#chaosinpjs

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas (6/9)

While Q dozed restlessly, he had fleeting snippets of dreams involving guns and monsters and 007. He tried not to examine the significance of James Bond saving him from ankle-grabbing tentacle monsters in too much detail, especially considering he was technically the damsel in distress in that particular scenario. When he woke up, it was to the man himself securing a bandage around his injured foot, a small first aid kit open at his side with its guts scattered haphazardly around Bond’s knees.

(Bond’s shirt had a small rip on the right side of the chest just below his collarbone and Q had to try very hard not to look at it.)

“You must be really out of it,” Bond noted when he saw Q’s eyes were on him. “You didn’t even flinch when I used the alcohol.”

Q wriggled his toes experimentally, feeling the bandage shifting against his skin. Bond had done a good job but, then again, he was something of a practiced expert in field first aid so perhaps it wasn’t so surprising.

“Thank you, 007,” said Q with all the formality he could muster.

Bond’s smile was soft.

For a moment, Q found it all to easy to forget that they were currently hiding out at the old MI6 emergency base to avoid being captured and...killed? Q hadn’t given it much thought. He wasn’t entirely sure what the hackers wanted with them, exactly. They had their data - or so they thought - so what possible reason could they have for this bizarre pursuit? Q was well and truly baffled; a rare occurrence in and of itself.

“Have to get you some shoes,” Bond muttered, breaking the companionable silence with a concerned glance at Q’s bare and battered feet. “I should have thought of it sooner and then you wouldn’t have had to run through the tube like that. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get an infection.”

Q tried to smile. “I’m up to date on my vaccinations, I assure you.”

Perhaps as some sort of show of solidarity, Bond chuckled amiably and patted Q’s knee. By now, his pyjamas were dirtier than pyjamas ought to be with dirty marks on the knees and a general discolouration around the ankles. They weren’t exactly built for outdoor use.

Glancing around, Q noticed that the base looked very different than it had during their time there. The desks were bare and several were missing. A few stray wires lay scattered across tables and on the floor (Q would have to see about reprimanding whichever of his minions were careless enough to leave them behind) and the room was shrouded in darkness. When he looked up at the ceiling, Q realised that was because only the light on the far side of the room had a working bulb. Typical of MI6, really. Typical of the British government, in all honesty.

Q sighed, a wet, heaving sound that crackled on its way out. He winced immediately at the sound of the obvious thick congestion clogging his poor chest. As he gave his chest a soft rub with the palm of his hand, he caught Bond’s eye.

“Don’t suppose they left the kettle behind, did they?” He asked hopefully.

Bond grinned and sauntered off to the little kitchenette just through one of the doors.

“You’re in luck,” Bond’s voice called, muffled by the walls. He reappeared in the doorway, waving a white plastic kettle which Q suspected was from Argos. Still, if it could heat water, Q didn’t particularly care.

Minutes later, Bond placed a steaming cup into Q’s hands and his chilled fingers sang with the warmth as they curled around the curves. The cup was one of those cups that Q absolutely loathed; it was a cup sporting an inspirational quote in curled lettering which changed colour on a gradient.

Reach for the stars.

If he’d managed to eat anything, Q might have vomited. No doubt this had once belonged to R who was nuts about things like this.

Wistfully, Q thought of Q-Branch, his branch, and the minions who even now were working there tirelessly to keep the country safe. Q had a deep affection for his subordinates, especially the clever ones (like R), and would defend any one of them against whatever threat stood in their path.

He took a sip of his tea.

“Christ,” he sputtered, quickly swallowing the offensive substance Bond had had the nerve to present to him and call tea. “What the hell is this?”

Bond’s face sported a look of self-satisfied mirth. “No Earl Grey, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with the cranberry and raspberry stuff I found in the cupboard.”

Q grimaced, shooting a withering scowl in Bond’s direction as he took another sip, this time more prepared for the sickly sweet flavour to his his tongue. It wasn’t what he’d been hoping for but he knew that beggars could not be choosers and right now, on the run with a cold and a smarmy double-oh, Q would definitely classify himself as a beggar.

“Bond, I’m reassigning you,” he muttered grumpily as he swallowed another mouthful. “This is an affront to Queen and Country and it needs to stop.”

While Bond smiled back at him, Q let the steam clear his sinuses. It made his nose run but thankfully it didn’t trigger those horrid itchy sneezes he’d spent most of the morning cursing. There was only so much the steam produced Q’s small cup of tea could do in the face of his aggressive congestion but even the slight relief it granted him from this gruesome headache was welcome. He still felt like there was an entire orchestra in there playing in dissonance, the pressure of the noise making his temples pulse and swell in an effort to contain it, but in the absence of painkiller this would have to do.

“I believe this particular brand is manufactured in the US,” said Bond offhandedly and Q grimaced.

“Even worse,” he muttered and thankfully Bond didn’t comment on the fact that he finished the entire cup anyway.

With the comfortable heat of the tea in his stomach and its residual warmth settling nicely in his chest, Q was starting to feel somewhat better. The breakdown Bond had suggested he save for later didn’t appear to be making a comeback. That was something, he supposed. Handling mental health issues didn’t feature nearly as prominently on MI6’s extensive list of required training for field agents as Q thought it ought to, given their penchant for dragging innocent and frightened civilians into the mix with them. Bond, of course, was particularly guilty of this; he couldn’t resist a pretty face.

The improvement was short lived, however, as Q suddenly found himself shrinking into himself with another wet, rumbling cough. Before he could curl up in a pathetic ball, Bond’s hands were on his shoulders. Bond moved to sit beside him and curled one arm around his waist to keep him upright. Q could only rub uselessly at his chest while Bond did the same to his back, waiting for it to pass.

“You need a doctor,” Bond stated plainly while Q’s lungs tried to clear themselves to no avail. He could barely breathe and Bond’s hand on his back was a welcome comfort. “We need to get you to MI6. You sound like you’ve got the Thames in your lungs.”

When his chest finally stopped spasming, Q gave a hum of agreement. “Not to alarm you, but I fear I might be developing a chest infection,” he said nonchalantly. He didn’t want to put Bond on even higher alert by suggesting that it might - might - be pneumonia. He’d had it twice before and it had certainly felt a lot like this.

The Thames comparison was rather accurate given how little space Q felt had been reserved for air in his crackling, wheezing chest. Really, it was getting to the point where Q could be attacked by a savage rhino and think well, this might as well happen. However, a potential chest infection was hardly worrying him as much as trying to lose their pursuers. Besides, he’d still been able to run even if the experience had left him terribly breathless. Even if it did turn out to be something a little more serious- well, they could deal with it later.

Apparently, Bond didn’t agree with Q’s order of priorities.

“It’ll be no good outsmarting them if you die of dysentery before we can get you somewhere safe,” he grumbled and something about the way he said ‘we’ made Q’s thick chest feel just a little lighter.

“This isn’t the Oregon Trail, Bond. I don’t think dysentery is a typical complication of the common cold,” Q quipped.

Bond grunted. “It’d be much easier if I could take you to a safehouse.”

(Q chose not to point out that Bond had insisted they head for MI6 not moments before.)

“I can do much more good from HQ,” said Q instead with an absent wave of his hand.

“Maybe,” Bond conceded. “But I’m sure your immune system would appreciate some help. Rest might not be a bad idea.”

Q could feel his headache returning. “Bond, I know you mean well, but my agents are in danger because of me,” he said with steel in his tone. “If I can be doing something useful, I can’t justify resting.”

Bond muttered something that Q couldn’t hear but he didn’t ask Bond to repeat himself.

After a beat of silence, Q added, “We should get going.”

Bond shook his head. “Another half hour. Then we’ll go.” He ignored the look Q was giving him (which was incredibly vexing) and continued, “Call it instinct but I’d rather wait a bit longer. Besides, you’re dead on your feet and you’ll be a liability if you can’t even stand.”

Q wanted to protest because he was certain that Bond’s reasons for staying had much more to do with Q’s health than they should have done considering how many agents were currently in danger. But he had to concede that last point. He needed a clear head or he’d end up getting them both caught.

Reluctantly and with all the grace of a downed elephant, Q slumped over on the floor again with Bond’s one-armed suit jacket draped over him. It didn’t do much to stem his brutal shivers but it was a nice gesture nonetheless. It smelled of Bond - all cologne and alcohol and charm. Q couldn’t help but find the familiar smell comforting. Of all the people he could be stuck with in this situation, Bond would definitely have been his first choice. Quite aside from the fact that he was a trained spy with a licence to kill and a poorly-hidden protective streak when it came to his Quartermaster, he was also Q’s favourite double-oh to go toe-to-toe with in a war of wits. Bond could give as good as he got and Q could well appreciate a sharp tongue and a quick mind.

“Stop thinking so loud, Q, or they’ll find us in a heartbeat,” Bond teased.

Never mind. Q would much rather be stuck here with anybody else. He made a half-arsed attempt to flip Bond off and let his mind wander. He tried to think of his meditation CDs with their soft ocean waves and creaking forests. Bond would probably tease him about it if he knew but Q would be quick to tell him that 00-bloody-7 was 90% of the reason he needed them in the first place.

Listen to him, having arguments with James Bond in his own bloody head.

Half an hour passed but it was closer to forty-five minutes before Bond roused him, helping him to his feet and helping Q slip his arms (well...arm) into Bond’s jacket in a way which was almost motherly. Bond’s poorly containing smirk at the sight of Q’s pyjama-clad arm sticking out of the hole where the right arm should be, however, was distinctly reminiscent of a teasing older brother.

Q shot him a withering scowl. “Not one word, 007.”

For once in his life, James Bond said nothing.

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas (9/9)

Bond pushed away from Eve and turned to face his Quartermaster, expecting but not quite believing the worst. It couldn’t end like this, not after everything, not for Q. In the time it took him to turn around, Bond had already seen the carnage in his head, seen Q bleeding out on M’s beige carpet. He thought about their desperate race through London, about everything they had gone through to keep Q alive, only for it to end like this in the safest place Bond could have thought to take him.

It wasn’t fair.

But then Bond saw the gun held firm in Q’s steady hand, hard eyes staring straight past him. Stunned, Bond looked back to Not-Q who had a clean bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. His heart would not stop racing as he looked between the two, Q’s heavy breathing deafening in the silence that had fallen over the room.

Cautiously, Bond leaned towards Q and slowly offered his hand. Q observed it wearily for a moment and deposited the gun there. Bond discarded it behind him and knelt in front of his Quartermaster who was pointedly not looking him in the eye. Bond recognised the familiar emotions flashing there - fear, guilt, regret. He saw in Q everything he hoped he’d never have to see; he saw his own first kill mirrored in Q’s feverish expression and it made Bond want to kill Not-Q all over again.

Bond placed his hand on Q’s thigh and sighed. He didn’t know what to say and nobody else seemed to be racing to the task so Bond did his best.

“Sometimes a trigger has to be pulled,” he said softly and he regretted it instantly because Q’s expression crumpled and, to Bond’s horror, there were tears glistening on his cheeks.

Any other day, he might have looked to Eve to take over. Any other day, he might have made a quip. Today, he guided Q’s forehead to his uninjured shoulder and settled one hand on the back of his head, feeling Q’s thin fingers clinging to the back of his shirt to ground himself through the panic.

“It’s alright,” Bond found himself saying without really noticing that he was speaking. “It’s over now.”

Probably brought on by the panic, Q’s cough returned with a vengeance and he tried to push himself away to the side. Bond moved with him.

“Can’t breathe,” Q gasped, curling so far into himself that Bond could hear his lungs straining against the compression.

He kept his hands on Q’s shoulders, trying to stop him from falling out of his chair. Over Q’s shoulder, he saw Nurse Stella and her team bustling around in the hallway. Q still hadn’t stopped coughing by the time Stella nudged Bond aside to get a proper look at the Quartermaster while one of the others started examining Bond’s shoulder. Bond didn’t pay the young man much mind and instead kept his eyes trained on Q who couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

By the time Q finally stopped coughing, there were tears streaming down his face and Bond couldn’t tell if they were from the intensity of the fit or the realisation that he’d just killed a man. As often as Q sent agents out into the field, instructed them to take the bloody shot, Bond knew he’d never killed anyone first hand.

Now, sick and traumatised, Q looked so painfully young. His youth had been a point of contention between them since their first meeting but now it stoked a burning protective instinct in Bond’s chest. He wanted to rip Not-Q limb from limb for forcing his Q into this mess. A realisation hit Bond like a speeding bullet: he hadn’t ever wanted Q to be him.

Bond wondered how often, from this point on, Q would catch sight of his own hands and remember he was a killer.

The ache in Bond’s shoulder became suddenly and horribly intense and he struggled to control his breathing as the edges of his vision started to swirl brown and grey. He felt sick. He thought perhaps Eve had slapped him.

He slept.

~

Q tried to protest when Stella manhandled him into a wheelchair with an oxygen mask strapped to his face. He definitely did not want to be wheeled through the halls of his place of work looking like this. His staff had already seen him in his bright red cat pyjamas - hadn’t he been through enough? The fight didn’t last long, however, given that he drifted off before they’d even reached the lift. But still. It was a good effort nonetheless.

As he fell asleep, he found himself absently wondering if Bond would be there when he woke up.

~

Bond did indeed spend the night in Medical for the first time since he’d been assigned to the double-oh division. They patched his shoulder and stuck his arm in a sling, dosed him up on morphine and told him to stay put.

He didn’t.

Q looked terribly young in his hospital bed, hair mussed around his face and oxygen mask hugging his nose and mouth. Quietly, Bond pulled up a chair and sat down. He watched the steady rise and fall of Q’s chest and found his thoughts wandering - quite of their own accord - back to the moment he’d heard Q whisper his name as he’d collapsed in M’s office. The memory sparked a feeling in Bond’s chest, something warm. His entire body felt uncomfortable. He tried to push the feeling away but the attempt was half-hearted.

Fuck work. Fuck MI6. Fuck complicated.

Q made Bond feel warm.

~

Hours passed, or perhaps they didn’t. Q started to shift in his sleep and, finally, his eyes fluttered open and came to rest instantly on Bond. Q blinked. Bond blinked. Then, Q reached up to slip the mask off his face and took a shallow, experimental breath.

“You probably shouldn’t do that,” Bond said, fully expecting Q to ignore him, which he did. “Stella will kill you.”

“Don’t tell on me then,” Q grumbled back weakly. He sounded hoarse and stuffy.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bond said. And he didn’t tell.

~

Bond sat with Q for the next several days, consenting to stay in the medical wing on the condition that he be allowed to visit Q during the day. In total, Bond stayed three full days before he was discharged. After that, he stayed willingly, leaving only to feed Q’s obnoxious cats.

Q was improving, albeit slowly. He coughed and sneezed his days away but his breathing sounded less tight as time passed and Bond was just glad he was resting. After a lot of badgering, Q had been allowed access to a laptop. R told him that he could get back to work when he was well enough to hack back in. It seemed today was that day.

“Brought you a doughnut,” Bond said instead of hello.

Q looked up from his computer and smiled wanly. He shut the lid of the laptop as Bond handed him the treat and took a bite. Bond sipped his coffee quietly, noticing the returning dark circles under Q’s eyes with worry.

“How long have you been working?” Bond asked, nodding to the laptop.

Q shrugged, devouring the rest of his doughnut. Bond sighed. “You’ll be stuck here for ages if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“For the last time, 007, I absolutely refuse to take medical advice from a man who once showed up in my office with a broken arm and claimed it was just a flesh wound,” Q grouched, making pointedly annoyed air quotes with his fingers.

Quick as a flash, Bond scooped up the laptop and deposited it on a trolley, out of Q’s reach. Q scowled at him.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he said haughtily, crossing his arms firmly across his chest. Almost as soon as the words had left his lips, Q let out an almighty yawn and instantly cursed his body’s apparently ironic sense of timing.

When he looked over at Bond, expecting to see a teasing smirk, he was almost knocked breathless by his expression. Bond was smiling softly, looking almost...fond. Q raised an eyebrow, trying to recapture the playfulness which had defined the atmosphere of the last few days. This shift was too heavy for Q and he found himself feeling unbearably tired.

“Lie down,” Bond said gently and, when he reached forward to adjust Q’s pillows and help him get comfortable, Q- well, Q let him. What’s more, when Bond started petting his hair (!!!), Q actually enjoyed it.

“Bond?” Q breathed sleepily as Bond’s fingers threaded gently through his curls in a way which felt positively divine. When Bond hummed questioningly, Q asked, “Why didn’t you bring me straight to HQ from my flat? It would have made more sense.”

Bond was quiet for a moment before he said, “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Q scoffed but didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to see Bond’s face to know that he was lying. A double-oh agent not thinking clearly in the face of danger? Unlikely at best.

“Bullshit,” Q sighed without bothering to elaborate. It seemed he didn’t have to.

“It’s true,” Bond said, keeping his voice low. “I wasn’t thinking clearly because...I was worried about you.”

Q’s heart stuttered in his chest. He sat up so he could get a proper look at Bond’s face which was sporting a distinctly uncomfortable expression.

“This morning,” Bond goes on, shifting in his seat. “I didn’t come by because I needed your help. I wanted to check on you.”

Perhaps it was because he was stuffed up to the eyeballs with cold but Q didn’t understand. Bond...wanted to check on him? Bond?

“You’ve never called out sick before. I assumed you must have had typhoid.”

Q chuckled weakly. “Well, not to worry. It wasn’t typhoid; just bronchitis.”

Bond didn’t seem to share Q’s mirth. Q forced a reassuring smile.

“Apologies, 007,” he said softly. “Perhaps this isn’t the time for jokes.”

Without a word, Bond placed his hand on top of Q’s which lay resting atop his blanket. His fingers were rough but they squeezed Q’s hand with surprising softness.

“I was really starting to worry about you. You sounded like you couldn’t breathe,” he said quietly. Q felt the warmth in Bond’s voice wash over him and his body relaxed of its own accord.

He forced a small smile which was supposed to be reassuring but probably ended up as more of a grimace. “It always sounds worse than it is. I have a bad chest.”

Bond sighed. Q found himself a little jealous at how clear his lungs sounded.

“I’d never have guessed. Call me naïve but since I’ve known you, you’ve always been the strong one,” Bond confessed and the intimacy of the moment scared Q half to death but he kept silent. Bond looked more fragile than Q had ever seen him and something told him that he was unlikely to be granted access to this more sensitive side of his agent again if he messed this up. “I was broken when you first met me. I’ve been in this job a long time, Q, and I’ve learned by now that getting...attached to people is inadvisable. The life expectancy of a double-oh doesn’t exactly lend itself to long-term relationships.”

Q could feel his heart hammering in his chest, just to the left of a brewing cough. He pushed the feeling down and was almost tempted to hold his breath if he wasn’t certain it would only make it worse.

“I’m not asking you for anything but I think you deserve to know. I’d hate to get shot somewhere in the Swiss Alps without ever telling you how much I…” Bond almost seemed to choke on his words. “How much I care for you.”

Q was so surprised by Bond’s confession that he couldn’t hold the cough back anymore and he tumbled forwards into his blanket, coughing so hard that tears streamed down his face. He half expected Stella to come bursting in and demand that 007 leave her patient in peace what with all the fuss he was making.

“Better out than in, Q,” Bond muttered above him with one hand on Q’s trembling back.

“Oh, blast this cold to h-hell! ih! hheNGISHhew!”

“Gesundheit,” Bond laughed, passing Q a fresh tissue which he gratefully accepted. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

Q wiped his nose, thankful that his days of disgusting pyjama sleeves were over, and took several gulps of water which settled unpleasantly in his stomach. He’d had quite enough of feeling like this by now. And he missed his cats.

“Anyway,” Bond said with a shake of his head. “If I hadn’t been such a big girl’s blouse, you’d be safe in bed right about now.”

Q rolled his eyes. This was just like James Bond; he took all the responsibility and never let anybody help him carry it.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, Bond,” Q replied. “I’d have logged into my computer sooner or later. They were always going to get in.” Q paused, letting the silence hang in the air for several seconds before adding, “I’m just glad you were there. Without you, I’d probably be dead right now. I didn’t exactly have my wits about me what with the fever and all.”

Bond frowned. “Don’t dwell on it,” he advised and his tone spoke of experience doing just that. “You’re safe. If anybody wants to hurt you now, they’d have to take down Stella and I’d pay good money to see anybody try.”

Despite his sore chest, Q huffed out a laugh, thinking of the poor soul who thought it’d be a good idea to get on the formidable nurse’s bad side. It was Bond who pulled him from those thoughts by giving him a gentle shove back against his pillows. As Q relaxed, Bond’s rough sailor’s hands pulled the white hospital blanket over his thin, shivering body. At such an uncharacteristically gentle gesture from the rugged double-oh, Q felt weak. He suddenly understood why Victorian women were fainting all the time and, frankly, Elizabeth Bennet should be commended for not going weak at the knees at the first sign of approval from Mr Darcy.

A thought came to him then.

“Shit,” he sighed. “I missed the end of Pride and Prejudice.”

Bond smiled and reached out to brush Q’s unruly hair out of his eyes. “You’ll have plenty of time to watch it while you’re recovering. I’ll even suffer through it with you if you wanted the company.”

Q felt himself drifting but he muttered, “I’ll be holding you to that, 007,” before sleep claimed him.

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas (8/9)

(final update for today but now it’s up to date with the forum version sorry for flooding ur dash love me)

-

Not-Q was a fast draw but Bond was faster. No sooner had Not-Q pointed his gun at M’s chest than Bond was between them with his gun staring right at Not-Q���s forehead. He could hear Q’s ragged breaths from behind him and was very aware that there the henchmen’s guns were trained on him. Good - better him than the higher ups.

M and Q were both MI6 heads and far more important than a dispensable double-oh could ever be. This was what he’d been trained to do; to be the shield when he couldn’t be the bullet.

“You can order your men to shoot me,” Bond began, steadfastly ignoring Q’s pained gasp from behind him and M’s eyes burning into his back. “But I guarantee I’m fast enough to kill you on my way out.”

Not-Q seemed to consider this and, after a moment’s hesitation, lowered his gun to his side. The other guns, however, continued to stare Bond down. Bond didn’t move.

“Good call,” he said darkly.

“Stand down, 007,” said Not-Q calmly and Bond felt his blood boil.

“Not bloody likely,” he growled through gritted teeth.

Not-Q raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Technically, I am your superior.”

Bond scowled. “You’re a traitor.”

“I’m the Quaterma-”

“You’re not,” Bond spat before quickly reining himself in. For someone well-trained to bury emotions, he was struggling to prevent his anger at hearing anyone else try to claim Q’s title from bubbling abruptly to the surface.

Unfortunately for Bond’s temper, Not-Q seemed to pick up on this. “Protective of your pet genius, aren’t we?” He smirked, looking past Bond to Q. Bond had to resist the urge to turn around, to let Q know somehow that he’d be damned if he was going to let anything happen to him.

Somehow, now knowing how Q’s body felt when it was draped tiredly against his, Bond found it difficult to remember that he was in fact a highly trained MI6 operative with undoubtedly excellent marksmanship. Today, he had seen a much more vulnerable side of his Quartermaster and, well, Bond had always enjoyed feeling useful.

“Tell you what,” Not-Q went on, looking down at his gun and, despite all his training telling him not to take his eyes off his mark, Bond couldn’t help but follow his gaze.

And that small lapse in judgement was all it took. When he looked up again, Hired Muscle #1 had his gun trained directly at Q. Bond’s blood ran cold.

“Lower your gun and I won’t shoot your little mouse.”

Bond felt his control of the situation quickly slipping through his fingers. He’d very much preferred it when all the guns had been pointed at him.

“007, don’t you dare,” Q croaked out, voice a pitiful imitation of his usual clipped professionalism.

“I won’t wait all day, agent,” Not-Q said and his voice turned to steel while fire flashed in his dark eyes. “You have five seconds to lower your weapon.”

“007, that’s an order!” Snapped Q hoarsely.

“Four.”

Bond took a deep breath and analysed his options. He could shoot Not-Q right now but those bodyguards were likely as trigger-happy as he was. He’d barely have squeezed the trigger and they’d shoot Q. Out of the question.

“Three.”

“Shoot him, damn it!” Q’s voice was giving out on him. Bond could hear the telltale whisper of another one of those awful coughs on the horizon.

Bond was quick on his feet - two steps to the right and he’d be directly in front of Q. He could make it. In the confusion, M might be able to grab his gun and shoot someone. Maybe Q could grab Bond’s gun and-

“Two.”

There’s no way they’d survive. It was a lost cause. There was only one thing to do.

“One.”

Bond lowered his gun. Q swore.

“Good boy,” Not-Q cooed, making Bond’s upper lip curl. “Now, drop it.”

His tone resembled one used to speak to a dog but Bond didn’t rise to the bait. Slowly, he let the gun slip out of his hands and clatter to the floor, making sure to click the safety back in place first. He cursed internally (Q cursed externally again). He should have been able to figure out another way.

Bond took a step back as Q practically doubled over against his knees, coughing up a storm. Bond never took his eyes off the gun trained on his Quartermaster.

“Your turn,” he bit out.

Following a nod from Not-Q, both bodyguards lowered their guns. Bond dropped down to Q’s side and one hand automatically found his back, rubbing rhythmic circles as Q hacked up his lungs.

“Now, isn’t this better,” Not-Q said with a smile. “Space for a civil conversation.”

Q spat and raised his head, glaring up at his counterpart with anger blazing in his gaze. “I would point out that you’re the one who pulled a gun in the first place.”

Bond wished, just this once, that Q would hold his tongue.

Not-Q smirked at Bond, nodding his head towards Q as he said, “He’s got a quick tongue. I can see why you like him.”

Bond didn’t miss the innuendo but nor did he let his somewhat embarrassed response show on his face. Q, apparently having heard Bond’s silent wish, said nothing. Or perhaps it was because he was too busy panting, leaning heavily to one side in his seat and apparently fighting just to keep himself conscious. His glassy eyes blinked rapidly behind his glasses and for a moment Bond was afraid that Q would faint and, consequently, that his sudden movement might trigger gunfire he had no hope of stopping.

But Q caught Bond’s eye and the strained smile he sent in Bond’s direction was at least somewhat reassuring.

Don’t break down yet, he heard himself saying in his head; the same words he’d said to Q earlier. His brain was speeding through possible next moves faster than he could even contemplate them but he hadn’t yet managed to settle on anything concrete.

“What, precisely, are you hoping to achieve by keeping us trapped here, Mr Driver?” asked M’s voice from behind Bond. “Surely you must be aware of our extensive security. Killing us here would be a death sentence for you.”

Bond had to hand it to Mallory; he wasn’t her, but he was a damn good M.

Not-Q (Bond pointedly refused to call him anything else) simply smiled. “You’re quite the fool, Mallory, if you truly believe me to be the same Marcus Driver who gained Olivia Mansfield’s trust. Or do you really think so little of your predecessor that you imagine she’d be fooled into trusting a traitor?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” M retorted harshly.

Bond scowled. Alec’s - Trevelyan's, his brain corrected him - betrayal had cut deep for M almost as much as it had Bond. They’d trained together, drank together, laughed together, entertained the thought of sleeping together; he pushed down the spark of anger that flared up against Mallory.

Q’s body suddenly convulsed in on itself as he stifled a sneeze, apparently putting all his energy into keeping quiet. Bond saw Hired Muscle #1’s gun twitch in his hand at the movement and felt a leap of anxiety in his throat but he pushed it down.

Later, he reprimanded himself.

“Mr Driver,” M continued patiently. “Is there really any need to have those two guarding the door like that? I hardly think any of us are planning to make a run for it.”

Not-Q smiled indulgently. “Perhaps not but I wouldn’t want anyone interrupting our time together.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. What the hell was Mallory doing?

“What do you want from MI6, Mr Driver?” M asked calmly. “It must be something quite important if you’re willing to kill all three of us.”

Not-Q’s smile widened. “I already have what I want.”

Bond caught Q’s almighty eye-roll out of the corner of his eye and felt his lips twitch in amusement. In the field, he’d often heard Q’s snarky commentary in his ear on the inexplicable tendency of targets to play mind games with his agents.

Yeah, whatever, Doctor Doom, get to the point, said Q’s voice in his head and Bond disguised an amused huff as a cough. Not-Q looked at him sharply.

“Something amusing, agent?”

Bond smirked. “Oh, no. Just marvelling at your complete lack of finesse.”

A vein in Not-Q’s temple began pulsing and Bond could see his anger in the set of his jaw. He tried to imagine what Q would say in his ear right now. Probably something exasperated. Q’s tone was frequently exasperated when it came to Bond.

A movement by the desk had one of the guards aiming his gun at Mallory who put his hands up, knees bent comically as though he was in the middle of standing up. The other guard, apparently spooked by this, had his gun trained on Q again.

“Just taking a seat,” Mallory said, sitting down slowly and putting his hands flat on the desk in front of him. Bond was starting to get quite sick of having guns pointed at everybody but him. “You don’t mind do you?”

Not-Q frowned but said nothing. Slowly, the guards lowered their guns once more and Bond breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“After all, both my agents are seated. I was starting to feel left out. I’d join them by the filing cabinet but I think I’d rather be at my desk.”

For the first time since he’d surrendered his weapon, Bond felt a surge of hope that they might get out of there alive. From where he was, he couldn’t see any indication that M’s intercom was active but if he were a betting man - and he was - he’d put everything he had on that being the case. M was broadcasting the layout of the room and the people in it straight to Eve Moneypenny’s earpiece.

Bond glanced at his watch, being careful to move only his eyes. By his estimate, it had been about three minutes since they’d been interrupted and Bond was sure M had activated the intercom as soon as the situation turned sour. Eve should have assembled a team in about-

The door flew open with a bang followed by a flurry of gunfire and Bond moved to yank Q down to the ground but found himself unexpectedly stopped in his tracks and he jolted backwards and overbalanced.

Blood blossomed across the shoulder of Bond’s shirt and he barely had time to grunt in pain before all three of the traitors were on the ground. The two hired muscles were dead, bleeding out all over Mallory’s carpet. But Not-Q had been shot in the back of his knees and was hissing in pain in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Bond glanced up at Eve who was lowering her gun and grimaced. “I hope you’re not planning to make a habit of shooting me,” he grumbled, pressing his hand into his bleeding shoulder.

Eve pulled off her light-brown jacket and balled it up, pressing it to Bond’s shoulder to stem the bleeding. “I’m sure you’ll do something to deserve it,” she muttered as she pushed harder, making Bond grunt again.

“Once is bad luck. Twice is just careless,” he sniped.

“Well, one in each shoulder. Should balance you out,” Eve quipped back, glancing over her shoulder at where Q was starting to stand on shaky legs. “Q, so help me god, if you don’t get your arse back in that seat I’ll shoot you too.”

Q had the good sense not to doubt her and collapsed back into his chair, looking more like a ragdoll than a man.

“How do you still have a licence to carry that thing?” Bond grouched, repositioning himself so his back was leaning against the filing cabinet and taking over applying pressure to his wound. The pain was thudding through his entire body but he suspected the residual adrenaline was doing something to keep him sensible.

“Medical are on their way for both of you,” said M, looking between Bond and Q with an expression as close to concern as it ever seemed to get. “I’ll get your reports on this whole business tomorrow. I expect you’ll be spending the night.”

Bond had never in his entire career spent a night in Medical. He’d been cajoled into several hospital stays but never a prolonged stint in Vauxhall Cross’s medical wing. Q though. Bond shot his Quartermaster an anxious glance and saw him looking more pallid than ever. He shut his eyes, focusing on breathing. Fuck. This was almost definitely his least favourite part of this job. Getting shot, no matter how many times it happened, never hurt any less.

“One minute,” said M and Bond opened his eyes to find M’s gaze fixed on him. He must look really bad.

Something scraped over to Bond’s right and he turned, at the same time thinking that Not-Q had fallen awfully quiet. By the time Bond saw Not-Q’s hand deactivating the safety on his bodyguard’s discarded gun, it was too late to do anything. There was an almighty bang and Bond’s heart leapt into his mouth.

Q...

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas (7/9)

Q had been expecting another painfully long jaunt through the underground system but mercifully Bond ran to the edge of the pavement, one hand in the air, and yelled, “Taxi!”

The inside of the cab was wonderfully warm and Q huddled into himself in the hopes of preserving as much heat as possible. The sudden temperature change made his nose run something awful so the borrowed handkerchief was near permanently attached to his face but Q was happy to suffer a little in that regard if it meant he might be able to stop shivering.

“Vauxhall Cross,” Bond said curtly and the cab driver’s eyes raked over Q’s haggard appearance.

“Rough day?” He asked faintly.

“Quite,” said Bond.

The cab driver stopped trying to strike up conversation after a mere glance at Bond’s harsh glare and Q was grateful for the peace. It lulled him into such a wonderful sense of calm and security that he let his head fall onto Bond’s shoulder, eyes drooping shut. The surprise he felt when Bond’s arm wound round his waist was completely overruled by his exhaustion. He dozed, snuffling quietly all the way there.

“Q,” Bond’s voice broke through Q’s hazy half-dreams.

Opening his eyes, Q was momentarily panicked because he couldn’t see a damn thing but Bond was soon offering his glasses which looked strange in his weather-worn hand. Usually, he held a gun there; it was almost incongruent to see him holding something as fragile as a pair of glasses.

“You took m’glasses?” Q asked stupidly, ducking into the handkerchief to let out a single barking cough.

Bond patted his back and tugged the door open. “You looked uncomfortable.”

Q nodded. Though the first time Q had registered Bond’s apparent interest in his health was that morning, he was all too quickly getting used to having someone look out for him in little ways like that. Well, and big ways; Bond was currently helping him escape hunters which Q would definitely classify as Big Way.

By the time Bond had helped him out of the taxi, Q had regained some of his wits about him. Despite all the napping he’d been doing recently, he felt dead on his feet. A bath and his own bed sounded like just the ticket but he supposed the couch in his Q-Branch office would do in a pinch.

Q shook his head to clear it. There were more important things at stake than a healthy sleep schedule, damn it. His people were in danger. M needed to be briefed and Q should really double check the active mission logs for anything which might suggest one of his agents was now a target. He should also get on comms with 005 to make sure the Serbia retrieval was on track and there was a mountain of paperwork he’d been meaning to get to stacked on his desk.

Resigned, Q let out a throaty sigh as Bond dragged him through security. Without his ID, Q had worried he’d have trouble making it into the building but Bond’s double-oh status meant he was entitled to do pretty much anything to ensure a positive mission outcome; getting unidentified Quartermasters past the poor sods on the security desk was hardly a colossal challenge.

It took Q a moment to realise that he was not, in fact, being led down to Q-Branch but past the lifts and along to-

“007,” Q said sharply, yanking his arm out of Bond’s grip with strength that surprised even himself. If Bond was surprised, his face betrayed nothing. “I’m needed in Q-Branch.”

Bond quirked an infuriating smile. “You’re really not. In case you’ve forgotten in all the excitement, you’ve got the day off. Sick day,” Bond clarified needlessly, tapping Q’s sore chest with his index finger. “Remember?” He asked cheekily.

“That was before a security breach put lives in jeopardy,” Q huffed, flouncing off towards the nearest staircase. Well, he tried to flounce but it became more of a trudge within a few steps and moments later Bond was redirecting him to the lifts.

“If I can’t convince you to go to Medical, at least save your breath on the stairs,” he reasoned.

On another day, Q might have taken the stairs out of sheer spite but apparently spite wasn’t a good enough motivator when his lungs felt like they were full of wet cement. Reluctantly, Q let Bond steer him into the nearest lift.

The moment the doors opened, revealing the bustling Q-Branch ahead, Q began to regret his decision.

Fuck, he thought. Fucking cat pyjamas.

R saw him first but it didn’t take long for the other minions to spot him. The chatter finally petered out and Q was left shuffling awkwardly, suddenly very aware of his ramshackle appearance.

“Sir?” R breathed, shocked as she stepped forward, her usual wariness of James Bond apparently overruled by her concern for her boss. Her shocked professionalism quickly dissolved into something else after she gave Q the once over. “Q, love, what are you doing here?”

Q felt Bond stiffen next to him but didn’t pay much attention. He was too bloody tired to analyse the ins and outs of Bond’s psychology right now.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. He wished everybody would stop staring. R seemed to notice too because she turned sharply on her heel and the minions were pointedly avoiding eye contact within moments. If nothing else, Q was glad to know that his minions were in good hands; he still wasn’t comfortable with this concept of a temporary Q running the place, especially since he hadn’t met the man. Of course, Olivia Mansfield’s recommendation put Q at ease somewhat but he’d still have preferred being able to brief the new Q on how they did things.

(Thinking of this stranger as Q, thinking of his minions, his agents, addressing him as such made Q feel a little wobbly. He wasn’t normally this insecure but he felt undeniably hurt by the thought nonetheless.)

The compact headset Q usually wore was attached round R’s right ear which gave him pause.

“You’re co-ordinating?” He asked with a frown.

R rolled her eyes. “Your replacement leaves much to be desired. Do me a favour and don’t get sick again for the foreseeable future?”

Q felt a smile tug at his lips. “I’ll do my best.”

“Speaking of which, you should sit down,” R said suddenly, swiftly grabbing Q’s hand and dragging him through the branch in the direction of his office with Bond following closely behind. “I assume if you’re here it must be something important though I would have pegged you as the type to get dressed before coming to work. Lord, Q, did you take a wander round London on your way here?”

Bond frowned. “M didn’t brief you?”

R’s brow furrowed, concern flashing in her face. She was hardly trained in observation to the same standard as the agents but she was clever. Ushering Bond and Q inside, she shut the door to Q’s glass office and pressed the button to turn the walls opaque. Q wasted no time settling himself on the couch since his legs felt like they might give way any minute.

“What happened?” R asked solemnly, eyes raking over Q’s miserable, shivering form. “Oh shit you actually have been all over London today, haven’t you? Were you followed? Who were they?”

Q could see R’s brain whirring at one hundred miles per hour but he could scarcely draw breath to get a word in edgeways.

“What…” She frowned and looked at Bond as though she’d just registered him. “007, what are you doing here?”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I happened to be visiting Q when we experienced an urgent need to relocate.”

“Visiting?” R said skeptically.

“I needed his help with something,” Bond amended.

R scowled. “He’s off sick. I distinctly remember M saying he wasn’t to be disturbed.”

“Thank you, R, but I was happy for the distraction,” Q sighed, closing his eyes.

Bond and R continued to argue but Q tuned them out. He felt like every part of his body was clamoring for attention; his head thumped and his chest itched and his limbs felt terribly heavy. There was a sneeze brewing somewhere deep in his sinuses but Q was too tired to coax it out. It was all so much and Q felt so bloody dreadful that he would have burst into ugly tears then and there had it not been for Bond’s gentle hand on his shoulder, R’s fingers squeezing his knee.

They’d stopped talking, apparently. Q opened his eyes to find the pair of them exchanging a series of concerned looks and nods. He sighed.

“I’m not going to Medical,” he said before either of them could say anything.

“Q-”

“I need to sort out this mess and brief M and-”

R cut him off. “007 has filled me in on the situation. I can handle it from here. You need your bed, love.”

(Bond’s fingers tightened almost possessively on Q’s shoulder.)

Q mustered his sternest expression which usually had R and the minions standing to attention. Some of the effect must have been lost with his pallid skin and dark-ringed eyes, however, because R simply clucked in that disapproving way she did when a minion handed her shoddy paperwork.

“If you can’t go home, at least go to Medical,” R said and Q couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Between R and Bond, Q was starting to feel like a disobedient child. Before he could protest that he had a job to do, R continued, “You’ve been locked out of MI6 computers until you’ve been cleared by a doctor.”

This blatant insubordination startled a cough out of Q which certainly didn’t help his case. R put the tissue box from the desk on his lap and Q pressed a handful over his mouth. He was certain Bond and R were communicating in that silent language again but he couldn’t breathe and he didn’t care. Even Q had to admit, his chest sounded bad. He should go to Medical but, at this point, that would be giving in and Q was nothing if not stubborn.

“I can just hack back in,” he muttered when his lungs had finally calmed.

R raised an eyebrow. “Q, love, don’t take this personally but you couldn’t code your way through Hello World in this state.”

Q didn’t have the energy to be affronted by that.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “I’ll go to Medical but only after I’ve spoken to M.”

R gave a resigned sigh.

“Come on then,” Bond said, pulling Q to his feet but Q tugged his wrists out of Bond’s hands the second he was on his feet.

“I have to change first,” he said.

Bond looked him up and down. “You look fine.”

Q shot R a long-suffering look. She hid a smile behind her hand.

“I can’t meet M in my pyjamas!” He said incredulously, not quite believing he was having to explain this. “It’s...it’s unprofessional.”

“It’ll be fine,” Bond said lightly. “You can wear my jacket.”

R snorted.

“It’s missing an arm, Bond,” Q reminded him and shooed them both out of his office without another word. He heard them laugh together behind the door.

Traitors.

~

“Ah, 007,” greeted M as they entered his office. His eyes widened when he laid eyes on his Quartermaster. “Q, you look like death warmed over.”

“Yes, sir,” Q agreed weakly, thankful for the change of clothes he kept in his office at all times. He didn’t think he’d survive the humiliation of Mallory seeing him in his night clothes. Bond was bad enough but his boss was where he drew the line.

M looked Q up and down before turning his attention to Bond. “007. A report, if you please.”

Bond’s report was brief and clipped. Professional, Q would say, which was certainly not a word he had ever used before to describe James ‘I parked the car at the bottom of the Tiber’ Bond. Q listened with only a half-hearted interest, wondering why he’d been so insistent on seeing M when clearly he wasn’t going to get a chance to say anything.

The ache in Q’s chest was almost suffocating and he found himself wishing he’d agreed to go straight to Medical after all. He wanted to say that the agents might be in danger but Bond seemed to be on top of that. He wanted to offer his services and say he’d be down in Q-Branch if anybody needed him and just walk right out the door. But all he could do was lean heavily against the filing cabinet and let Bond’s voice wash over him.

Quite without warning, a rush of intense dizziness flooded through him and Q’s knees buckled.

“Bond,” he found himself choking without really meaning to.

Bond turned and, upon seeing Q was rapidly approaching a physical collapse, bridged the short distance between them and caught him, lowering them both to the ground far more gently than Q could have managed on his own. Bond’s hand came to rest worriedly on Q’s forehead and the Quartermaster couldn’t suppress a groan of relief at feeling Bond’s cool fingers on his skin.

“You’re burning,” Bond said and M was crouched next to them but Q didn’t remember him moving.

M touched Q’s shoulder. “Q?”

But Q couldn’t summon the breath to say anything. He was coughing again and feeling very suddenly like he might throw up. The dizziness only grew with every feeble attempt to just breathe. He heard Bond and M talking over his head. He heard the distinct and shockingly unfamiliar notes of panic in Bond’s tone and reached for his hand (or where he thought Bond would have left his hand, at least) to reassure him that it was okay, just a cough.

“M’s calling Medical,” Bond told him quietly as Q’s coughs subsided. Exhausted, Q let his head come to rest on Bond’s shoulder, feeling his entire body turn to jelly against the agent’s side.

“Don’t need Medical,” said Q petulantly.

Bond chuckled. “I’m going to have to overrule you there.”

Q wanted to explain that, actually, he outranked Bond in this organisation. He wanted to tell him very succinctly that he was allowed to give Bond orders - not that he ever followed them - but that such privileges absolutely did not work in reverse. (Thank God, really.) He wanted to tell Bond in no uncertain terms that he was the goddamn head of Q-Branch and answered directly to M and only M.

However, what he actually said was, “You’re not the boss of me.”

(“I am, supposedly,” Mallory muttered.)

Bond laughed heartily then, shaking Q’s body which was still held close to his. Q was trying hard not to notice how firm Bond’s arms were. They were, by the way, extremely firm and being held in them was...very nice.

“Well, I can’t have my Quartermaster out of action. I need you in my ear to get my arse out of trouble,” said Bond, voice still full of mirth before he very suddenly became serious. “I never thanked you, by the way - for Skyfall.”

Q frowned. “Least I could do. My own bloody fault,” he wheezed.

“It wasn’t-” Bond started to say but the building anxiety Q had been experiencing since that morning bubbled to the surface before he could stop it and he pushed Bond away.

“I let him in!” Q snapped. “To tell you the truth, I’m getting quite sick of being the weak link in my own damn security sys..tem hh...hEHYISHHOO! Fuck!”

While Q dissolved into a painful coughing fit, he felt his anger ebb away as quickly as it had arrived and tears sprung unbidden to his eyes. Well, this was certainly unprofessional.

“Q,” Bond said quietly, pulling the Quartermaster into his arms again.

Q whispered a tearful apology into Bond’s shirt.

“It’s not your fault. You’re sick and you’ve been dragged round half of London. Anybody would be on a short fuse after the day you’ve had.”

Following some silent communication, Bond and M hauled Q to his feet before promptly depositing him in one of the chairs by M’s desk. Bond plucked a tissue from M’s half-finished box and pressed it into Q’s hand.

“You’d better clean yourself up or Stella will take one look at you and demand a month’s bedrest,” he teased cautiously, clearly relieved when Q cracked a smile.

“Speak of the devil,” said M at the sound of approaching footsteps.

However, it wasn’t Stella (the head nurse at Medical and absolutely not a woman you would want to meet in a dark alleyway) who entered M’s office with a brisk knock but Q’s temporary replacement. He was older than Bond by a good few years with thinning grey hair and carried a clipboard under one arm with paper notes. Q despaired, he really did.

Not-Q’s eyes widened slightly when he saw Q settled in one of M’s chairs. Clearly he hadn’t been expecting him to look quite such a wreck.

“Yes, Quartermaster?” M said curtly and it might have hurt Q to hear his title directed at somebody else (and somebody who still used paper notes, at that!) had M’s tone not suggested that he didn’t particularly care for the temporary Q.

“Apologies, Sir,” said Not-Q with a frown. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

At these words, two hulking men stepped into M’s office and the unease which spread through the room had Bond’s hand resting on his gun as he instinctively moved to put his body between Not-Q and the others.

M’s eyebrows furrowed. “What is the meaning of this?” He asked sharply.

Not-Q’s smile was decidedly unfriendly. “Oh, Mallory, I do wish you’d told me you had company,” he said, putting his hands on his hips and pushing his suit jacket back in the process, revealing the gun tucked into his waistband. “I’d have brought enough bullets to go round.”

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas - 00Q (5/9)

(i just posted part 8 on the forum so i’m queuing the rest of these here too since i realised i totally didn’t finish doing that so i’ll space them out by a few hours each so i don’t clog your dash)

Q was afraid - terrified, really.

The back of the café led onto an estate with skyrise flats. It reminded Q of where he’d grown up but he didn’t get much time for reminiscing because Bond grabbed his free hand and pulled him along behind as he broke into a run.

Q’s chest burned with the exertion and he let out a rattling cough towards the ground but, even though Bond slowed down a little and looked back with concern, Q pushed himself on. He was not going to die today; not when his agents might still be in danger. Well, Bond was always in danger somehow. Even intelligence-gathering missions ended in a shootout with him. Q was surprised he didn’t have more grey hairs, really.

Running barefoot was excruciating and Q let out a shriek of pain as he stepped on a particularly jagged rock, making a gash in the sole of his foot. “Bastard!”

Bond drew to a halt.

“What...are you...doing?” Q puffed, one hand on his wheezing chest as he fought for breath, grateful for the respite despite the pounding fear. Bond’s jacket was draped over his arm now since it had been falling off during their run. Bond swiftly ripped the arm off. “Bond?” Q gasped, shocked.

“Sit down, Q,” Bond said roughly and Q plonked himself down on the nearest wall. Bond immediately set about pulling out the inside lining of the sleeve.

Upon realising Bond’s plan, Q said hurriedly, “007, I really don’t think this is the time for you to play nurse.”

Bond scowled up at Q as he started tightly binding his injured foot. “Call me cautious but I’d rather you didn’t get an infection and running around with an open wound where we’re going makes that highly likely.”

Q didn’t get a chance to ask exactly where that was before Bond tied the lining tight over Q’s wound, making him wince. Bond grunted out an apology and tied another knot before pulling Q to his feet and they were off running again, this time keeping a close eye on the ground for anything else that might cause injury.

Though Q had gone through the mandatory MI6 fitness tests - which were admittedly a lot more lenient than the double-oh program requirements - he was finding it extremely difficult to keep up with Bond. His body screamed at him to just stop but his terror and maybe a little bit of adrenaline spurred him on. He’d never live it down if he admitted it to Bond but he was starting to understand the thrill of risk-taking. And not the usual type of risks Q took with hacking into classified servers. No, this - this was something else.

And Q liked it.

Of course, he’d probably like it more if he could bloody breathe.

“Oyster?” Bond asked as they came to an abrupt stop. Q could only blink at him. Bond rolled his eyes. “Oyster card. Do you have it on you?”

Q shot him a weary look. “Yes, 007. I always keep my Oyster card in my pyjama pocket in case of near-death situations.”

He meant for it to be scathing but some of the effect was lost by his breathlessness and the two kittenish sneezes which followed right after.

isstch! hng’iTschh!

“Never mind. I’ve got a spare,” Bond said, pulling him into Leicester Square station and through the ticket barriers. “And bless you.”

Q wiped his nose on his sleeve for the second time that day, feeling disgusted with himself and quite self-conscious of the fact that he was still in his kitten pyjamas. But at least they were in the tube station now. They could get the Northern Line down to Stockwell and then the Victoria to Vauxhall (and MI6). The idea of sitting - even on the tube - sounded like heaven to Q’s aching limbs. When Bond pulled him towards the Piccadilly Line, however, Q had to pause. Well, he supposed to Piccadilly would take them to Green Park and then they could get the Victoria to Vauxhall. Right?

(Wrong, apparently.)

They were off the train again at Piccadilly Circus and Q was being dragged along to wait for the Bakerloo Line to take them even further north and even further away from MI6.

“Is there anything else you need to do on that laptop?” Bond asked as they took a seat on an empty bench.

Q looked down at his lap where his trembling hands held said laptop against his thighs. He shivered, suddenly remembering exactly why they were running and had it really only been this morning that he’d been curled up with his cat watching Pride and Prejudice? It felt like an eternity. He felt sick.

“Q?” Bond said, one hand on Q’s back and the other taking the laptop from him. He forced Q’s head between his knees. “Deep breaths. Try not to hack up a lung.”

Q might have laughed had he not been so busy fighting the panicked nausea swirling in his stomach. Instead, he just focused on breathing without aggravating his poor chest. His nose dripped in this position and he jammed one hand under it to keep it from leaking onto the platform. He stared down at his feet, both bare and one covered in a bloody makeshift bandage. Tears welled in his eyes; he was a wreck and there were armed people after them and he was pretty sure his fever had spiked given how upset he suddenly found himself.

The rumbling of the tracks signalled the train’s arrival. Bond crouched in front of him and gently lifted Q’s head.

“Don’t break down yet, okay?” He said with a voice that was soft but firm. “Once we’re somewhere safe, you can get it all out but right now I need us both to have our wits about us.”

Bond took his hand and Q wondered how they were so steady. He supposed they had to be. Bond had to be able to shoot people at any time. Right now, however, his steady hand was an asset in a different way as a comfort to the panicked Quartermaster.

As Bond led them onto the train, Q took a final deep breath and sat down. Bond took his usual seat across from him. Q wished briefly that Bond would sit next to him so he wouldn’t have to let go of his hand but he pushed that thought aside. They needed to be able to see everything. This made more sense.

Q felt another sneeze building and pinched his nose shut, stifling it silently. And then another. And another.

“Bugger,” he muttered, sniffling thickly. At Bond’s questioning look, he said, “I left the bag at the café.”

Bond sighed. “Did you at least take some medicine?”

Thinking back, Q honestly couldn’t remember. As his energy failed him, he offered Bond a mere shrug and shut his eyes.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Bond warned quietly.

“Piss off,” Q muttered which made Bond chuckle.

Not two minutes later, Q was pulled to his feet again and they were making their way along the platform at Oxford Circus (why did London have so many bloody circuses?) only to be dragged...right back on the train again.

“What-” He began but Bond cut him off.

“False change,” Bond muttered, his voice sounding that way it did when he was focused. “Throw them off the scent.”

Q nodded. Of course. He’d suggested agents do exactly this when being traced. He knew exactly what a false change was so why was he acting like one of Bond’s confused flings? Too exhausted to contemplate this, he slumped down on the nearest seat and shut his eyes. After a moment, he felt Bond’s hand pressed against his cheek.

“Your fever’s gone up,” he noted. Q grunted in response. “Have you done everything you need to do with this laptop?”

“Yeah,” Q breathed. Bond still hadn’t removed his hand. It felt good.

“We’ll leave it here. It’s got to be how they tracked us.”

“M’kay.”

Bond took his seat next to Q this time and Q was frankly feeling too atrocious to question it. When his head fell sleepily onto Bond’s shoulder, he didn’t question Bond’s apparent indifference to the situation either.

What felt like seconds later they were off the train again and back on the same line in the other direction and then they were back at Oxford bloody Circus. Q was allowing himself to be dragged through the station with his legs feeling like jelly when Bond suddenly jerked to the side and Q found his arm nearly dislocated as he was dragged into a service corridor.

Bond put a finger over his lips and peered through the grate. Q watched with him as the same suited men he’d seen outside the café came to a stop. In an absolutely typical show of terrible timing, Q felt his breath start to hitch.

Despite Bond putting his finger to his lips, Q couldn’t contain the soft hitching breaths nor the growing itch in his nose. The suits were talking in the corridor and Q wished they would just move on already as he jammed a finger under his nose and pressed hard.

“Q,” Bond whispered desperately. “Not now.”

Q shot him a watery glare. He was perfectly aware that sneezing now would be nothing short of a disaster, thank you very much, 007. He supposed he could try to stifle silently like he’d done before but he didn’t think it was worth the risk. Stifling was an imperfect art; better to hold it back.

His lungs clenched at the pressure put on them, breath itching in and out. As if a building sneeze wasn’t enough, each desperate breath made him feel like a hacking cough was just on the horizon. He let out an involuntary ahh and squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing harshly at his cherry-red nose and up into the corners of his eyes.

Holding it back was proving difficult. He could barely breathe without the tickle growing stronger. He could feel his nose running and went to press his sleeve over it for the third time like some kind of heathen when Bond pressed a handkerchief over his face. He offered a look of solidarity as Q took it from him.

“They’re going. Just a little long-”

But Q couldn’t hold on anymore. He toppled forwards into Bond’s handkerchief with a near-silent stifle but his nose wasn’t finished with him. One more stifle had his head pounding and then-

hhnYISHk! eng’ISHHOOh! hhiHZZHSHEW!

“Gesun-”

“N-not...done…”

hh...hhEHYSHHOO! ngh

Bond waited a moment this time before offering his gesundheit. Q blew his nose and let out a throaty, congested sigh. When he opened his watery eyes, he caught what might be described as a smile on Bond’s face but then he blinked and it was abruptly gone.

“Come on,” Bond said, grabbing Q’s hand again and dragging them onto the Victoria Line. Q stuffed the handkerchief into his chest pocket. Somehow, he didn’t think Bond would want it back; at least not until it had been washed.

Q coughed quietly into Bond’s shoulder and again didn’t ask why he’d chosen to sit beside him for the second time when facing each other would have made more sense. His nose still itched but it had settled to a dull roar which was much more manageable.

“What’d you do w’the laptop?” He mumbled and the question earned Bond’s hand on his burning forehead.

“I told you. I left it on the last train,” Bond said. “It’s on its way to Wembley.”

Q nodded. “Good thinking, 007. Maybe you don’t need me after all.”

He meant for it to sound light-hearted but, with his throat torn up from coughing, it came out more pitiful. Bond didn’t say anything but the way his arm wound round Q’s body and pulled him close said enough. On a better day, Q might have pulled back, might have snarked and grumbled and told Bond exactly where he could shove his pity - but he didn’t. Truth be told, Q craved this comfort right now and he wasn’t stupid enough to refuse it.

His nose was running again. Q ignored it.

“We’re getting off in just a second, Q,” Bond whispered against Q’s hair.

Q shifted, confused. “Vauxhall already?”

“We’re not going to HQ, yet,” Bond said, making Q sit up and give himself an awful headrush. He took his glasses off and rubbed his temples. “I...I’ve got a bad feeling.”

Q frowned. He’d known Bond long enough to know how good his instincts were. After short scrutiny of his face, he nodded.

Bond led him off the train at the next station and onto the District Line where they travelled to-

“Temple,” Q noted obviously as he stepped onto the platform, feeling the cold of the concrete platform numbing his toes. When they finally got back to HQ, he planned to wear at least four pairs of socks for the rest of the day.

Temple tube station - where Bond had chased after Silva following his escape. Q remembered it well.

Put your back into it.

Why don’t you come down here and put your back into it.

Q smiled fondly at the memory. But his smile quickly became a groaning frown as Bond led him into the service corridor and revealed what he’d just remembered came next - stairs. A lot of stairs.

With Bond right behind him, Q started up the stairs on wobbling legs. He just needed to sit down. Just needed to sit down. Please just let me sit down.

Climbing the ladders was painful on his feet, especially the injured one, but finally, wheezing and sweaty and with a dizzyingly high fever, Q finally let Bond gently push him up the last few steps and into the underground base they’d used following the explosion at Vauxhall Cross.

Finally, Q’s legs gave out on him and he sat down heavily against the nearest wall, instinctively curling into himself against the bitter chill of the place.

Just five minutes, he thought and shut his eyes. Just five minutes.

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas - 00Q (4/9)

Two and a half minutes both dragged and raced by for Q. It wasn’t a lot of time to get everything done even without the persistent exhaustion making him slow but it was also a long time to have to hold his concentration with a fever boiling his brain. The room held its tension in the silence of Q’s companions as he typed and typed, eyes unblinking in the face of pressure. He was just thankful those horrible building sneezes didn’t disrupt him at what would have been an extremely inopportune moment.

The timer on Ellen’s laptop let out a beep just as Q’s screen froze before turning blue - Christ how old was this thing? - and he sat back on the sofa with a sigh.

“Q?” Bond’s voice sounded far away. Q shut his eyes. Just for a moment. “Q, we have to move.”

Q let out a yawn. “Five more minutes,” he countered but Bond was already dragging him to his feet where he swayed unstably, barely managing to see where he was going before he was bundled back into Bond’s car (sans cat food this time). They were already on their way before Q realised that he’d forgotten his blanket.

“Damn,” he cursed quietly to himself. That was his favourite blanket.

If Bond heard him, he didn’t comment. Q was grateful for that because he was feeling nothing short of dreadful. His face ached with congestion and he could feel a similar pressure settling deep in his lungs. Now really wasn’t the time to be contracting pneumonia but, well, he always did have a bit of a weak chest. Generally, it wasn’t a problem in Q-Branch where he was surrounded by several loyal minions who willingly brought him an endless supply of hot lemon and honey.

Q could only hope it wasn’t going to be a problem now that he was stuck in the field with James bloody Bond. As long as he didn’t have to do too much running he should be fi-

Q glanced at Bond in the driver’s seat and very quickly remembered every mission Bond had ever been on. His heart sank. Yeah, running was undoubtedly going to become necessary at some point.

“ishh’nkg!”

Ducking his head down into his chest, Q squashed the sneeze with his palm, sending a pulse of aching pressure across his cheeks. He winced. Bond muttered a soft gesundheitand Q almost expected to be reprimanded for stifling what with the tension in Bond’s jaw.

He was by no means a field agent, but Q was as observant as they came. Bond had been restless since he first arrived at Q’s flat though he’d hidden it well with banter and stoicism. But Q saw enough of Bond to know that he was acting out of sorts. It was obvious to him now - though the fever had made putting the pieces together difficult - that Bond harboured some kind of...affection for him. Bond saw him as more than a colleague, that much was obvious. If he were feeling bold, Q might go as far as to say that Bond was starting to consider him a friend.

For some strange reason, that made Q smile. He’d never been one for friends before but with Bond...well, perhaps he could get used to the idea.

“Right,” Bond said, startling Q from his bizarrely sentimental thoughts as he pulled into a parking space. Q blinked. “Any specifics for this laptop?”

It took Q a moment to notice that they were parked outside of PC World (the best of both worlds). “Um,” he said, feeling quite unexpectedly tongue-tied. “Core i7 would be best but don’t get anything below an i5 or it’ll take me ten years to get into MI6’s server. I’ll need at least 8GB of RAM but don’t worry about storage memory because-”

Q stopped, noting Bond’s confused expression with exasperation and starting to open the passenger door, swinging his legs out into the cold. “I should just come with you,” he said, suppressing a violent shiver which made him draw instinctively closer to himself.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Q. You’re not even wearing shoes,” Bond scoffed and Q frowned.

“Well, whose fault is that?” He countered. “Didn’t they teach you Cold Care 101 in double-oh training? Dragging someone around London without shoes is considered unadvisable.”

Bond’s ever-snappy reply didn’t come as Q expected. Instead, he lowered his voice and said, “Get back in the car, Q, or you’ll get frostbite.”

Stunned by his agent’s sudden change in demeanor, Q did just that. Bond’s tone had come far too close to gentle for either of their liking, judging by the way Bond cleared his throat and promptly escaped from the car without a word, leaving Q to ponder what the fuck just happened.

He didn’t get much time to ponder it, however, before his nose had other ideas and his eyes were fluttering half-open half-shut in that ridiculous way that made him look dazed and confused. His chest heaved (and wheezed but Q’s attention was occupied elsewhere and so he paid it little mind), expanded. He was right on the brink but he couldn't, he couldn’t quite get there. His hand came up to hover by his nose though he didn’t remember consciously deciding to do that. And just as he felt like his lungs had reached maximum capacity, he took another gasping breath and

“ehhTISHHhOO! hh’hiinGISHHOO! ehh… oh ngh… ahHh hhikyh’ITSSKHEW!”

Q slapped a hand over his runny nose, wildly glancing outside to see if anybody had witnessed his embarrassment but he seemed to be in luck. Well, it was about time something went his way today. As he rifled through the glove compartment for some tissues, however, he found that his luck was extremely short lived.

“And back to our regularly scheduled programming,” he muttered to himself, finally giving up on his hunt for anything to clean himself up with. Eventually, he looked at his sleeve and grimaced. Apparently he was stooping to several new lows today.

With his nose mopped up as best it could be given the situation, Q settled back against the chair and sighed. He still rather desperately needed to blow his nose but he could hardly go wandering into Tesco barefoot in bright red pyjamas looking like death warmed up. But he could certainly do with a tissue. Why hadn’t he thought to tuck a space handkerchief into the pocket on the chest of his pyjamas for situations just like this one? Clearly he was going to have to update his provisions to include supplies for surviving a fugitive situation with 007 and a nasty cold.

Q was abruptly awoken from his doze - when had he fallen asleep? - by 007 thundering back into the car. He instinctively clutched at his pounding head at the noise until a carrier bag landed in his arms. Curious, Q peered into the bag while Bond shoved a laptop box into the passenger footwell and started the engine.

Beecham’s Cold and Flu Relief. Kleenex. Bottle of water.

“What’s all this?” Q asked stupidly.

Bond cleared his throat, clearly feeling just as awkward as Q did. “I was passing a corner shop. Thought it might help.”

For the first time in a long time, Q found himself speechless. He muttered a breathless thanks before tearing into the tissues and giving his nose a much-needed blow. Without bothering with the medicine, he pulled up the laptop box and started setting it up on his lap.

“It’ll likely need charged,” Q noted as the laptop started booting up. It was a nice laptop. Bond had done well considering his limited technical expertise. By far Bond’s best trait when it came to gadgets was his uncanny ability to destroy any equipment he was given with spectacular flair.

Bond grunted. “There’s a café nearby with plugs. Two minutes.”

~

The café was small but modern with a crazy paving pattern on the stone floor; a stone floor which, unfortunately, nipped at Q’s cold toes. Any other time, he’d accuse Bond of either deliberate sabotage or poor planning but there were more important matters at hand so he instead focused his attention on making sure his agents didn’t die at his hands.

(Perhaps that was somewhat dramatic but Q blamed himself and if a single one of his people ended up dead, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to live with himself and he wasn’t really feeling up to supplying Bond with a constant stream of witty banter at the moment. So he focused. Quietly.)

“I’m going to contact M,” said Bond, finally ceasing his incessant fidgeting and disappearing onto the street to find a payphone. Bond had left his mobile at Ellen’s on the off-chance that Q’s hackers could trace them through it. It was a slim chance - they’d have to have an inside man at MI6 to make it even remotely feasible, really - but Bond had said he didn’t want to take chances. For once, Q had to agree.

So Q kept working and sipping at a blessedly hot cup of chamomile tea. He was too congested to taste it but the heat alone made him feel a little better. His nose still itched, though, and he had to scrub impatiently at his twitching nostrils every minute or so to quell the tickle.

Methodically, Q worked his way through the agents on the list, wiping their location data. Each agent he made disappear lifted a weight off his chest. He was just finishing off 009’s data removal when Bond returned, settling down in the seat opposite Q with what could only be described as an old man noise.

“I spoke to your replacement,” Bond said, voice laced with distaste. “He gave me some very interesting ideas about where to shove my gun.”

Q huffed a laugh. “Congratulations. You’ve managed to piss off your new Quartermaster in record time.”

“He’s not the Quartermaster,” said Bond with surprising force, making Q raise his eyebrows in surprise. Before he had much time to think on Bond’s reaction, he was speaking again. “He’s not competent enough to have earned that title. You should have seen him this morning, bumbling around Q-Branch like an overinflated idiot.”

“Careful, 007. You’re verging dangerously on sentimentality,” Q said with a teasing smile. Bond seemed to have a knack for bringing out Q’s trademark snark even when he felt utterly dreadful.

Bond chose not to respond to that, instead folding his arms on the table and saying, “Well, Not-Q suggested I get you to a safehouse and, shockingly, I’m inclined to agree with him.”

Q’s expression hardened. “No. I need to get to MI6 if I’m going to be of any use.”

“You won’t be of much use to anyone if you keel over on your keyboard,” Bond retorted.

“As you so kindly pointed you earlier, 007, it’s a cold. I’m hardly dying,” Q replied icily. He was in no mood to debate his level of responsibility in this whole mess but he felt a crushing weight of guilt resting on his chest coupled with an overwhelming desire to do anything to help. “MI6 is where I need to be, Bo-”

“Shh,” Bond said suddenly.

Q felt rage rise in his throat. “Bond, I-”

“Be quiet, Q,” Bond said desperately and it was only then that Q noticed the way Bond looked like a rabbit aware it was being hunted.

His eyes were trained on the wall behind Q which sported a large window and the café door. Turning in his seat, Q spotted a black car outside. A man emerged. When his suit jacket blew back as he got out of the car, Q saw that he was armed. His chest tightened.

“Q,” said Bond but terror had seized the Q’s motor functions and he found himself glued to the spot. Bond grabbed his shoulder and heaved him round to face him, already pulling off his suit jacket which he wrapped around Q’s shoulders. Seeing Q’s distress, he said, “It’s alright. We’re just two people having a meal.”

Instinctively, Q tried to turn around again but Bond caught his hands. His thumbs rubbed gently over Q’s knuckles.

“Don’t turn round. Just look at me.”

Q forced himself to look up to Bond’s eyes and was thankful to find some semblance of calm there. He tried to remember that this was Bond’s job and was definitely not an unusual situation. Q had been in his ear through situations exactly like this one but being in the middle of it is messing with his practiced cool head.

“Okay, they’re moving on,” Bond said, standing and keeping his eyes trained over Q’s shoulder as he folded up the laptop. Q unplugged it and gathered it up in his arms as Bond said, “We’re going to sneak out the back. I’m sorry, Q.” Bond bit his lip as he glanced down at Q’s - still bare - feet and then back up at his red-nosed and bleary-eyes expression. “But we’re going to have to run.”

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas - 00Q (3/9)

Bond practically tossed Q’s laptop into his hands, making the confused Quatermaster start. Shaking aside his bleariness (or, at least, trying to) he lifted the lid and went to type in his password. However, he’d gotten no further than the second character when the screen started to glitch, static interrupting the pale blue lock screen background. He sighed. Okay. So it was going to be one of those missions.

“I need a different computer,” he said, watching Bond’s frown deepen.

“Here,” Ellen said, reaching down the side of the couch and producing her own laptop. “Will this do?”

Q offered her the best smile he could muster. “Thank you.”

Q set about hacking into his old system while Bond looked on, making no effort to even pretend to understand what Q was doing. Goodness, he’d never made so many typos in his life. Q put it down to his hands being a little shaky and, well, everything else really. He glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. He was due more medicine quite soon though somehow he didn’t think that was going to happen. There were more important things at stake.

“Ah,” he said, frowning at his code as Bond came to sit next to him, doing the same as though it made a single lick of sense to him. Q looked over at Ellen who was also looking at him questioningly though she had the good grace to stay in her seat. “On a scale of one to ten, how attached are you to this laptop?”

Ellen smiled knowingly. “Do I need to fetch the fire extinguisher?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Q said, the fever making him blatantly miss the jovial tone to her voice.

“Do what you have to do,” Ellen sighed, returning to her tea. (Q noticed that Bond hadn’t touched his own cup. Probably not enough alcohol.)

Q’s fingers froze over the keys and he quickly yanked them away again as his eyes forced themselves closed, breath hitching. Though of course the sneezes wouldn’t come out straight away and he found himself sitting in Ellen’s living room with the most ridiculous expression on his face, occasionally shooting apologetic glances at her through teary eyelashes.

“hhHHih...hhh…”

Q rubbed impatiently at his nose, hoping to force the tickle out that way or at least make it subside.

“Bless you,” Bond said, once again managing to time it just as the sneeze disappeared. Q shot him a teary glare.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, earning a low whistle from Bond.

“Oh, Q, how could you possibly kiss your mother with a mouth like that?” Bond smirked and, for the first time in years, Q felt a little tug at his heart.

In MI6, it was best not to talk about family, particularly in the double-oh division. Without exception, agents who became double-oh’s had tragic backstories and often no surviving family. For this reason, family was a rarely discussed topic. Not to mention it was a dangerous one. Family, or connections of any kind really, only served as a pressure point for enemies and the less information disclosed about personal pressure points the better, even with those you trusted the most.

So, it happened that Q very rarely even thought about family. His life was his work and, since family didn’t come up in work, it didn’t really come up at all. Bond registered the minute flash of emotion across Q’s features before he clears his throat, pointedly ignoring 007 and rubbing deliberately at his nose again.

“This is going to be tougher than previously anticipated,” he announced stuffily, sneaking in a quick sniffle before he went on. “Once I hack back into the system, they’ll have a lock on our location. Nothing I can do about that until I’m in.”

He bit his lip and looked between Bond and Ellen who shared a look, Bond’s unreadable and Ellen’s hard.

“I’m ready for them,” she said shortly. “Do you two have somewhere to go?”

“We’ll find somewhere,” Bond said offhandedly, turning his gaze back to Q who nodded, taking a moment to gather his thoughts as Ellen left the room again.

“Once I start the hack, I have about two and a half minutes to build and hide an opening in the code. After that, the system will lock me out.”

Bond frowned. “What good is that?”

“Well, 007,” Q said, exasperation clear in every intonation. “This will allow me to enter the system again undetected. However, it will completely fry this laptop so we’ll require another.”

“From where?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “I hear shops sell them these days,” he said dryly which earned him a quirked lip from Bond.

“You’re the expert,” Bond said, his tone far too jovial given the situation.

“My kingdom for a witness,” Q muttered which made Bond smile.

However, 007’s gaze turned serious again in the silence that followed and he asked, “What will you do after that?”

Q sighed. He didn’t want to admit it but he honestly didn’t know how to fix this situation. He could drop aeroplanes out of the sky with a single line of computer code but he was sick and feverish and quite unused to being actively hunted by assassins. If this was what being in the field was like all the time, Q was happy to stay at his desk.

(But, of course, Q knew that this was what fieldwork was like. Though he had little experience, he was the one on the other end of the line when his agents fell silent to the sound of gunfire. He was the one who had to pronounce countless agents missing, presumed dead. He was the one who sat in silence in his office, the final breath of his - his - dead agent ringing in his ears. So he knew. Of course he knew.)

Instead of answering properly, Q said, “Something far cleverer than you could possibly understand, Bond,” but you couldn’t trick a trickster.

“You don’t know then,” Bond sighed, like that was what he’d been afraid of. It probably was. “Alright, we’ll take it a step at a time. New laptop and safehouse is step four.”

Despite himself, Q’s eyebrows quirked with interest and, before he could stop himself, he’d asked, “What were steps one through three?”

For a moment, Bond’s eyes changed. Instead of their usual sky blue void, Q saw an abundance of emotion there and immediately thought to himself, oh fuck. Just like the others - especially so, really - Bond was fucked up and alone in the world and Q felt the weight of that settle on his shoulders all from that one second look in Bond’s eyes. After all, as much as he often wanted to strangle him himself, Bond was his agent.

And Bond was very, very sad.

But the look in his eyes disappeared and he settled into a shit-eating grin instead which showed his teeth and made Q nervous. That grin tended to mean trouble - usually trouble for Q. So, before Bond could say anything, Q buried his nose in the laptop and told him to get ready.

“I’m starting the hack - now. Two minutes thirty and counting,” he muttered as his fingers flew over the keys.

Bond left him alone.

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas - 00Q (1/9)

basically sen and galaxy enabled my attention whole ways so here is the beginning of my sick!Q fic which i’ll be crossposting from the forum from now on. but slowly so i don’t overwhelm ur dash omg.

-

Being Quartermaster to 007 was not an easy job at the best of times and this was certainly not the best of times. Today marked the first time Q had ever considered himself sick enough to stay home from work. With a fever above 102 degrees and a voice which begged for rest, Q had sent an encrypted email directly to M and had anxiously awaited the reply which came in the form of Moneypenny checking in to make sure he was, indeed, as ill as he had claimed to be. Satisfied with what she found, Moneypenny had left him to suffer.

Now, curled up in bed and swaddled in every blanket he owned, Q quietly wished for death to take him quickly. His temperature yoyo-ed between sweltering and shivering every few minutes and his sinuses ached with the pressure of his congestion. Honestly, though he prided himself on his vast vocabulary, there was only one word for how Q felt at that moment: shit.

Q’s least favourite thing about this wretched cold by far was the sneezing. He didn’t think he’d mind so much if they just behaved in the way sneezes normally do but these were horrendously stubborn and required a great deal of itchy impatience before they would expel themselves with a force which practically bent Q’s thin body in half (the way it was supposed to bend, of course - ie. forwards from the waist - as anything else would have been cause for concern). Though, he thought as his lungs hacked painfully in his chest, the coughing was probably second on the list of Q’s Least Favourite Cold Symptoms.

“Hhh...eHh…Oh for goodness sahhh…”

Grumbling quietly to himself, Q let out his breath and sniffled miserably, rubbing at his angry nose with his handkerchief. Q had always been partial to handkerchiefs. Though unsanitary, they reminded him of period dramas and Q, though he’d never admit it, was a sucker for period dramas.

Currently, he was watching - or trying to watch; curse this itch! - the 1995 BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice starring the ever beautiful Colin Firth. Oh, the things he would do to that man…

Q’s attention was drawn by a soft meow from beside him just in time to see his black and grey patched cat hop up onto the bed beside him. With a sigh, he reached out to run his hand over C-Sharp’s back, eliciting a small purr of pleasure. C-Sharp moved gracefully up his chest until she could rub the top of her head beneath Q’s chin. He smiled.

“Well,” he muttered hoarsely, running his hand over her back again and using his free hand to rub impatiently at his nose. “I’m glad at least one of us is functional.”

As if replying, C-Sharp gave another meow and hopped onto the pillow beside Q’s head, catching his nose with her tail as she did so. Now, Q certainly wasn’t allergic to cats but his poor nose was already unbearably sensitive and the soft touch was all he needed to tip him over the edge.

“Ehh! Hehtishhoo! Tish! Tsh! Tsshhu! Huh...hhtISHooo!”

Q gave his nose a rough blow into his handkerchief, collapsing back against the pillows, chest heaving with exhaustion. C-Sharp, unfazed by his fit, climbed back into his lap again. He sniffed thickly.

“Thanks,” he said, the congestion blatantly obvious in his voice now. He sighed, triggering a single cough with the threat of more burning in his chest. Today was definitely not a good day.

A sharp knock at the door startled Q from his hazy thoughts. Sleepily, he pushed C-Sharp off to the side and felt around for the remote, retrieving it from a disappearing into a pile of blanket folds, and put the television on pause before stumbling through the living room to the front door. It took his fumbling hands a moment to undo the latch and his brain was so muddled that he didn’t even think to glance at the security monitor on the table next to him before he opened it to reveal-

“Hello Q,” said Bond, flashing a winning smile before swanning into Q’s flat like he lived there.

It took the fevered Quartermaster a good few seconds to catch up. Regaining himself, he shut the door and turned to find Bond, hands in pockets with a smug smile on his face, eyebrows raised at the sight of Q’s red, kitten-covered pyjamas.

“007,” he said with all the dignity he could muster, well aware that his n’s sounded much more like d’s than usual. “What brings you here at-” he glanced at the clock. “Goodness, is it only 11am?”

Given that Q felt as though he’d been sick for at least a week now, he was quite disappointed to find out that he’d only been awake for six hours. Ignoring Q’s dismay, Bond cocked a half smile in his direction.

“I need your help,” he said and Q groaned internally.

“And here I was hoping you were here to wish me well.”

“It’s a cold, Q, you’re hardly dying,” Bond said with an air of exasperation about him. Q rolled his eyes - regretting it when it hurt - and thought about all the ways he could kill Bond to calm himself down. He could feel Bond’s eyes sliding up and down his body and might have flushed from the attention had he not been too exhausted to care about the blanket draped around his shoulders or the sodden handkerchief clutched tight in his other hand or his bare feet on the cold wooden floor.

He sighed. “What do you need?”

“Remember when you told me you could do more damage on your laptop sitting in your pyjamas before your first cup of Earl Grey than I could do in a year in the field?” Bond asked, picking up a pen from Q’s coffee table and examining it with interest. Q thought about telling him it exploded just for the fun of it.

“I recall.”

Bond smirked, looking Q up and down. “Were these the pyjamas you were talking about?”

Q shot him a withering look but he didn’t manage to hold the glare for very long because the ever-present tickle swelled in his nose and he brought up his handkerchief, holding it a few inches from his face while his breath hitched. His eyes watered, forcing themselves shut in response to his twitching nose. He took a deep breath. He almost had it…

“Bless you,” said Bond, just as the tension left Q’s body and the itch lessened until it was back to being just slightly too annoying to ignore.

Shooting a teary glare at Bond, Q sniffed and asked again, “What do you need?”

Bond grew serious, tucking he pen back into the holder - upside down! - and beginning to pace.

“There’s a drug cartel operating in northern Austria. They’ve been active for a while. I’ve tracked them down a few times but now we don’t have time for games.”

Q frowned. “Hostages?”

Bond nodded. “Refugees fleeing Syria following the crisis.”

Q closed his eyes. Hell. “How m-”

“200, probably more,” Bond cut in and something in his voice told Q he was much more disgusted than he let on. “Mostly women and children. Branded. Some already dead.”

Q swallowed thickly, the pressure building in his head again. Using refugees for free labour. It was times like this he was reminded why he got into the secret intelligence business and, as much as it would please him immensely to punch Bond hard in the face, he had to admit that his heart was in the right place. If Bond had a heart, of course. Q still had his money on Bond being an anomaly of science. Certainly, he’d survived several scrapes that should have killed him already - lacking a vital organ didn’t seem out of the question.

Feeling quite unable to stand anymore, Q lowered himself onto the sofa, leaving Bond to pace. Clearly, Bond had a plan or he’d never have come to Q in the first place. Though why on earth he hadn’t gone to M for assistance was a mystery to- oh.

“007,” Q asked weakly. “I’ve been absent for exactly six hours. Pray tell how you managed to get back onto M’s hitlist in that time.”

“Another story for another time, Q,” said Bond cockily and Q didn’t ask again. Truth be told, all this ‘being attentive’ nonsense was starting to make him a little dizzy.

Eyes closed and head resting against the back of the sofa, Q said wearily, “I’ll ask again. What do you need?”

Bond’s silence prompted Q to crack open one eye curiously and, for a moment, Bond looked at him with something like concern but it was gone before Q had a chance to analyse it.

“I need you to do some damage with that laptop,” he said and then smirked. “And look. You’re already in your pyjamas.”

Returning to his list of ways to murder Bond and hide the body, Q shakily stood, leaving his blanket behind, and went back to his bedroom to fetch his laptop. He had intended to bring it back to the living room but he turned to find Bond standing in his bedroom doorway, surveying the mess with barely disguised glee. Q could already tell he was never going to live this down. For someone so pedantic about the cleanliness of his office, he was currently living amid disorganised piles of books and papers.

Clearing his throat for Bond’s attention, he sat back down in his blanket structure (which could easily be classified a small fort) and fired up his laptop. Bond, somewhat awkwardly due to the obstacles, took to pacing Q’s small bedroom in a way which Q might have found infuriating had he had the energy.

After moments, Q turned the screen to show Bond the mugshot of a man with dark skin and a shaved head though his sideburns were still intact. He had a scar running past his nose, barely skimming the corner of his left eye. Q sniffed again, lifting the handkerchief to his nose as he spoke.

“The leader of the ring. I believe you’ve met?”

Bond frowned. “Indeed.”

“Couldn’t find his real name online. Whoever erased him from the internet certainly was thor-uhh’HEHchoo!” Q clamped his handkerchief over his nose, sighing in relief when the tickle eased somewhat. “Excuse me,” he said, just as Bond said, “Gesundheit.”

What had he been talking about? Goodness, this fever was making him slow. Oh. Of course.

“Known simply as B.D.” He finished, forcing the last two letters out before turning away to cough.

“Can you trace him?” Bond asked, earning a pointed look from Q which clearly said do you think I’m an idiot? Raising his arms in mock surrender, Bond turned away. “Just make it quick.”

Q sighed as he plugged the algorithm into his system, frowning when the screen went suddenly black. What? It was only when the red skull popped up in the middle of his screen that he realised he’d been hacked.

“Damn it!” He yelled, the strain tearing at his poor throat. With what little strength his anger brought him, he closed his laptop sharply and pitched forward, handkerchief forgotten.

“EhhtISHHoo! Ishh’hoo!”

“Q?” Bond’s voice demanded attention but Q couldn’t give it to him. He was too busy with-

“hhEHHISHOO!”

“Bless you,” Bond said but Q didn’t have his wits about him enough to appreciate that Bond had switched from his usual Gesundheit to a softer, gentler sound. When he glanced up, Bond was holding out a tissue which Q took gratefully and gave his nose a harsh blow, coughing slightly afterwards. He discarded the tissue in the wastepaper bin.

Bond cautiously crouched next to the bed, forcing Q to meet his eye. “What is it?”

“I- It’s my fault,” Q muttered eventually, feeling drained and defeated. “Someone hacked my system. I- I didn’t see it coming.”

Bond frowned. He looked for a moment like he wanted to say something - perhaps something comforting - but he didn’t. He just frowned and frowned until Q pushed himself shakily to his feet and stumbled back out into the living room. He righted the pen Bond had disturbed earlier and sighed, shivering in just his pyjamas.

“Did they get anything?”

Bond’s voice sounded far away but Q did his best to process it. Did who get anything? From where?

“Um, they- oh,” he began, which was really how he knew he was horribly ill. Q wasn’t one to muddle his words. “I can’t be sure.”

“Worst case scenario?” Bond asked, voice level.

Q sighed. “Locations.”

Bond swore quietly under his breath. “What are the chances?”

“I-” Q started, but stopped when his words caught in his throat.

“Tell me, Q!” Bond said impatiently. “What are the chances they got that information decrypted?”

Q closed his eyes, thinking. “Less than 1%,” he said, suddenly feeling very lightheaded. “If they have that information, they’ll have traced my address first. It’s part of the decryption. It’s tied to...hh...oh snf it’s t-tied to th-the GP-ehh-ehh’TSSHoo! the GPS.”

Q felt Bond’s hand on his arm, steadying him. He nodded his thanks and sat on the arm of the sofa.

“They have your address?” Bond said slowly.

“Possibly,” Q said, sounding much calmer than he felt. “We’ll know soon enough.”

Bond sprang into action then, pushing Q towards the door before he stopped, holding the very confused Quartermaster by the wrist.

“The rest of your equipment,” Bond said. “What have you got here?”

“Not much,” Q sniffled. “The computer systems will have been wiped when they detected the hack. Hard drive has backups.”

Bond was gone in an instant and Q found himself doubled over again, clutching his chest and coughing as he struggled to force air in and out of his lungs. He looked around blearily for his handkerchief but he honestly couldn’t remember when he’d last seen it. Was the room spinning or was he just dizzy? Forgetting completely about the possible impending danger, or perhaps just desperate to rest, Q started towards his bedroom only to be whirled around by Bond and dragged towards the door.

“Where-”

“Wait,” Bond interrupted, leaving Q shivering on the landing while he darted back inside, emerging with the blanket Q had brought to the door with him. Without wasting a moment - not even to explain - he wrapped it around Q’s shoulders and pushed him towards the staircase. “Come on,” he said briskly.

They had navigated only two flights when they heard a crash from above. Q stumbled over the last few steps and let Bond do the work as he was dragged towards the car, barely feeling the cold and damp of the ground outside in his hazy panic. The car revved into life, along with the pounding in Q’s head, and they were in the busy London traffic before Q could even coax out a particularly stubborn sneeze.

[whoareurl]

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas - 00Q (2/9)

Q rested his head against the window in an attempt to cool himself down but pulled back with a soft groan when the rumbling movement of the car irritated his nose. Wrinkling his nose to stem the itch, he let his head fall back against the seat, closing his eyes against the grey rush of London past the windows. What he wouldn’t give for his own bed right now.

“Q!” Bond exclaimed with an air of someone having repeated himself several times. Q gave a hum of acknowledgement to let Bond know he was listening - or at least pretending to. “If it took them minutes to find your address-”

“The data was wiped from my systems but the hack wasn’t detected until I accessed it,” Q muttered slowly, trying to turn his thoughts into words Bond would understand. “If they found a way to copy from the source before they were frozen out-” he stopped, thinking.

“How likely is that?”

Q frowned. “Probable given how quickly they traced the signal,” he croaked, rubbing at his sore throat.

“So they can still access agent addresses,” Bond sighed, taking a sharp right which made Q wish he’d bothered to put on his seatbelt.

Q shut his eyes again, focused on keeping his breakfast in his stomach, when Bond slammed the breaks, making Q instinctively lock his arms against the dashboard to keep himself steady.

“Good to see you’re not completely out of it,” Bond commented offhandedly, making Q wonder if that had been the sole purpose of his sudden stop.

Q scowled, looking down between his arms to the floor where he noticed the gun for the first time. And not just the gun - his laptop and hard drive, silver briefcase with the tech he’d taken home to test, and...was that…

“Cat food?” Q asked, hoping that saying it out loud would confirm that Bond could, indeed, see it too. He shot a confused glance at 007 who had a telltale smirk on his face. So, there was actually cat food in the car. Okay. Good. Now the questions was why the holy hell?

Before Q could ask, Bond parked - abysmally - outside a row of semi-detached houses.

“Where are we?”

Bond smiled. “An old friend’s house.”

Without another word to Q, Bond grabbed the cat food, got out of the car, and strolled up the path of number 44. Q watched in confusion as the door was opened by a young woman with deep brown skin and auburn ringlets. Q supposed she was quite pretty but, honestly, he was a little distracted by how Bond kissed her with a passion which made Q blush and look away.

He didn’t look back again until Bond opened the passenger side door suddenly, making Q jump in a way which was rather undignified but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Come along, Q,” Bond said cheerfully, grabbing the items he’d left in the footwell and pulling the stunned Quartermaster to his feet.

Before Q had quite processed the situation, he was standing in the woman’s hallway, shivering and desperately wishing he’d thought to put on some shoes or socks at the very least. Hadn’t his mother always told him to wear socks when he was ill? Well, now he was starting to understand why; one never knew when they were going to be dragged around London with a 102 degree fever and very little sense of balance.

The women, who currently stood in front of him, was only slightly shorter than him. Her long nails were painted a startling shade of red

Q could see her taking in his haggard appearance and would have blushed harder had it been possible.

“Must forgive my dear Quartermaster, Ellen,” Bond chuckled. “He’s somewhat under the weather.”

“Quartermaster?” Ellen said, raising a surprised eyebrow. “They recruit them young now, don’t they?”

With that, Ellen reached for Q’s hand and practically dragged him into the living room where he was promptly sat down forcibly on the sofa. The sudden movement made him a little disorientated and for a moment there seemed to be two of her and then four of her but eventually they merged together again and he found himself looking into a concerned pair of brown eyes.

She hummed softly, placing her hands first on his cheeks and then moving one to his forehead with a harsh tut.

“You should be in bed,” she scolded, making Q feel very much like a child.

“I was,” he said pointedly, turning to glare at Bond who huffed out a laugh.

“It’s hardly my fault you let hackers into your system,” he said offhandedly.

Q scowled but hadn’t a response to that. He could have told Bond that technically he hadn’t let anybody into his system; they’d bypassed his security which was not an easy feat. If they weren’t trying to hunt him down, Q might have been impressed. He could have said that, actually, his logging into his laptop to locate Bond’s target was likely the trigger the infiltrators had needed to open the floodgates.

But he didn’t. He just scowled and tried to make Bond feel his frustration through sheer force of will alone. However, his force of will wasn’t particularly strong because he was rather distracted by the growing itch in his nose which was forcing his watering eyes closed without his consent.

“Hhh...o-oh, sorry, I-I hh’ihh...b-bit of a co-col-hhh’heHSHHOO! Excuse m-i’YHHISHOOO! iihh...hhh’Ihh...Ishh! Ishhh! Ishoo! Hhh...TISHhew!”

“God bless,” Ellen said as Bond pressed his own handkerchief into Q’s hand.

Through teary eyes, Q noted the glare that Ellen shot at Bond and smiled internally. Seeing Q’s obvious disorientation, Ellen plucked his glasses from his nose and set them down on the arm of the couch, instructing him to lie down just as a ginger tabby wandered into the living room. Well, at least he knew what the car food was for.

“Sleep well, Q,” Bond smirked. Q imagined himself giving Bond the middle finger over his shoulder and shut his eyes, letting the sound of their footsteps fade while he settled down to doze. He honestly couldn’t care less about who could possibly be tracking them down. He was just grateful for the chance to rest.

Well, almost rest. As soon as he could rid himself of this blasted cough, of course.

Through the wall, Q could hear Bond and Ellen talking but was quite uninterested in their conversation. He drifted in and out of sleep, never quite fully on either side of the fence, and had a disturbing dream which he couldn’t quite remember when Ellen shook him awake a little while later.

“You’re much more handsome than my Quartermaster ever was,” she said by way of greeting, making Q blush furiously.

Fortunately, Bond’s appearance saved him from having to respond. He never thought he’d be grateful to see James bloody Bond.

“I’m afraid Q doesn’t swing that way, Ellen,” he laughed, settling down in an armchair. “And, if you don’t mind, we are in a middle of being hunted down.”

Ellen smirked. “Didn’t used to bother you,” she said. “Oh, and by the way? If you ever kiss me like that again, I will kill you.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

Q, who had noticed the gun tucked into the back of Ellen’s trousers, didn’t doubt her either.