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"I can't believe you have a broken collarbone and the only thing you care about is getting a shave." Q shook his head.
"Just because I'm stuck in this bloody hospital doesn't mean I have to look bad. Some of us care about our appearance," Bond quipped, tilting his head as Q wiped the shaving cream off his face.
"007, has anyone ever told you how metrosexual you are?" Q asked in amusement.
"A what?"
"Never mind. There, you're all done."
"How do I look?" Bond grinned.
Perfect. Gorgeous. Completely, utterly fuckable. "You look fine, 007." Q placed the razor on the bedside table. "When did the doctor say you will be having surgery?"
"Tomorrow, supposedly." Bond shrugged casually, like he was talking about going to tea. "For my collarbone."
"It's still amazing to me that you don't have internal injuries," Q marveled. "And no signs of brain damage, so far."
"Q, how many times do I have to tell you? I don't have brain damage. I feel fine. I'll be back at work next week."
Q began to respond and shut his mouth quickly. There was no way Bond would be back to work in a week. His collarbone needed time to heal. In a week's time, he would probably be released from the hospital, but would need someone to stay with him at his flat for a while. He wouldn't be returning to work for quite a while. He was sure M had told Bond that. Bond was just choosing to ignore it, as was his way, and Q saw no reason to rock the boat.
Bond had only been awake for three days. No signs of brain injury and he seemed to be on the mend. Q still visited twice a day, bringing news of MI6 and various things to keep Bond busy.
Bond didn't watch TV. He never even turned it on. He wasn't a reader, except for gun magazines, which Q brought for him in droves. He didn't do crosswords. He couldn't draw, since he couldn't use his right hand at the moment. Q wondered if he was going to have to hire a pole dancer to visit him in his hospital room to keep him entertained.
He liked playing cards, of course. Q would always play a game with him. He was hopelessly outmatched by Bond and Bond knew it, but didn't say anything about it. They would play a couple of games, which of course Q would lose.
Apparently he also liked flirting with the nurses. Q came in one day to find a nurse practically drooling in Bond's lap as they laughed together. And he felt his jealousy bubble up in his stomach like acid.
"Alright, you'll be back at work next week. In the meantime, why don't you rest while you're in here? You're too restless."
"It's a waste of time, me being here. They should get on with the surgery and then send me home." He looked at Q curiously. "Where do you live?"
"Why?" Q asked, befuddled.
"I just want to know."
Q weighed the question in his mind. He didn't mind telling Bond, but Jame's wasn't the type to ask a question out of thin air. "About ten minutes from here. It's a nice little flat." He hesitated. "Where do you live?"
"In a nice little flat," Bond smirked in return. "Who do you live with?"
"Live with?"
"A girlfriend?" Bond pressed.
"Uh, um, no." Q pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Do you live with a girlfriend?"
My God, are we flirting? What is going on here? What is happening?
"I don't have a girlfriend," Bond shrugged, his expression unreadable. "You know all about my girlfriends, Q. You've read my file."
"I actually don't read that part of my agents' files. Who you date is your business." Of course, he had read most of Bond's files. Beautiful woman after beautiful woman, most of them dead. He wouldn't exactly call them girlfriends...more like casual fucks. Who end up dying.
A small, sexy smile played at the corner on Bond's lips. "Well, I guess I have some secrets still."
Q wanted to melt into the floor. He tried to come up with a witty, flirtatious reply, but Bond changed the subject. "Can you bring me something when you come tomorrow?"
The spell was broken. "Like what?"
"A bottle of liquor. I don't care what kind. I need something to mix in this bloody horrible juice they keep giving me."
"007, I am not bringing you alcohol. The doctor would never allow it."
Bond's smile was pleading and charming at the same time. "He doesn't have to know. Just a small bottle, Q."
"Absolutely not." Q rolled his eyes, gathering his coat. "I'll see you tomorrow, 007."
"Please?"
"Maybe-," Q stopped, throwing up his hands. "Oh God, what am I doing? I'm enabling you. I'm an enabler." He headed out the door. "I'll see you in the morning, withOUT the alcohol."
"Right," Bond replied, not sounding the least bit convinced.
Q found himself, an hour later, picking up the finest bottle of scotch he could afford. As the cashier rang it up, he could only shake his head.
This is what happens when you fall for Bond.