Chapter Text
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The little cough that Q tried to hide was proof that he was, indeed, sick. Stress was a fine way to become ill, any agent knew, but that wasn’t actually the main reason 006, 7, and their small charge were in MI6 Medical. Q coughed again and sniffled, denying that he needed a tissue just yet, and instead turned his attention to hugging the massive black monstrosity that 003 called a dog.
“That was a good move, using Glock’s collar, and also taking Gregory’s phone,” R applauded, sitting in one of the many chairs in the room. Originally, there had been one chair, but Alec had been nice enough to go with 002 and purloin some more. Now, there were enough chairs for R, Bond, Trevelyan, and Q to have their own. 002 sat at the foot of 003’s bed because he said it was more comfortable than the worn plastic-seated chairs, but everyone was pretty sure it was a precaution.
When word had gotten around that ‘Gear’ was back and demanding to see 003 and Glock, there was been some worry that the visit would end…unpleasantly. After all, Gregory would be the first to admit that he’d failed in his job of keeping the kid safe, and history proved that 006 and 7 didn’t take that kind of thing lightly. Mr. and Mrs. Finch – the original two people not to protect Q – were both back in holding cells, and had been told to their faces that any attempts to see their son would result in a certain pair of agents making a midnight visit to their cells. How many people would make it out alive from that visit was not elaborated upon, but Mr. and Mrs. Finch ultimately understood that they were lucky, thus far, that James and Alec were forgetting they existed. Q, too, had other things to worry about, and his new cold was slowing up his brain a bit anyway.
There had been no retribution meted out on 003, though. When Alec and James had entered, Q notably glued to the latter’s leg with the former guarding his other side, the tension in the room had climbed, but that had been it. 002 had been prepared to defend his comrade if necessary, but it looked like no one was willing to cause trouble in front of little-Q. The poor kid had been traumatized enough already.
Bond’s chair had been pulled up flush to Q’s, so sometimes he had to move his legs to keep Glock from stepping on his feet while the massive wolf-hybrid sniffed all over Q’s face. R had it just as bad, because her seat across from Q wasn’t far enough away for her to avoid the ceaselessly wagging black tail. She leaned back so that it dusted her lap instead of her face. “You have no idea how much we missed you, Gear! Even the old Quartermaster came around, although he’s still grouchy,” the woman admitted with a cheeky smile. No one in Q-branch would dare say that about their boss, but here, surrounded by no less than four 00-agents (albeit one still out of commission) and a dog nearly big enough for Q to ride, she could say whatever the hell she pleased. She didn’t seem to have noticed, but Alec had pulled his chair over right next to her, and he grinned shamelessly every time she moved and brushed against him. When 002 and 3 would glare at him, Alec’s smile would only grow more smug, and there would no doubt be some trouble between the three in the future. This would probably be the first time in MI6 history where so many 00-agents had fought over a Q-branch techie.
A the word ‘collar’, Q had tensed up, but he hadn’t lifted his attention from scratching the top of Glock’s head. The dog met his eyes, solemn and golden, as if understanding. Even though the bandages on Q’s neck still stood out stark and white above the neck of his hoodie (still the same one with the gear symbol on it, although it was desperately in need of a wash), no one had said a word about them. They pretended not to notice, but in reality, most everyone had already been briefed on what Q had gone through – and that anyone bringing up those memories and exacerbating Q’s fragile emotions right now would be liable to get a bullet in either kneecap. Bond reached out a hand silently, palm stretching out to soothe over Q’s back instinctively. He felt the knife-sharp edges of Q’s shoulder-blades relax under his touch, and Q dredged up a smile, looking up to R.
“I’m glad you were able to track it,” he said softly. It was obvious that he meant the gratitude, even if he was too wrung out and tired to express it like he wanted to. R’s widening smile in return said she understood.
“Hey, what are friends for, Gear? Besides, who else is going to help me go over the new specs for that Aston Martin the Quartermaster has tucked away in the garage?” she teased.
That got Bond to sit up straighter. “Aston Martin?”
While Bond and R got into a surprisingly lively conversation about cars and what modifications could be made to them without destroying their basic vehicular integrity, Q continued petting 003’s dog while the big animal sat at his feet. He knew he wasn’t being ignored, because at this point, it was obvious even to Q that Bond kept at least half of his attention on the kid at all times, regardless of the situation around them. Still, it was nice to feel as if he were in the background for a moment, instead of having everyone staring at him or asking if he was okay. Answering questions was just too hard when he was this tired, and it was clear that Alec and Bond were feeling the strain, too – out of the three, Q had actually gotten the most sleep, and he’d only dropped off on the drive from the airport back to MI6. It was amazing that Alec, James, or Q were still conscious. Glock with his soft fur and imperturbable temperament wasn’t demanding, though, and neither was 002’s voice when he quietly called, “Hey, kid.”
The other conversations in the room when on without a hitch. It would take a trained eye to see that 006 and 7 had both cocked a metaphorical ear in the direction of the hospital bed, listening in even as they smiled and chatted with R and asked her how difficult it would be to mount gun turrets on a car. Alec was all for the idea, while some part of Bond was offended by what it would do to the classic look of the Aston Martin. It felt private as Q turned to look at 002, and 003 lying alert but quite on the bed next to him.
“We’re glad you’re back,” 002 said, and he gave 003 a hard nudge until the black-haired agent acquiesced to speak, too.
Being stuck in a hospital bed had done nothing for 003’s mood, but the guilt he felt over letting Q get kidnapped made him reign in his temper and play nice – something he didn’t do for anyone else besides maybe 002 and R now. “Yeah, kid. What happened…shouldn’t have happened. It was my fault, although that doesn’t change anything.”
Q’s eyes widened a bit, looking back and forth between 002 and 3 and wondering if they’d been replaced by nicer, gentler clones. The fact that 003 sounded nearly contrite made Q half believe that he was hallucinating, but the cold prod of Glock’s nose against his cheek felt too real. He pushed the long snout away from his face, but also gave in and scratched under Glock’s chin, which was all the dog had wanted anyway. “Doesn’t change anything?” the boy echoed dumbly, as if he didn’t have an IQ higher than most people ever dreamed of.
“Well, yeah,” 003 grunted gruffly, pushing up on his elbows until 002 pushed him back down perfunctorily. If 003 were healthier (and better armed), he would have fought back, but instead he lay back down again and looked uncomfortably at the ceiling. “Regardless of me saying it’s my fault, you took the fall.”
By now, everyone was quiet and listening, and they knew that this was actually an apology – something that 003 didn’t do a lot of. Q just cocked his head though. Maybe it was the cold, but he couldn’t make sense of what Agent Hind was saying. “But…you got shot. A lot. I’m not the one in a hospital bed.”
The dark head on the pillow turned to stare at Q, perplexed at the lack of anger he was hearing in the kid’s tone. Q’s eyes didn’t look angry or full of blame either, just a little bit puffy and bloodshot from lack of sleep and a head-cold that was making his skull feel stuffed with cotton.
Before either Q or 003 could strain something trying to figure the other out, 002 chuckled a little bit and stepped in. “Gregory just wants to say he’s story for not keeping you safe, kid.”
“Oh,” Q caught on, sitting back. Bond was there for him to lean against. “I…uh…guess you’re forgiven?” he tried to think of what to say back to that, and his answer was actually far more than 003 was expecting. In fact, if the others hadn’t known better, they might have said he was moved by the forgiveness being offered to him so easily. But, of course, 003 was a man without conscience, so the look in his eyes must have been from the morphine…obviously.
“Well, I’ve got to get back to Q-branch,” R stood up, blinking in surprise when she found Alec supporting her elbow like a gentlemen to help her. Alec didn’t have a gentlemanly bone in his body, so far as she knew, but suddenly she was remembering all of his flirtations comments whenever they’d been in contact. 002 and 3, out of her line of sight, started glaring. R turned her attention around to Q, perhaps deciding the ignore the testosterone suddenly thickening in the air. “I’ll see you there sometime soon, yeah?”
“I’d like that,” Q nodded politely, but his eyes were filled with almost ridiculous longing at the idea. He smiled again, and it was more genuine than his earlier attempts.
“Bye, Gear! I’ll say hello to all your minions for ya!” waved R as she slipped out of the room, a disappearing waif with bright pink hair and a personality to brighten the darkest day. Whichever of the agents got her (if any of them did) would be indeed a very lucky man.
“Time for us to go, too,” Bond decided. Without waiting for agreement, he stood up, hands already in his pockets and eyes flicking in a reflexive sweep of the room. His gaze landed a moment on 003 and 2, and something like an uneasy understanding passed between them. It was possible – even likely – that 007 would never completely trust 003 after he lost Q, but the two of them hadn’t exactly been fast friends to begin with. Hopefully they understood one another enough now to at least work together as needed in the future. Not bothering to nod to either of them, Bond stepped over Glock’s tail carefully (aware that the dog was more dangerous than its owner at the moment, injuries aside) and didn’t have to look to know that Q was immediately in his shadow.
Glock, his tongue lolling contentedly, gave on last light whuff as the small boy with the glasses and friendly little hands left, then settled on the floor next to the hospital bed. He gave a light sniff at the air, picking up the smell of the man who was his owner and the man who was like his owner’s shadow, and wagged his tail once contentedly. As of now, his canine world was complete.
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It was good to be back – with Q – in London. Bond could finally relax.
Or, at least, he could until he tried to take off that damned ‘Gear’ hoodie so Alec could take it with all of their other bloody, dirty, and in Alec’s case smoky clothing to get washed. It quickly became clear that the little prodigy was not nearly as calm and recovered as he acted around everyone in MI6, and that separation anxiety could be brought on by articles of clothing.
“No! I want to keep wearing it!” Q screeched, and for such a self-contained kid, he could really act his age when he wanted to, “It’s not that dirty!”
They were back at the flat now, having given their reports – again – and been checked over my Medical – again. Bond’s hand was still a little numb from the shot he’d been given for his hand, and that presently made it that much more difficult to wrestle Q out of his hoodie. This was promising to be traumatizing for everyone involved.
By dint of being bigger and stronger and also taller than Q, Bond managed to more or less shake the kid out of it by pulling upwards until gravity did the work of pulling Q down and out of his hooded sweatshirt. Q lost his glasses in the process, and 006 and 7’s reflexes might really have been suffering from the lack of sleep, because neither managed to catch the spectacles. Q’s glasses weren’t harmed, but there was something heartbreaking about the sight of them falling to the floor while Q slipped free of his hoodie to stand shivering and blinking in nearsighted distress up at Bond. If Q’s shirt hadn’t been absolutely filthy from Q living in it since his kidnapping, the agent would have given it back right that second. Honestly, that look on Q’s face should have been classified as a deadly weapon, what with how quickly 007 wanted to fold before it. Bond tossed the hoodie to Alec, across the room, before he could second-guess himself, then grabbed Q as the kid tried to fly after it. “Q, it’s rank,” he tried to reason, dropping to a knee to better catch hold of the kid. “And Alec will be right back with it.”
“He’s right, māo,” Alec backed him up immediately when Q – who looked so much younger without his glasses – seemed like he might start crying with frustration. “But don’t worry – I take better care of clothing than I do equipment.”
Bond smiled at the joke even if Q didn’t, and nodded to the door, catching Alec’s eye. “I’ll handle this. You go do laundry.”
“Yes, mum,” Alec huffed dramatically, making a great show of hating the chore but nonetheless leaving the house quickly. Q took the loss of his hoodie like most people would take the loss of an arm, and huddled into himself. His high anxiety also set off a coughing fit, so Bond stood and tugged the kid after him as he went into the kitchen, letting the kid get his glasses back on along the way. “Here. Cough syrup. No promises that you’ll like the taste, but it’ll help you breathe without hacking up a lung,” he said with grim humor, measuring up a fraction of the dose he and Alec usually took, on the occasions when they were sicker than dogs. Q backed up, looking hand-shy.
“It will also make me sleepy,” said the kid warily. Without his hoodie, he looked small and skinny – both of which he was – and he wrapped his arms around his chest tightly as he backed up. The fridge stopped his retreat, but he still glared at the cap-full of purple medicine.
Bond cocked an eyebrow. “Seeing as neither you nor I have had a good sleep in days, I can’t see how that’s a bad thing. Come on, Q, no one’s going to drug you.”
Looking a bit ashamed as his medicinal paranoia came up again, Q looked between the medicine and Bond’s frank, tired eyes, then hedged hopefully, “If I take it, will you call Alec and tell him to bring back my hoodie?”
With a deep sigh, Bond pulled out a chair and sat down on it heavily. He wondered if this was how normal parents felt, but figured that Q was special – if nothing else, no normal kid has the right to be as distrustful and quirky as Q was. No one lived the life Q had and came out as a poster-child for good manners and normalcy. Replete in the fact that he was still between Q and the exit from the kitchen, 007 shook his head in regards to Q’s question, but still held out the medication. “It’s just for an hour or so, Q.” It took a lot of effort to resist the urge to ask why Q cared so much about where his clothing went.
As it turned out, he didn’t need to ask. Looking embarrassed and apologetic, Q turned his eyes down and grudgingly trudged up to Bond on socked feet. He kept his shoulders hunched and arms crossed, a small target in baggy, soft clothing. “It… It was all I had that reminded me of home. Of…here. It reminded me that someone had wanted me, once, and not just for my brains.” He looked up at Bond suddenly, eyes huge and pleading as if magnified by the lenses of his glasses – so much so that the flecks of insecurity in them, and the start of tears, reached out and shredded Bond’s heart. “That is why I got that hoodie, right? You got Mallory to give me that hoodie because you cared, not just because I’m useful-?”
“Q, slow down,” Bond blurted just to make the fearful questions stop. He took the opportunity to grab the kid’s shoulder and push the cough syrup up to his face, actually getting him to swallow it before they continued their conversation. “You’re sick, and you’re tired, and you’re not thinking straight. Of course I gave you that hoodie because I like you.” He flashed a crooked grin, while Q mock-gagged at the taste of cough syrup. “Plus, R says you look adorable in it, and I think that Alec might want to use you as his wingman.”
“What’s a wingman? And what does that have to do with Alec and R thinking my hoodie is adorable?” It was hard to tell if Q would have figured this out if he’d been up to his usual brainy standards. Instead, he sniffled again, and Bond handed him a tissue from the table without comment.
“Come one, Q, let’s go watch some telly until Alec gets back with your hoodie. We can beat him up together if he comes back and we found out he put it in with the red load.”
Q still seemed to be mentally out of his depth, but the way he blinked up at 007 with narrowed eyes was undeniably cute. He also stopped looking so much as though someone had run over his puppy, and followed Bond back into the living room. “I don’t see how it would be feasible for us to beat up 006 together.”
“Fine. How about I hold him down and you can beat him up?” Bond kept playing as he flopped down on the couch and switched on the television. God, but he was tired.
Q hesitated a moment, eyeing the couch like a bird searching for the best place to land, and then he gave in and hopped up under Bond’s right arm. He didn’t say anything as that arm reflexively slid down around him, but he did release a breath and relax once had was trapped snugly against the agent’s warm side. Unexpectedly, instead of responding, Q buried his face against 007’s side.
“You’re going to bend you glasses at this rate,” 007 scolded, unsure how best to deal with Q right now – Q, who was suddenly cuddly and fearful in turns, and prone to bouts of panic and/or coughing. Sick-Q was an unpredictable little sod, but relinquished his glasses to 007’s hands when Bond reached for them. Promptly after that, the boy tucked his face against the side of the man’s torso again, now without his glasses in the way. Sighing, Bond just put the glasses on the nearby table and decided that he’d never understand seven-year-old geniuses.
“If I got really scared, or if I thought…” Q started talking, his words muffled by 007’s shirt but tickling his ribs. They were slow and quiet, and trembled sometimes as if Q were trying not to get emotional. “…Or if I thought no one was coming for me, then I’d…I’d pull the hood up, and pretend that the world outside of it didn’t exist.” Skinny shoulders shrugged as Bond looked down at his charge in horrified shock, this confession somehow shaking him up more than a gun pointing at his face. Q had thought that no one was coming to save him? “The hoodie…smelled like MI6, like Q-branch…like you. I know that you just asked Mallory to get it for me, as something to wear…but I like it, and I appreciated that you gave it to me.” Q took in another deep, shuddering breath, and cleared his throat painfully before giving another half-hearted cough. He grimaced and 007 grimaced with him, because it sounded like it hurt. “It made me feel like everything was going to be okay, even when things were…bad.”
“So-” Bond had to clear his throat, as well as chew and swallow the familiar fury that was building up in his system again. How many of Westford’s gang had been captured alive? Five? Seven? Bond could whittle down that number. Maybe he’d even let a few of them get a five-minute head-start, so he could hunt them down and take them apart slowly for making Q afraid like this… “-It was a security blanket?”
“Yes,” Q admitted, curling up closer. He seemed determined to hide his face so that he couldn’t see the world – or so that 007 couldn’t see him.
Of course, by now, the agent wasn’t watching the channels flipping by, and he wasn’t listening to it either as he put the remote down and shifted slightly to look down at a familiar, fluffy head. “Q.”
A pause. Q seemed to be considering the viability of pretending that he hadn’t heard, or that the cough syrup had kicked in and made him fall asleep already. “Yes?” he asked carefully without lifting his head.
“I’m your security blanket now. I might not be quite as cushy as that hoodie, but I imagine that I must smell like MI6.” He shrugged, pretending to be deep in thought on the subject even as Q’s head finally popped up to stare at him. “I don’t smell much like Q-branch, though. You’ll just have to live with that. I can promise that everything will be okay, though.”
For a long moment, Q just stared at him, perhaps trying to figure out if the agent was crazy or actually very, very sweet in an odd sort of way. “No one,” Q said slowly, having to squint to make out 007’s expression without his glasses, “has ever offered to be a blanket for me before.”
“For God’s sake, Q, don’t call me a blanket! Just accept the offer and be gracious about it,” Bond lamented, wondering if his pride would ever recover from this. Probably not. But he’d known that ages ago when he’d first realized that he’d do a lot of embarrassing, un-manly things if it meant making this mad little genius smile.
And smile Q did.
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Alec came back later to find both his best friend and his smallest companion completely unconscious on the couch. Knowing subconsciously the little noises Alec made when entering the flat, Bond’s reflexes hadn’t even bothered to alert him to the other man’s arrival, a sure sign of how exhausted the normally-alert man was. 00-agents lived and died by their ability to wake up from the dead sleep any time they head a door open. Right now, though, as 006 closed the door and toed off his shoes, Bond remained sprawled across the couch, one leg up on the coffee table and one on the cushions, breathing deeply. His dark-headed little tag-along was much the same: the poor little thing had to breathe through his mouth because his nose was still plugged up, but he looked relaxed for the first time since they’d lost him, tucked between Bond’s side and the couch. Not surprisingly, one of James’s arms was looped over the kid’s shoulder even in sleep.
“James, you big softy,” Alec cooed in a whisper as he grinned at the sight. He reached for his back pocket.
“You grab that phone to take a picture, and I put a bullet in it,” came 007’s groggy but fully aware voice, rough from the deep sleep he’d just been pulled out of.
At the sound of voices, Q sneezed and shifted, making both men freeze. There was a long moment where it seemed neither of them so much as breath, but Q settled down again and remained completely asleep, fingers digging into 007’s shirt as if he found comfort in the texture, or the powerful muscles beneath. Those muscles could and would take apart the world for him, and had come pretty damn close over the past few days. M hadn’t even bothered to try and separate Q and his defender, and it was an unspoken truth that missions would be on hold for a bit – at least until 007 wasn’t going to be distracted by the idea of his little genius going missing again.
When it was clear that Q was too exhausted and doped up on cold medication to be easily roused, Bond cracked on eye open to give his flat-mate a gimlet glare. He added to his previous threat, “And if you wake him, I’ll put a bullet in you. Fair?” His voice said it had better be fair.
Alec never took threats seriously, but when he chuckled at Bond’s fatigued snarkiness, he kept it to a low volume. “Here,” he changed the subject, pulling out a familiar tan hunk of cloth. Clearly unworried about being shot anywhere vital (the noise would wake Q more surely than Alec’s whispering, after all), 006 walked over and draped the now-washed hoodie over Q, the sleeves trailing over 007’s stomach and arm like lazy limbs. “Can’t have the little tyrant go without his royal attire,” the man joked, then started casting around for something.
“What are you looking for?” Bond asked in a suspicious undertone. He glanced from Alec to Q as the latter shifted against his side – another sleepy wriggle that ended in stillness and light snoring.
“Q’s mug. I want to write ‘Tiny Overlord’ on it, after hearing about him from Q-branch, but your kitten appears to have hidden- Ahah! Found it,” cheered 006 smuggly and quietly, and then he was trotting happily into the kitchen with Q’s white mug (which still had the marks on it from last time he’d written on it) to find a permanent marker.
Of course, five minutes after that, 006 was passed out on the couch, too, one of Bond’s legs across his thighs because the man refused to move and one of Alec’s big, scarred hands stretched over to touch Q’s foot – a precaution, so that he’d know as soon as Bond did if the kid woke up. Considering the kind of week they’d all had, and considering that no one was idiot enough to try and enter their apartment, it was a good long while before any of them so much as shifted in their sleep.
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