"Come on, 007. Shift your lazy arse."

Q's voice was crisp as ever, but even over his own thundering heartbeat and the rattle of gunfire Bond could hear the faint tremor underneath.

"Enough with the sweet talk, Q," Bond panted. "I'm on the job."

"Then save your breath you ridiculous bastard and move."

Bond smiled fiercely. They were probably crossing the line that would pass as playful banter to the minions, but it was worth it to hear irritation blotting out the thin thread of fear in Q's voice.

Bond made it to the top of the stairwell, crashing out of the roof access door.

"Good, I've got eyes on you again," Q said, his voice sounding calmer now that he could see what was going on. "I can blow the facility as soon as you're clear. Fifteen metres to your left, only five metres to the adjoining roof. A fourth former could do it."

If Bond had the energy he would have rolled his eyes. He pelted across the asphalt rooftop, taking a running jump and sailing across the gap between the buildings. His knees crunched as he landed hard on the other side, dropping into a roll that jolted his breath from his lungs.

Chest still squeezed tight, Bond forced himself to his feet.

"That's it," Q said. "Your eleven o'clock, twelve metres, there's a fire escape to street level...bloody fuck!"

The roof access door of the building behind him clanged again. Bond wheeled around, drawing his gun just as his pursuer leveled a handheld rocket-propelled grenade launcher directly at him.

Bond was knocked off his feet as the world went up in flames and then went black.


Bond woke up slowly, conscious first of the air rasping into his lungs through a throat that felt stuffed with sawdust. Everything hurt, a dull throbbing pain that made the idea of taking the next breath almost intolerable. He did it anyway, wrestling with the pain, forcing himself closer to consciousness.

He automatically began taking stock, twitching each of his limbs in turn. He felt a sudden flood of panic as he realized he couldn't feel his right arm, the final image of the RPG and a wall of fire blooming behind his eyelids. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His eyelids scraped like sandpaper as he forced them open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent light.

He turned his head and the panic suddenly subsided. His arm was just asleep, circulation no doubt cut off by the weight of Q's head nestled into Bond's right shoulder. Q's slender form was crammed into the medical bed with him, his right arm and leg wrapped around Bond's body. Bond let out a slow, shaky breath of relief.

He dipped his head, burying his face in the utter mess of Q's hair, breathing him in. He smelled warm and soft — lemongrass and bergamot and Q's own underlying scent. He smelled like home, and a wave of tenderness made Bond blink rapidly, his throat closing up even further for a moment before he swallowed thickly.

Q stirred, murmuring something sleepily, and then suddenly jolted upright. He flailed for a moment, arm clanging against the bedrail, and Bond couldn't stifle a groan as every sore muscle in his body seemed to be jostled.

Q seemed to focus at the sound, his beautiful eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses. "Oh. Oh, bugger. Sorry."

He made as if to climb out of the bed and Bond reached out a hand prickling with pins-and-needles to grasp a fistful of his button-down.

"Stay," he rasped.

Q's smile was incandescent. He leaned down, gently kissing Bond's lips before pulling back, his smile now the more familiar sarcastic quirk.

"Morning breath times a thousand," he teased, before his eyes turned focused, assessing. "I'm going to raise the bed a little so you can drink something," he instructed. "They didn't want to give you painkillers until you've been cleared by Neuro, but that should only take a moment. Hang on."

Q leaned gingerly over Bond, pressing the call button looped to the opposite bedrail, and then snagged a cup of water from the bedside tray, slotting a straw in before holding it closer to Bond's mouth.

Bond irritably batted at the hand that was trying to feed him the straw, taking the cup out of Q's hands. God, that first sip felt incredible, the icy water soothing his torn, raw throat despite the pain that spiked as he swallowed.

"Smoke and dust inhalation," Q explained. He was resting up on one elbow now, his hair a chaotic mess around his pale face, dark stubble shadowing his jaw. He looked delicious. "Also a concussion, of course," Q went on. "Multiple contusions and surface lacerations, but no fractures this time. You'll be under observation for a few more hours, but we should be able to go home..." Q checked his watch. "Later tonight."

Home. Bond smiled at the sound of that, feeling the skin crack open over a cut on his lip.

"Don't smile," Q instructed. "Don't move, don't strain anything..." His voice broke. "Oh god, James, I'm so sorry."

"What?" Bond studied Q blearily.

Q's eyes shut briefly as he took in a deep breath, as if gathering courage, before the grey-green eyes met Bond's again, concerned but direct.

"I made the call," Q said, voice tight with nerves. "I blew the facility. I knew you weren't completely clear but I...I didn't know what else to do. That was an RPG-29 he had, loaded with a tandem-charge high explosive anti-tank warhead capable of penetrating explosive reactive armor and composite armor, if he had managed to fire..."

Bond lifted a weighty arm, lack of coordination causing him to smudge his thumb messily over Q's bottom lip to halt the frantic rush of words.

"It was the right call," he managed, before his eyes seemed to close wearily against his will, his arm dropping heavily to the bed again.

He heard Q's shaky exhale, and then the warmth as Q curled back in against Bond's side.

Bond heard a gentle knock at the door, and forced his eyes open as a woman in a white labcoat entered, looking entirely unsurprised by Q's presence in his bed. As she sanitized her hands, Q unselfconsciously dropped the bed rail and moved to the bedside chair, taking Bond's hand as if unable to be fully separated from him.

The woman introduced herself as Bond's neurologist, putting him through the familiar paces of answering questions and checking his pupil reactivity, followed by a motor and sensory exam that Bond knew by heart at this point.

"As your file indicates, 007, you seem to have a remarkably hard head," she commented with a twinkle in her sharp hazel eyes. "Your CT was clear. Typically you would be held overnight for observation, but your young man here assures me that he is capable of the task. I'll give you the first dose of painkillers now, but please get something in your stomach before the next dose, and of course come in right away if there is any increasing headache, vomiting, or the like. I'm sure you know the routine. Any questions?"

Bond shook his head and immediately regretted it, rasping a "No," instead and then gratefully swallowing the pills proffered to him in the paper cup.

"Give me another hour or two to get some more fluids in you and process your discharge, and you can be on your way," she rattled off in her no-nonsense way. Her tired face brightened a bit as she shot a final glance in Bond's direction. "You listen to your young man here. He has promised me that he won't let you overtax yourself, and that is the only reason I'm discharging you so soon. Understood?"

"Understood," Bond repeated obediently, but she was already leaving the room.

Bond rested back, turning his head to look at Q. "Get back in here with me," he instructed, and Q slid back into the bed with alacrity, raising the rail again to secure him as he snuggled back in against Bond's side.

"So, you're my young man are you?" Bond tried for a joking tone, but apparently some of his worry bled into his voice, because Q lifted his head again, looking down at Bond with his brow furrowed in concern.

"I — do you mind? I'm sorry, I suppose it was pretty obvious when you were brought in that my concern was more than...Quartermasterly?"

Bond wrapped a hand around the nape of Q's neck, moving his thumb in a soothing circle. "I don't mind. I suppose we'll have to face Mallory sooner or later."

"Mallory?" Q's brow furrowed even further, his eyes searching Bond's face for a moment. "Oh!" he said, as if coming to a realization. To Bond's surprise he looked suddenly uncertain, sitting up fully, his teeth worrying at his lip. "Um," he said. "Er..."

"What am I missing?" Bond asked, trepidation overshadowed by how startlingly adorable Q looked when he was apparently flummoxed.

"I. Er. Um, I — I filed the Relationship Disclosure paperwork the day after you returned from Zurich, as per procedure. Am I — am I to understand that you did not?"

"There's paperwork?" Bond repeated incredulously. "To say that we're shagging?"

"Well, all interdepartmental relationships must be disclosed. They told us that at Orientation. I didn't think it would be an issue at the time, of course, but..." Q trailed off hesitantly. "Are you upset? I should have asked, I suppose."

It may have been the painkillers kicking in, but Bond was hard-pressed not to giggle. "Bloody Orientation," he repeated with a giddy smile. "You were a renegade hacker, illegally detained by MI6 and blackmailed into working here, and you paid attention during bloody Orientation." This time he couldn't help it, something remarkably close to a giggle escaping him. "I'll wager you took notes."

Q relaxed, his mouth quirking into a smile again. "No need. I have an exceptional memory."

"Indeed," Bond purred. "Bring that exceptional...memory...back down here."

Q settled back in against Bond's side. "You can turn anything into sexual innuendo," he remarked, a smile in his voice.

"I try."

They rested in silence for awhile before Q spoke again, his voice serious once more. "I should have asked you. If you wanted to keep this...a secret, I mean."

"I'd shout it from the rooftops if I could," Bond said drowsily. "As long as you're able to stay my Quartermaster."

Q nodded against Bond's shoulder. "Mallory quizzed me a bit, but I assured him that regardless of our relationship outcome, I would do my utmost to ensure your safe return, as I do for all of my operatives."

Q raised his head again, his eyes clear and solemn. "The only thing I could not assure him was that I would sacrifice your life for the sake of a mission. It was my contention that such a situation was a false dichotomy — that with good mission planning and tactical support we should be able to obviate any situation in which your life would need to be sacrificed for mission success."

Bond snorted, and Q shrugged sheepishly. "It was wishful thinking, I know, and Mallory skewered me for it. But we agreed that under such circumstances, R has the authority to take the comms and I will stand down." Q's mouth turned down unhappily. "It was a formality. We both know, in any event, that in such a situation you're likely to do whatever you damn well please."

Bond felt something twist in his chest — not at the thought of his own death, he had long ago come to terms with that eventuality — but at the thought of what Q would have to endure in such circumstances.

He tried to gather his fuzzy thoughts, pulling with effort a coherent response from the tangle of fatigue and painkillers and unaccustomed emotion. "We both know the risks of what I do, Q — what we both do. If civilian lives are on the line, I will always do my duty." He smoothed his thumb over Q's stubbled cheek. "But I promise you that if it occurs, it will be a last resort." He felt drawn in, mesmerized by the grey-green depths of Q's eyes, the truth spilling out of him in uncharacteristic candor. "I will fight with my last breath to come back to you. I might face death, but I won't seek it. Not anymore."

A warm, soft smile spread across Q's face. He placed his palm over Bond's hand on his cheek, drawing it down to place a kiss in the center. Then he settled down again, gingerly holding Bond.

Bond breathed in Q's warmth and closeness, trying to think of some other reassurance he could give Q. "Never forget," he finally said. "Resurrection is my specialty."

He could feel Q smile against his shoulder. "And impossibilities are mine. Together we'll get you to retirement, and sod anyone who says differently."

Bond chuckled. Retirement. Almost three years ago he had voluntarily left the service, for the illusion of Vesper's love. A year ago, the idea of retirement would have sent shivers down his spine, a fate worse than death. Now...now, the notion was almost appealing.

He kissed Q on the head and let his eyes close. He let himself fall back into a doze, thinking of a life with Q — measured not in months or years, but in decades.


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