Three days pass and Bond goes back to ignoring his paperwork and lurking around Q-Branch, feline-like, his presence at times invisible and at other times suffocating. However, it becomes apparent that Q chose well when he made Julian his second, because the man has become nearly unflappable. Ten months as acting head of Q-Branch has made it almost possible for him to ignore Bond's icy aura, and Bond can't help but be slightly impressed by that.
But on the fourth day, Bond arrives in Q-Branch to find Julian returned to his desk, no longer the nexus point of a worldwide organization. Bond does a quick scan of the room, deduces that Q must be in seclusion and crosses the floor in several long strides.
He finds Q sprawled on the floor of the newly renovated office.
Instinct, and unexpected kind of irrational panic, has him kneeling by Q's side in a second and reaching for a pulse before he notices the details. The cup of tea balanced on Q's chest, the bluetooth headset in his ear, the laptop half an arm's length away. Q gives him an easily judgmental look and starts to speak logistics with whoever's in the field—009 in Astana, from the sound of it. In one smooth movement he replaces the cup of tea resting on his solar plexus for the laptop and begins to type and talk with a cadence close to rhythmic. It's only when Q folds his right leg up to his chest through clenched teeth that Bond makes the connection as to why the younger man has opted for the floor: physical therapy.
Bond lets out a swear and settles back on his haunches. Both being with Q and being away from him, these days, leaves him exhausted. He thinks back to when he first began to take an interest in Q, when all they had was banter between missions, and how eventually Bond got tired of waiting as he watched himself age. In the months after Skyfall, he had found himself taking surprising solace in his trips to Q-Branch, in Q's wit and stoicism and obvious complexity. And Bond has never been able to avoid a risk when the pay off seems to promise even the slightest semblance of contentment, even if he knows tragedy follows him like a second shadow. Even when he's been burned so many times in the past.
Maybe it was inevitable, he thinks, that they should end up here. Usually this is the point at which Bond is alone in every aspect of the word, but against all odds Q has survived the danger that being close to Bond invariably inflicts. And it's so unexpected they're both left reeling.
Beside him, Q's voice has gotten slightly more urgent. "Take a left...no, sorry, right."
Even feet away, Bond can hear 009 screech "Which one is it, Q?!"
A few more uneven directions, and 009 makes it to the extraction point with only a few close calls to show for it. The Quartermaster, though, looks noticeably ruffled, and it's an expression so uncommon on the job that Bond fixes him with his most penetrating gaze.
"Morning, 007," Q murmurs wearily, slinking with a wince to his feet as his back protests characteristically. He tosses his earwig onto his desk with an unusual discontent.
"You never call me James," Bond muses, still observing the younger man with unrestrained intensity.
"You refer to me as 'Q'," he retorts with his back to Bond.
"Only because I have yet to find evidence of your real name."
"I suppose we're at an impasse, then." He turns to face Bond, leaning against his massive, junkyard of a desk. There's definitely something off about him, that much is clear, and it's got nothing to do with the fact he's spent the last three days at home, trying to rid himself of psychosis. Because that's Q's usual routine, and despite these unfortunate episodes he is still the most efficient Quartermaster MI6 has ever seen. No, Bond suspects this is definitely to do with the last ten months, along with the deceased sister whose existence Bond is only now aware of. It is Q's first day fully back on the job, and he knows it's horribly callous of all of them to expect him to be 100%, or even anywhere near it. The problem, though, is that someone in Q's position doesn't have the luxury of having an off day.
"Much work to do?" Bond asks mundanely, shoving his real thoughts further down his throat.
"Yes," Q mutters. "With Christmas approaching I generally like to give the minions some breathing room."
"Do you have plans for the holiday?" asks Bond, thinking back to that first Christmas, and Q's jarring question: Why do you always assume I'm alone in this world?
"Chinese food, mostly."
"Right," Bond nods, remembering. "With family?"
For the first time, Q meets his eyes, studying him for a good seven seconds. He doesn't come to any noticeable conclusion and replies simply, "That's the plan."
"Plans don't always seem to work for us," Bond attempts to smile but doesn't quite make it.
Q, however, lets the corner of his lip turn up, and for a moment the air is less tense than it's ever been since he returned from Iceland. "No, I suppose not."
Bond thinks himself an opportunist at heart, and so he sees the opening and takes it without regret. He steps forward smoothly, using one hand to angle Q's face upward and pulls their lips together with a softness that surprises both of them. It's all consuming, tender, and reminiscent of a simplicity they've never actually had. When they pull away, Q keeps his hand pressed against the line of Bond's spine, heat radiating out from his fingers.
Eyes still half closed, Q murmurs, "You'e no idea how long I've been waiting for that."
Bond thinks about apologizing for the delay, but, as per usual, he doesn't.
m m m
Q is keeping his hours in check, in line with his routine when coming off a bout of mania. He leaves the office by seven and Bond, having spent the day avoiding Moneypenny and her half-hearted attempts to get him to do his paperwork, does the same. The two men leave together, finally side by side, and embark into the winter night.
A winter mix has been drizzling down for the better part of the day and with the loss of the sun the wetness is already turning to ice on the sidewalk. Bond refuses to bother with the tube system and Q finds himself laughing as he lifts one hand to signal a cab. Back in Q's tiny, studio flat, they take things at a leisurely pace and remain unburdened by deep thought. Q's cabinets are remarkably devoid of any sort of real food, so they order in and lounge about as if it's some sort of ritual, as if it's always been like this. Bond isn't usually one to let himself be at all unkempt but still, here he is, tie off and shirtsleeves rolled up, with one leg folded under him as he leans into Q's decidedly subpar settee.
Q switches between standing and lying prone on the floor with a pillow as they watch crap telly and banter ridiculously. Even with it's quirky edges, the situation is undeniably domestic. Bond isn't sure if that fact should worry him, but he can't make himself fret when peace surrounds him like a fog.
Eventually, Q submits to seeing how long his spine will let him sit, leaning against Bond with pillows very carefully supporting the more tender parts of injuries both old and new. Bond winds an arm around him, tilts his chin up for another kiss and before long Q is flat on his back and all concerns about sitting are erased from both their minds.
m m m
Leisure is clearly the theme of the evening as they lay splayed across Q's bed, the flat cold but the bedding warm. Bond's eyes roam over the pale, lean form of the Quartermaster, contemplating the unassuming nature of his physique. First look always seems to do Q no justice—he projects an aura of instability that can easily be converted to the assumption that he is either fragile or vulnerable or both. But it's too facile an explanation. Though he is certainly unstable, it's a volatility that Bond has deduced comes from anger. Yes, Q is vulnerable, but there's also a sharpness to him that is hard to read in soft hair and cardigans. The acrimony in him is well hidden, but wait long enough and it will show itself in the disgusted curl of a lip and a phrasing that never conceals the truth. And the source of the anger is not hard to guess—a lifetime of battling his own body in every way possible will easily embitter a man. It's an anger that comes from fear, a fear of losing control, a fear that perhaps losing control is even inevitable. Q is easily smart enough to ask the questions about what he'll do when he can no longer exercise enough to keep his mind and back in check, when he'll no longer be able to channel his energies into MI6. In some ways, he's in the same position as Bond—a slow decay is not a bearable option. Quick death is all they can hope for.
Bond swears inwardly. He's been doing far too much thinking these days.
Q is dozing beside him and Bond reaches out one arm to pull them closer together. Q lets out something between a moan and a grunt and curls into him. Bond is repelled by the idea of disturbing the boy's calm but the question has already formed in his head. They can't go back to what they had, when Q was a mystery and Bond somehow didn't see that as a problem. He's been invaded, irretrievably, by curiosity.
"Q?"
"Mmm?" He stirs slightly, a hint of a smile raising his cheek.
"Tell me about your sister."
