Summary: Q patches Alec up after a mission. Snarky Q and Alec banter, nosy Bond, more humor than hurt/comfort. Bright Star 'verse, after "The Spy Who Came in From the Cold," but can probably be read as a standalone.


Stabbed in the Back

2013

Bond had taken to loitering in Q-Branch between his missions. He didn't know why, really, since he used to stay away from HQ in general in the days before M's (his M's) death. The only other real difference, aside from the organization's 'temporary' relocation to the Churchill-era underground bunkers ('temporary' in quotes because there is nothing that moves slower than bureaucracy unless when it's inconvenient for everyone to move along quickly), was the installation of this new Q.

The idea of a Q younger than him (and significantly so) had taken a bit of getting used to - Bond was an old dog, after all - but he found that he liked the young man, though he was a bit sarcastic and proud, and evidently hadn't gotten the memo that one was supposed to be at least a little nervous around trained killers. Young as he was, he was very capable, and he had definitely earned his high rank - and Bond's respect.

It had been a year into Q's reign when 006, Alec Trevelyan, had returned from a long-term mission. To Bond's surprise, he'd found that Alec and Q were old friends who had a rapport rather like brothers. There was fondness there, and trust. It was rare for a double-oh - any of them - to put so much trust in another person, but it was evident that Alec trusted Q completely and unreservedly.

Come to think of it, Bond trusted Q, too, as did all of the other double-ohs. There was something about the young man that allowed them to do it - perhaps it was his earnestness, or his absolute drive to get them all home in one piece, to hell with the consequences (despite what he said to the contrary). Perhaps it was the way he didn't blink an eye when they came back, still hyped up on the thrill of the kill and crowded him. Perhaps it was the way he trusted them not to hurt him when they were like that.

They were spies - the best of the best. Obviously, it was difficult for them to trust people, but the opposite was true, too. People who knew that they were spies didn't trust them, not really. Sure, they knew that the double-ohs would get the job done - probably - but there was always suspicion hanging around. Would they suddenly turn traitor? Had they already? Would they be tempted by higher-paying organizations? The spy game was not one in which people trusted other people implicitly.

For someone to trust them - really trust them - not to lash out when their sense of danger was heightened or when they were injured and more prone to act instinctively was rare. Even Medical was quick to dose them with sedatives rather than risk having their charges turn on them. Thus, all of the double-ohs avoided visits to Medical unless they were truly bleeding to death or in otherwise serious condition.

But Q? He regularly left his back exposed to them and bared his skinny, vulnerable neck as though they were ordinary people. He even scolded them about the state of their equipment, despite the fact that the rest of MI6 would tiptoe around them until they calmed down.

And calm down they did. With Q, anyway. There was something in the way that he was completely at ease with them that cooled their trigger-wire instincts until they'd relaxed their taut muscles enough that they were ultimately able to fall asleep in their own beds without the nightmares that, before he'd come along, had plagued them after jobs and for which the only cures had been alcohol and a warm body (usually both).

Bond was musing over this when Alec sauntered in, freshly returned from a mission in Peru.

Bond's keen eye catalogued his injuries automatically: minor cuts and bruises, right eye just starting to blacken, and a rather painful injury to the upper back that he was hiding under his jacket and a layer of nonchalance an inch thick.

Q checked in the mostly missing or ruined equipment with an annoyed expression and disgruntled mutterings about the state of them. Alec gradually lost the tension around his eyes and mouth as he relaxed into playful banter with the younger man.

He had yet to check in with M, apparently, but as he turned to leave and do just that, Q added: "Oh, and 006, do be sure you go to Medical. You likely need stitches on that, and you can't reach it yourself."

Bond wasn't surprised that Q had noticed what would have been missed by ninety percent of the world. Q, despite his apparent lack of field experience, had a sharp eye for details.

Alec sighed. Caught. "Don't want to," he said petulantly.

"Alec." The name hung heavily in the air.

"Don't need to," Alec complained, trying to wiggle out of it, "not when you can patch me up just as well."

Q sniffed dismissively. "Not my job."

"You're the Quartermaster," Alec wheedled. "It's your job to maintain equipment. I'm equipment."

Q skewered him with a patented Q Look. "No, you're not. You're a human being, Alec. Do try not to forget that." He eventually melted in the face of Alec's pitiful pout. "Fine, go on then. Office."

Bond followed the triumphant Alec into Q's office while the quartermaster went to wash his hands.

"Does he do this often?" he asked curiously.

"The others didn't tell you about his patch-up service?" Alec cocked his brow at him, but didn't look too surprised.

Bond was not particularly close to the other double-ohs in the division. He worked best alone, and in his long tenure as 007, he had seen too many fellow agents fall to bother trying to form real relationships with them. As a result, he was somewhat of an outsider, even among his fellow double-ohs. Alec was the exception, as he was the next longest-serving double-oh after Bond.

"Is he good?"

"Just watch," Alec said, wincing as he peeled off his jacket and shirt. He left the clumsy bandage in place; the blood had dried and the dressing was stuck tight to the wound, making its removal painful without outside assistance.

He jerked his chin at a cabinet in the corner. "Get the med kit, will you? Bottom right."

Q nodded his thanks at Bond upon his return to the office, and snapped on a pair of examination gloves from the box that Bond had lined up next to the other materials Q would need. With practiced movements, Q grabbed the bottle of saline and began working to gently soak and tug the gauze loose with clever fingers, finally revealing a jagged knife wound that leaked blood sluggishly.

"Knife in the back? Really, Alec. So clichéd." Q sighed and shook his head, but he might as well have been commenting on the weather by the blasé expression on his face as he worked on the sticky, crusty mess of blood on Alec's back.

"You should see the other guy," Alec quipped, grimacing as the deft fingers poked mercilessly into the wound, examining it carefully for infection and foreign particles.

Q tsked and moved on to thoroughly disinfecting the area, his movements confident despite the raw, quivering flesh under his hands and the rivulets of blood and disinfectant dripping down onto the towel he'd tucked neatly into the waistband of Alec's jeans. "No, I'd rather not, thank you."

He picked up the needle and began pulling the open wound closed with a row of tiny stitches, impressing Bond by how quickly and neatly he worked.

Bond watched with interest. Every day he spent with Q brought forth new and unexpected information about the man. "Where did you learn to do this, Q? You're not a doctor...are you?"

The corner of Q's expressive mouth turned up in a mixture of amusement and smugness. "Not the medical kind, no, but I was four the first time I stitched someone up. And yes, before you ask, he is still alive."

Bond leaned back and gave the younger man yet another thorough lookover. Curiouser and curiouser. "You know someone who let a four-year-old do his stitches?"

Q shrugged. "And let me do a few extra for practice, even though he didn't need all of them. The adults in my life were rather indulgent and spoiled me terribly."

Bond gave him a slow blink. "You must have had an interesting childhood."

Q chuckled. "You have no idea."

Alec snorted, then grimaced in pain.

"What kind of doctor are you?" Bond asked, tilting his head. He couldn't help digging further - Q was such a fascinating, multilayered man. "You said you're not the medical kind, which implies that you're another kind."

Q arched his eyebrow, evidently guessing what he was after, but indulged him. "Engineering, mostly. Maths. I've got six doctorates in various STEM fields."

Bond could tell that it wasn't a lie in the least. Bloody hell. The rumors were true. "How old are you, Q?"

Q paused midway through pulling the thread through the edges of the wound to glare at him. "Old enough," he said shortly, as though highly offended.

Alec snickered, but stopped when Q gave him an unnecessarily hard jab with the needle. "Ow! Butcher."

"Should have gone to Medical then."

Bond could see Alec struggling to hold back the snarky response on the tip of his tongue (probably along the lines of 'snotty brat' or 'tetchy little shit'), lest he earn any more retalitative pokes with the needle.

Bond could see by the smirk on Q's face, which was not visible to Alec, that the quartermaster knew exactly what was going through Alec's head, and was enjoying it very much.

Alec managed to hold out until the bandage had been neatly taped into place.

"Sadistic bastard," he grumbled.

"Like I said," Q returned primly, shucking off his medical gloves with a disinterested air, "You can always go to Medical."

Alec didn't deign to respond, since he knew, just as Bond and Q both knew, that he would much rather have a friend tend to his wounds than the cold, impersonal professionals in Medical who cared more about the job than about their patients.

"In fact, you ought to stop by there anyway for a round of antibiotics if you haven't got any at home," Q said pointedly. "Who knows where that knife had been."

As Alec grunted and reached for his torn and stained shirt to tug on over the pristine bandages, Q tutted. He opened a drawer and pulled out a clean t-shirt that would be much too large for his slender frame, but would fit Alec quite well.

"Ta," Alec muttered, drooping a little with fatigue as he accepted it.

"Do you keep extra clothes for all of us in here?" Bond asked, amused at the number of things that were evidently not for Q's own use in Q's office. He already knew about the scotch, which Q kept on hand only for the double-ohs' use, as he evidently never drank on the job, being a bit of a lightweight.

He peeked into the drawer, which he'd given a cursory glance previously and found full of clothes that he'd foolishly assumed were for Q's own use, since he evidently sometimes spent days at HQ at a time. A closer examination of its contents showed a variety of basic clothing in it that would fit everyone from the petite Scarlett Papova (agent 004) to the very tall and muscular Caleb Turner (agent 009).

"Huh." Bond couldn't believe that Scarlett had actually allowed someone else to buy her undergarments, which she was notoriously picky about - she claimed that cheap bras could make anyone's breasts look terrible.

Q sniffed. "I am your quartermaster. It is my job to provide you with any equipment you may require. Nothing more, nothing less."

"So if I were to require an exploding pen…?"

Alec stifled a laugh at Q's expression, which fairly screamed his vexation at the incessant requests for what Q evidently considered an obsolete piece of ancient history on par with a musket and bayonet.

"No, Bond. No."

. . . . .


Notes:

The person who let Q practice stitches on him when he was four was former 007 Sam Carmichael, in my story "To Give Life a Shape."

Curiouser and curiouser - a turn of phrase from Alice in Wonderland.

Trivia of the day, connected to the above phrase: Did you know that Ben Whishaw did a play with Judi Dench, Peter and Alice? It's about the real-life inspirations for Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland meeting when Alice is an old woman and Peter is grown up.