Bond was aware first of a throbbing pain, the deep and familiar thrum of full-body injury. He ruthlessly pushed himself toward further awareness, resisting the urge to fall back into unconsciousness. Before he even knew who he was he knew that pain meant danger, and he was well-practiced at forcing himself back to consciousness.
He jolted awake with a sharp inhale, his eyes opening to a blaze of light that resolved itself, strangely, into a view of a clear blue sky. Instantly the other sensations followed. Soft bed, no restraints, pain parsing itself into three main areas of sharp discomfort — shoulder, ribs, and head in addition to a general ache of bruises and strained muscles.
He turned his head and his eyes found Q, looking more ethereal than ever in the blaze of sunlight. Bond blinked, bringing him into sharper focus as Q straightened in his chair. The sun-limned silhouette resolved itself into a more earthly image. Q had dark purple smudges underneath each eye, his hair was standing up in all directions, and his button-down shirt was spattered with blood, still rolled up to his elbows.
"You look like death warmed over," Bond croaked.
Q barked a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head wearily. "Pot. Kettle," he said.
He magicked a glass of water and a drinking straw from somewhere, his left hand supporting Bond's head as he took a grateful sip. His throat felt raw and torn, and he suddenly remembered his lungs filling with a rush of murky water.
He jerked back, startled, and Q immediately drew his hand away. Bond swallowed, resisting the urge to cough up water that wasn't really there.
"Sorry," he muttered.
He blinked a few more times, taking further stock of his situation. The sky above was in fact a large skylight, flooding the bedroom with natural light despite the lack of windows. The bed itself was surprisingly luxurious — the spacious mattress just the right combination of plush and firm, the sheets an obviously indulgent thread-count and the duvet light and fluffy.
"Is this...still your house?" Bond asked, his voice raspy.
"Of course," Q said. He was tending to Bond with well-practiced motions — taking his temperature with an ear thermometer, checking under the bandage on his shoulder, squinting at his pupils, gently touching his hand and forearm where the intravenous lines had been placed.
"I managed to talk Dr. Ross out of involuntarily admitting you to Medical by promising I'd watch over you. In addition to your obvious gunshot wound, you fractured two ribs on your right side, and likely have a concussion. You also look like you've been beaten with sticks, but I expect that was your journey over the rocky riverbed. You are probably out of danger by now for secondary drowning or catastrophic effects of the concussion, but you have a slight fever and remain at risk for infection or pneumonia given your extended bath in the Channel."
"I didn't realize you had such extensive medical knowledge," Bond remarked wryly.
"Dr. Ross was very informative." Q smiled suddenly, a quick flash that changed his whole face, chasing away the fatigue and brightening his eyes to a translucent green. "Plus I have several relevant tabs from the Mayo Clinic's website open on my tablet."
Even his slight chuckle hurt, but Bond couldn't suppress it. "Of course you do." He hazarded a deep breath. Not too bad. He began to push himself to sitting.
"Slowly," Q warned. "And no trying to stand until you've eaten something. It took all three of us to get you into that bed, I don't fancy my chances of getting you back there on my own."
Bond smirked, despite the stabbing pain he felt as he awkwardly pushed himself the rest of the way to sitting with his left arm. "I'm sure you'd have absolutely no trouble getting me into your bed, Q."
Q cheekbones pinkened instantly, but his voice was light and affectionate as he offered the water back to Bond, pressing the glass into his hands this time. "You're incorrigible."
He stood up, hands quick and nervous in that way he got when he was flustered. "Tea and buttered toast to start, before you take the next dose of painkillers. If that goes down well we can try eggs a little later."
He was off before Bond had a chance to respond. Bond sighed, setting the water aside and letting himself settle down into the bed again. It truly was amazingly comfortable. He would never have guessed that Q was such a...sensualist. The bed smelled like Q — warm, and a bit spicy. Lemongrass and bergamot, with the slightest hint of gun oil. It was inexpressibly comforting.
Q's house was nothing like he would have expected. If he had been asked to guess, he would have expected Q to live like a Uni student — IKEA furniture and a lumpy futon, perhaps a jumble of computer equipment on every surface. The man was so dismissive of his own personal comfort at work that Bond had more or less assumed his home life was equally austere.
Not to mention the exterior of the building was so plain — a squat brick box behind the heavy wrought-iron gate. Now Bond could see that the unattractive exterior completely belied the beautiful interior. The house was open and airy. From the bedroom Bond could see into the main living space, and it seemed equally bright. Bond suspected there were skylights in every room. Ingenious, and so very like Q to have devised such a creative solution for the windowless structure.
In addition to the lush bed, the rest of what Bond could see of the house was furnished thoughtfully and warmly. The overall impression was simple and light, and yet highly tactile, texture layered upon texture. Clean-lined furniture in rich grained wood was set against hand-plastered walls and grasscloth wallpaper, thick rugs in subtle but ornate patterns covered thick handscraped hardwood planks and polished-stone tiles, and warm, rich color was everywhere. Deep grey and chalk blue, verdant green and even garnet-red.
It was almost as if, unable to touch people, Q had poured his innately sensual nature into the things around him — filling his sanctuary with the texture and warmth he was missing from human contact.
Q interrupted his musings, returning with a large plate heaped with buttered toast and two steaming mugs of tea. Bond levered himself upright again. Q carefully sat on the other side of the bed, cross-legged, setting the plate of toast between them. He handed Bond his tea and then doled out six pills from various bottles at his bedside. Bond swallowed the medication without question.
The tea was sweet and strong and soothing to his sore throat. The two of them sat for awhile, crunching toast in silence. Q still seemed flustered, alternating between wide-eyed gazes at Bond's scarred chest and avoiding looking at him altogether.
After the third covert perusal Bond finally broke. "Do you...am I making you uncomfortable? I could borrow a robe, if you have one."
"No." Q's voice was a little overloud, and seemed to startle even himself. He blinked a few times. "I mean, not at all. Although if you're cold, you're certainly welcome...I think I have something around...but don't feel obligated on my account, I mean..."
By the end of this ramble Bond was laughing outright, hand pressed to his fractured ribs. Q stared daggers at him for a moment before his lip twitched and he began chuckling himself.
"Dammit, Bond!" Q took a sip of his tea, fortifying himself. "I've never had anyone in my house, let alone in my...bed," he admitted, his cheeks going even pinker on that final loaded word. "I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with you!" he finished in a rush.
Bond smirked, letting his eyes wander over Q appreciatively. "Unfortunately tea and toast is probably the most that I am up for right now," he purred. "Later, perhaps..."
As Bond had hoped, the sheer outrageousness of his flirting seemed to put Q more at ease.
"You're an arse," he said rolling his eyes. "But seriously, I could bring you a book, or there's a telly in the other room if you feel up to walking in a bit, or I have a chessboard somewhere about..."
"You don't have to entertain me, Q." Bond was finding himself immensely amused by this side of Q, apparently thrown for a complete loop by having company for the first time. "Just do whatever you'd normally do. I'm probably going to lie here feeling knackered for awhile, and then take a shower when I feel steady enough. And then I can go back to my own flat."
Bond really didn't want to say it, but Q was obviously a private man, and Bond had promised himself not to overstep again. He had already invaded Q's sanctuary without asking.
"You're not allowed," Q told Bond earnestly. "I promised Dr. Ross I'd keep an eye on you for at least a few days." Q seemed to hesitate. "Unless...if you're uncomfortable here I could..."
"No," Bond interrupted. "I'd like to stay." It sounded a little too forceful. "If you'll have me," he added awkwardly.
"Yes. Good. Stay." Q's smile spread across his face like a sunrise, slow and wide. "I'd like that."
Bond smiled in return and Q flushed again. "Well," he said briskly, gathering up the empty teacups and take away the plate full of crumbs. "That's sorted, then."
He continued to bustle around, finding Bond a robe and some pajama bottoms, assuring him that Moneypenny would be stopping by with the bag he kept packed in his locker at MI6, and in a general sense just hovering until Bond finally shooed him away.
In truth, Bond would rather not have Q witness the absolutely pathetic picture he made, creaking unsteadily to his feet and shuffling to the bathroom like an aged crone. By the time he had relieved himself he was weak and dizzy again, hobbling back to the bed gratefully.
He fell into an uncomfortable doze, haunted by feverish dreams of rough waters, stormy grey-green eyes, and an urgent struggle to touch something that remained always just out of his reach.
He opened his eyes suddenly to Q pressing a cool washcloth to his head, his soft voice calling Bond's name. Instinctively Bond's hand lashed out, grasping Q's wrist. Q froze, his grey-green eyes wide, and equally quickly Bond released him.
"Oh, bloody hell," he mumbled through dry, cracked lips, pushing himself up to sitting. "I'm sorry, Q."
"That's all right," Q said, something a little off in his voice.
"I know that I promised you and I meant it..."
"You don't understand, Bond." Q had been looking at his wrist, but his eyes were suddenly back on Bond, bright with a strange intensity. "I meant...that that was actually all right."
Bond looked at Q, the words heavy in the air between them. Q hesitated, and then slowly held his arm out to Bond, wrist up.
"Do it again," he said, part command and part plea.
Bond was momentarily mesmerized by the pale stretch of Q's wrist and hand...so open, so vulnerable. He reached out, slowly enough that Q could have time to change his mind, and brushed the tips of his three middle fingers over Q's inner wrist. The bones there were fragile, the pulse beating frantically under Bond's fingertips, but Q's hand stayed steady as Bond wrapped the warmth of his palm more fully around his wrist.
"Still okay?" Bond asked.
"Yes," Q said, but his voice was flat, unreadable. Bond wasn't sure what to make of that. If Q was happy that Bond could touch him, he certainly didn't sound it. All the same, Q's eyes drifted closed and Bond couldn't help rubbing his thumb in a slow gentle circle, feeling the tender skin and strong tendons underneath. Q shivered, his expression taut — but with fear, or arousal, or both? Bond was typically exceptional at judging peoples' reactions, and yet Q remained a mystery.
Q opened his eyes again and the moment was broken. Bond released Q's wrist and Q stood up hurriedly, messing about with the cluster of medicine bottles on the bedside cabinet.
"Your fever is down, but still not at normal temperatures," Q said, his voice too carefully casual. "You've slept through lunch, but dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes. I made a lamb stew, since I know you like lamb. Moneypenny dropped off your things." He gestured to the small suitcase on a nearby chair.
Bond tried to catch Q's gaze but Q seemed to be studiously avoiding eye contact. Bond gave up with a small sigh. "Thank you, Q," he said instead.
"Yes. Well." Q had a collection of pills now in the palm of his hand and he looked at them somewhat blankly. Bond held out his hand, palm up. Q's eyes darted away again and he set the pills on the nightstand instead, a little white heap of rejection.
"I'll call you for dinner," Q said, but he was already disappearing into the next room. Q fled — his back stiff, his movements uncharacteristically jerky — while Bond, fever-weak and muzzy-headed, could only watch him go.
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