Bond stood quietly and allowed himself to be inspected in the drafty entryway of his Quartermaster's flat. This was note-worthy for the fact that he was allowing the all-over inspection. Bond was a man to be looked-at, for sure, but he was not a man to be scrutinized. 007 was trained to find the flaws in other. He was paid to manipulate the cracks he was so skilled at finding.

But he didn't want others to see the cracks that littered his armor.

He didn't yet know why, but Q's scrutiny didn't frighten him as others did. Q had seen him weeping on the floor of the old chapel by his home. Q had been the one to finally pry his stiff frozen fingers from M's lifeless form and the one that convinced him to allow the medical team to wrap him up burrito-fashion in heated blankets.

Bond guessed that since Q had seen him at one of his absolute worst moments, Q was the person he subconsciously turned to for care and comfort. No, he chastised himself. No you don't need comfort. You don't deserve it after a mission like that.

He was here for stitches, for a hand that he trusted, for a bed he could sleep in without a gun under the pillow. Now, if only he could convince himself of that.

Q was mildly astonished when the deadly agent stayed stock still during his careful examination. Bond's eyes followed his movement as he turned to see a bloodstain on 007's back. "It's not mine," he offered softly. "The mission could have gone a little less sideways but that one's not mine." Q shouldn't have felt should a rush of relief at learning that the rusty stain on the agent's back hadn't come from his own veins.

(Bond meant nothing to him, or so he told himself. The man should have been nothing more than a blunt instrument to be wielded in the technician's capable hands. Concern for an instrument's capability is normal. Q needed Bond at his best. Concern for the man's emotional and physical well-being was not. Why did he care?)

Still in his place at the lion's back, the younger man placed a careful hand on the agent's shoulder. It was all wide, hard muscle. It felt like holding bare death in his long fingers, but Bond did not tense under his grip. Q tried not to take that as a good sign.

Slowly, always slowly as if with a feral dog, the Quartermaster led 007 through his flat to the master bathroom. Silently and still with the hand on the agent's shoulder, he positioned him on the edge of the bathtub and turned his back to rummage through his well-stocked medicine cabinet.

(Why did he feel safe, comfortable even, around the crouching panther? He knew first-hand the power contained within the form behind him. Q was the voice in 007's ear and Bond was the sound of destruction in his. It was ludicrous for him to trust the monster inside Bond with his turned back. Never had he carried a weapon on his person, and certainly never in his own home. All it took, he knew, was a few carefully placed fingers on the airway…but all his thoughts locked on the word broken. Broken like a man living on death.)

Turning back with the necessary supplies in his pale hands, he assessed the situation. None of the wounds on 007 were deep enough to warrant a visit to a hospital; they certainly weren't anything Q couldn't handle. Everyone at MI6 in regular contact with field agents was given in depth medical training, enough to save an agent's life if necessary. What worried Q was the way Bond leaned lifelessly against the wall, slightly hunched in on himself, his eyes half-shuttered in exhaustion. The regal grandeur that normally accompanied Bond wherever he went was gone. Q doubted that any more than a handful of people had earned the right to see the man behind the lion's mask.

Q wondered why he was one of them.

Bond realized in the back of his mind how he appeared to his Quartermaster. He knew for sure how he appeared to himself: pathetic, weak, like he had given up. Any other time, with any other person, he would have straightened up and put on a self-deprecating smirk to distract from the ache in his old bones. His old reliable charm and grace would adorn the mask of control, fitting together seamlessly to give an air of the unshakeable.

But for whatever reason, be it his absolute exhaustion or the trust he seemed to have placed in the almost-boy, Bond stayed bent and half asleep. Lazily he watched Q's steady movements and felt safer than he had in a long time.

Rousing a bit when a cold hand nudged his chin from where he was propped against the wall, he blinked up at Q. The sad smile he received in return did new and interesting things to his guts. Q's voice was little more than a murmur, "Come on. Shoes, trousers, and jacket off. That cut needs stitches, I can see that already, and you should let me look at your ribs and that arm."

Without waiting for Bond to move, the technician crouched and began to unlace the agent's stiff black shoes. 007 struggled slowly from his light gray suit jacket and did his best not to wrench the two ribs that lay broken in his chest. Q looked up with concern when Bond let out a pained breath but continued what he was doing.

When 007 was free of the loafers and jacket, Q helped him struggle to his feet so that he could remove his light trousers, leaving him in only his boxer shorts, a half-undone button-down, and his loosened black tie. Q knelt again and placed careful fingers near the cut that rent through Bond's upper thigh. It was an angry red line about 3 inches long and an inch deep, still sluggishly leaking blood.

The Quartermaster sucked in a steadying breath. This was not the worse Bond had ever seen and neither would it be the worst he would see. But it still hurt like a bitch and the agent rested a calloused palm on his Quartermaster's bicep to remind him.

Q sucked a breath through his teeth. The more logical side of his mind, the normally dominant part of his mind, knew that the gash was not serious. He knew it wasn't life-threatening and knew it was a clean slice that was easily repaired. He knew that in a few months it would be nothing more than a thin white line, one of many scars with forgotten sources. He knew, he knew. So why did he feel his stomach churn and his fingers clench.

Why did he want to feel the neck of man who did this in his grip? Why did he want to lock Bond, James, up and keep him from the life he had chosen?

Putting aside such thoughts for later contemplation, the smaller man set about with his busy hands.

Q had been grown up hearing that he had musician's hands, that he should take up guitar or piano. Personally, he always thought they served better on a keyboard, long pale nimble digits dancing over keys and codes. Now, he was happy that he had learned how best to put those fingers to use for others. It was nothing for him to slip surgical thread through the eye of his sterile needle and to clip it with his teeth.

Setting about his work with the ease of long experience (though this was only the second time he'd been forced to employ his medical skills), he asked Bond, "Would you like to talk about why you're here and not in the medical team's more capable hands?" Bond winced as the cold metal slid beneath his skin.

"Not particularly. Would you like to talk about why you know how to sew up a man's leg?"

"Not particularly," the Quartermaster mimicked with a small smile.

"Cheeky thing aren't you?" the agent asked tiredly.

The technician could only manage a barely-there grin as he finished up Bond's leg.