents where he came to MI6 looking like hell, hung-over, and smelling as if he had slept on a bar floor all night. Eve had half a mind to say Bond was happy. There were traces of that happiness everywhere she looked, and it made her smile. The first place that drew her attention was on the wall, where the wardrobe doors stood open. Eve could clearly see all of Q's Oxfords and cardigans next to Bond's suit jackets and trousers. At the bottom, his old Converse and other nondescript footwear settled unobtrusively next to Bond's dress shoes and workout trainers. She noted that there were several too many pillows on the unmade bed for one person, and that on one side of the bed the pillows were laid out vertically while on the other, more horizontally. Just as with their preference for which side of the bed they slept on, both bedside tables had characteristics of their owners' personality. The side with the horizontal pillows had to be Q's, because there was a lamp, an alarm clock, and two chargers: one for a mobile phone and the other for a tablet. The other side-Bond's side-also had a lamp, as well as a pair of familiar silver cufflinks, a half-glass of water, and also a small stack of military fiction novels. Eve had a sudden mental picture of the two of them, sometime early in the morning, in which Bond sat reading his novels quietly while waiting for Q to wake. Or maybe it was the other way around, with Q working on some project on his tablet while Bond lay on his side, curled up against him with an arm round his waist.

Even with the images in her mind's eye only, Eve thought them too private for her analysis, and quickly left the bedroom. She kept her footsteps quiet as she crept by the bathroom door and back into the living room. Once there, she went near the door and pulled out the cough medicine from Q's bag. She read the instructions, then went into the kitchen to tear off the plastic wrapper around the lid, which doubled as a tiny measuring cup. The instructions said to take with food, but it would be hard enough to get Q to take the medicine, let alone eat something, so if she could at least get him to do one, she would call it a win. Unfortunately, the cough suppressant would do nothing for his fever. Eve resolved to search Q's medicine cabinet for some Panadol when he was through in the bathroom. In the meantime, she looked for a drinking glass.

To do this, Eve opened and closed cabinets, once again easily identifying traces of both Bond and Q in what she found. She knew Q did not drink coffee, and yet he had a percolator and coffee grounds in the house. She knew Bond did not drink tea, and yet there sat a variety on the shelves, all from the foreign locations Bond had recently visited. She also knew that Q did not cook (he had mentioned it several times during their lunchtime escapes from MI6), so the overabundance of foodstuffs and spices had to be Bond's doing. The domesticity of it made it seem as if they had been living together for years instead of only such a brief while. If anyone saw the state of their bedroom, they might think them married. The only people who were blind to the whole thing were Bond and Q, both stubbornly fighting the fact that their arrangement meant something more. Perhaps Bond might be closer to realising it than Q, but Eve could not be certain. Either way, the both of them were running as far away from commitment as they could, it seemed, even when commitment appeared to be doing them both a world of good.

Eve found a glass just as she heard the tap switch off in the bathroom. The door opened shortly afterward, and when Eve peeked around the corner to glance down the hallway, she saw Q towel drying his hair as he shuffled into the bedroom. She filled the glass with water, picked up the cough medicine, and then followed behind him. The bathroom was heavy with moisture when she entered; the mirrors had fogged up entirely. As she went searching for medicine, Eve came across the two toothbrushes on the sink and a shared tube of toothpaste in the cabinet. It sat beside Bond's familiar brand of aftershave. Upon further investigation, she found an electric razor in the right hand drawer, which lay next to a handsome case that-upon snooping further-Eve found to be Bond's cherished straight edge blade. The more she looked, the more she found, solidifying the fact that they were, in fact, a couple, and a rather committed one at that, if the state of their toiletries and closet were anything to go by.

It did not take long to find some paracetamol, as Q seemed to keep it in excess (most likely to deal with the tension headaches MI6 undoubtedly heaped on him) and she managed to balance all the medication with the glass of water with dexterity as she left. She found Q sitting on the edge of the bed with his hair standing up in all directions. He was dressed in flannel pyjama pants that did not even try to match his shirt. The towel lay neglected on the footboard. He coughed weakly as he pulled on a pair of socks, sounding breathless when he finished. After, he straightened up, Q began clumsily working at the buttons of his shirt until Eve swatted his hands away to help him. Beneath the undone collar, Eve spotted an impressive love bite on Q's right clavicle and she could not help but smirk. Bond did seem the possessive type.

Once she had finished with the buttons, Eve realised that the shirt was actually quite oversized. She recognized it then as the shirt that had been lying over the footboard, which, if she recalled, had been the same shirt Bond had worn to MI6 during his debriefing after the Syrian mission. It drowned Q's small frame like wearing a blanket, but Eve had a feeling that was the point. She wondered if Q always wore Bond's clothes when he was gone. Maybe it was comforting to have him close when he was so far away. It was testament to how much Q missed him, but without any verbal admission of that fact; Eve had a feeling that had he not been ill, she would never have seen this quiet display of affection.

She cleared her throat to get his attention-he had started to doze off again while sitting up-and held out the Panadol and water.

"Take this. It'll help your fever."

He did. She then poured out the appropriate measure of medicine into the plastic cup and handed it to him. Q looked at the pink-orange mixture suspiciously.

"Drink it," she instructed.

He did and then made a face, draining the rest of the glass of water to chase the taste away.

"That was vile," he complained as he set the empty cup onto the bedside cabinet; she ignored him.

"Into bed," Eve said, pulling back the blankets.

"Please spare me some dignity and do not tuck me in."

She did anyway, despite his grumbling. Between the illness and now the medication, he was in no state to fight her off. Once he was settled, she took up the glass and filled it from the tap in the bathroom. When she returned, she set it on the nightstand. Then Eve set out closing the blinds and drawing the curtains over the windows to ensure Q actually managed a good rest. As she did this, Q turned over on his side, back to Bond's half of the bed, and coughed feebly into the pillow.

"Where's my mobile?" Q asked hoarsely, when he was through.

"Don't worry about it," Eve replied as she pulled the duvet up over his shoulder.

"Mutiny..." he mumbled, eyes already closed.

"It will be fine," she assured him, and removed his glasses. She set them next to the bottle of cough suppressant, between the alarm clock and the glass of water, so everything would be within easy reach if he needed them.

"Hmm..." he sounded doubtful. She petted through his damp hair. Her car would be there soon, but she felt guilty leaving him. It must have been how Bond felt; maybe that was what she heard in his voice ever since he left. He felt responsible for Q, that was for certain, but even more so, he wanted to feel responsible for Q. Eve had a feeling Bond would unflinchingly burn the entire city down if it meant he could come home tonight. If that did not scream love, Eve did not know what did.

"If Bond's not back in the morning, I'll come check on you," Eve told him.

"I'll be fine on my own...juss need to sleep..." he replied, and she couldn't help but smile at his slur. The medicine already started taking effect, but Q fought it enough to add: "And...tell Bond... tell him to stay away for a few days... "

"You think he'll listen? It's Bond we're talking about," Eve said. "And he's been so worried about you, you know."

"And he shouldn't... it's not...we're not... " Q stopped and sighed before starting again. "Juss... tell him to bugger off, would you?"

"I make no promises," Eve replied, ruffling his hair. He grumbled something unintelligible at the gesture. "Go to sleep." Unsurprisingly, he offered no resistance, and within the span of only a few moments, he was unconscious. She listened to his even breaths for a few minutes before making her escape, pulling the door halfway closed behind her. She went for her mobile as she neared the front door.

---

Messages+44 20 xxxx xxxx Create New

Nov 15, 2012 1637

Alarm code?

EM

Nov 15, 2012 1640

16180339887

---

Eve plugged the numbers into the alarm system and then exited the flat. Behind her, the door automatically locked. As she made for the stairwell, Eve deleted the message from her history for security purposes. A new message appeared almost immediately; she knew Bond would not be able to resist.

---

Messages +44 20 xxxx xxxx Create New

Nov 15, 2012 1641

How is he

In bed where he belongs

EM

Good

---

Eve debated if she wanted to continue the conversation as she walked down the stairs. It might be meddling if she did, but who knew if those idiots would ever come to terms with things if someone did not intervene. A little push never hurt anyone; Q had proved that today. Sometimes there were things people just needed to hear.

---

Messages +44 20 xxxx xxxx Create New

Nov 15, 2012 1644

He says to not come

by for a few days

EM

Nov 15, 2012, 1645

I think he doesn't want you

to get sick

EM

It's kind of cute

EM

Nov 15, 2012 1646

And it's not going to happen

I know

I told him so

EM

Also, did you know

he wears your clothes

when you're away?

EM

Nov 15, 2012 1649

I think he misses you

EM

---

Bond's end remained silent for a long while, even after Eve had gotten into the MI6 car and was on her way back to work. She thought about Q and Bond, so unlikely a pair, and yet surprisingly compatible. They were both hardworking, dedicated to MI6, and (most of the time) liked to see things explode. Where they were different, they respected and complemented one another: technology working in tandem with tradition. It was, as Bond had said, a brave new world. Maybe because of this, they had to try it once, just to get it out of their systems, but then it was too good to let go of so easily. Both of them would be too full of pride to admit it, so they did not. Instead they made up this little agreement of theirs that Eve did not have to know all the particulars of to understand: it was not a real relationship, not really, because in their eyes, it could not be. Bond saw himself once bitten, twice shy, and older, damaged, unable or unwilling to give up the last bit of himself to someone else in fear of being abandoned again. Q was young, but not naive. Maybe he had been hurt before, maybe not, but he could calculate probability and percentiles in his head faster than anyone she knew, and Eve knew he would be thinking about the endgame in all of this. It was a rare thing that a Double-Oh made it long enough at MI6 to voluntarily retire. And even if Bond did reach that age, it would be a cold day in Hell that he resigned for that reason. The chances of him dying out in the field went up each time Q sent him on another mission, and Q knew it, and maybe that was why he was holding back, digging his heels into the ground so hard against this thing that kept drawing them together. He was trying to save himself heartache, but it would come to him regardless.

---

Messages +44 20 xxxx xxxx Create New

Nov 15, 2012 1701

You should tell him

EM

You need to tell him

EM

Nov 15, 2012 1702

Don't cock it up

EM

---

Despite the radio silence, Eve knew he got every message. It was now waiting to see if he would act on them.

00Q00Q00Q

Measurements for the Americans
37.5 degrees C = 99.6 degrees F
38 degrees C = 100.4 degrees F
stone = 14 lbs so a half stone = 7lbs; Q lost almost half a stone, which I put at about 5lbs

Trivial Note:
Q's alarm code is the bastardized version of the Golden Ratio (which when phi represents the golden ratio, its abbreviated value is 1.6180339887...)