It had been bad. Awful. Neither of them could remember a mission which had ever ended so badly. Bond had lost track of the mark, the head of an Egyptian smuggling ring, and Q branch couldn't trace him due to the criminal's aversion to all things digital. The agent Bond had been instructed to help had been found, it's true, but the man was severely traumatised. He's been held by the organisation for months, and it was unlikely he'd ever make a full psychological recovery.

They'd told the agent's wife that he was dead. It was easier that way.

Bond himself had almost been killed. The only thing stopping him from some truly suicidal moves was the voice in his ear, there for the whole duration of this mission. Even through the interference-ridden connection, the clipped English and soft murmurs had been enough to convince 007 that maybe, this time, he didn't want to die for Queen and Country.

This time, there was someone waiting. This time, someone would care if Bond died. And he couldn't bring himself to hurt his Quartermaster.

After the familiar haze (oh, what a novelty to have something familiar in his life after eight months of Egyptian heat and foreign words!) of debriefing and arguing with medical, Bond had never been so thankful for his MI6-issued flat. He knew it was secure, he knew it was passably comfortable, he knew it was home. And with 'home' came Q. Home wasQ, in Bond's ruined mind.

The door was unlocked when 007 stumbled down the hallway. That should cause alarm bells to ring, should cause him to stiffen and reach for his gun. Instead he sighed, almost collapsing into the flat. He returned to his usual state just long enough to lock the door and set the alarms, then headed towards the sofa and the man he knew would wait for him there.

Q was closing his laptop lid when Bond walked in, having heard the man enter the flat. He stood without a word, movements calm, expression neutral. Or neutral to most people. James- he was home now, no need for formality- could see the stiffness in Q's shoulders, the slight downturn of his lips, the vague lines around his uncommonly somber eyes. He could see all of this and translate it easily, reading Q's worry and upset in a way no one else ever could. Similarly, it only took Q one glance at James to know exactly what was needed. He extended a delicate hand, twining clever, pale fingers with rough, tanned ones.

Mere minutes later, they lie together in bed. Both were naked, but nothing tonight would be sexual. There was time for that tomorrow, for rediscovering each other's bodies after months apart, for rushed compliments and sweaty orgasms. Now, however, they just touched. Reassured themselves that this was real. Strong arms held onto the fragile body, dark hair lie on a scarred chest.

It would seem sweet, romantic even, if viewed by an outsider. But for these two, it was a comfort. An urgent need to feel the other, a silent reminder that they would live another day. Together. They shifted, and now James could feel the ridges of Q's spine against his chest, they were pressed so close together. His heartbeat whispered the words he himself couldn't, not yet: "I'm here. I won't leave. I can't hurt you."