Even having moved away several inches, Bond's fingers still hovered too close to Falk's mouth for comfort. The boffin focused on the calloused tips before glancing past them to the older agent's face. Bond looked calm, then again he almost always looked calm. His posture was relaxed but that didn't lessen the instinctual response of runrunrun that thrummed through the Quartermaster's limbs.

"Double-Oh-Seven, what can I do for you?" Falk's breath ghosted over Bond's fingertips and the big man shivered. Oh, well then, he figured he may as well work with that he'd been given. As the moment for Bond to respond came and went the slim man shifted forward. He didn't close the distance between them entirely, just enough so that Bond's outstretched hand found itself all but nestled in the outer curls of Falk's impressive mop. The bottoms of his rounded ears twitched against the cool skin. Another shiver passed through the double-oh and Falk bit back a . "Double-Oh-Seven...?" He tilted his head slightly towards the agent's hand, which had turned so that the softer flesh of his palm was to Falk's face, not quite touching. The slight angle of the younger man's head made it so on his next breath the calloused palm gently, faintly, touched Falk's cheek.

Bond withdrew his hand as though burned, stepping back one and then two paces to put distance between them. That was fine by Falk, he preferred having a bubble of space at all times versus rubbing elbows. Especially when those elbows belonged to an agent with a licence to kill and the compunction to use it. Carefully Falk straightened, jerking his head back and slightly to the side so that his fringe settled into the mass of curls rather than across his eyes. He watched Bond for a second before shrugging and turning on his heel. With deft hands the Quartermaster went about checking his gun and with the tap of one elbow to the button on the wall drew the target back to his table. He unhooked the tattered paper, each shot having punctured the inner four rings of the chest, and tucked it away to his side. He clipped on another and sent the target back, this time to thirty feet. It wasn't until he'd slid in another magazine and pulled back the slide, ear protection again applied, that he noticed any movement from Bond.

The older man had taken up residence in the lane two down from Falk, on his right. The only reason he'd noticed was the addition of another paper target. It was stationed maybe fifty feet back; if the stubborn reptile wanted to show off to an empty room, so be it. The Chinchilla went about his perfunctory checks before raising the stock again to his shoulder, lining up his shot, and gently coaxing the trigger into submission.

Snap! Pop!

The round impacted the target's forehead before slamming into the far wall.

Falk was too busy swearing a blue streak to care about his perfect shot. He managed to click on the safety and drop the clip before all but throwing his prototype onto the table. It caught on the far edge, a raised lip keeping the weapon from falling into the range. He was torn between raising a hand to check his face and clutching the fingers of his right hand around his left to stem the blood flow. Shrapnel to the face, or severed finger, hmm, decisions, decisions. Really, his subconscious needed to stop with the jokes and terrible timing. Falk shook his head, ear coverings falling off, thumping against his back on the way down, and glasses sliding down his nose. He snarled, frustrated, angry, and in pain.

Before he could manage another furious shake the glasses were plucked from his nose and set onto the table. The thin man turned, face half snarl, half pained grimace to have his chin gently caught by a cool hand. The glare he directed at Bond wasn't intentional, he wasn't really mad athim but the other agent caught the full force of Falk's temper.

He could tell, both by the alarmed flicker of emotion across Bond's impassive features, and the hot drip of blood onto and through his collar, that his face had definitely taken a hit. On the plus side, he could see with both eyes. That had to count for something. Bond's other hand came around the bicep on Falk's wounded side and gently pulled the other man out of his lane. The edges of his vision populated with black motes but he shook them off. Now was not a good time to pass out. Though he wobbled, he managed to reach the spare break room down the hall and around the corner from the range. Bond coaxed Falk into perching on one of the couches, overstuffed and easy to get stuck in (Falk had some experience with the Q-branch furniture almost eating him). The double-oh stepped into the washroom and returned with a modest first-aid kit. By modest, Falk actually meant a duffle with straining seams.

He watched Bond occupy the coffee table at his knees. He leant forward and took both of Falk's hands in his own. The Boffin's slender digits were dwarfed by Bond's thicker, darker, calloused hands. With surprising gentleness he pried away Falk's right hand from where it was clenched tightly around his left. The younger man looked away sharply, eyes clenching shut as he fought down a wave of nausea. He wasn't usually offended by blood, but these were his fingers. Without them he didn't have a job, a life. He was nobody without his hands to code, write, and craft with. He bit back a sob and began piecing together strings of ones and zeroes in his head to distract himself from Bond's ministrations. He heard the tell tale zip and the rustle of canvas while Bond fished through the bag. After a moment his second hand returned and tugged Falk's uninjured hand away and pressed it down onto the point of one thick knee. His fingers latched on to the point of contact, digging into the cords of muscle through the soft layer of high-end wool and leaving behind trails of smeared blood. Bond huffed, the sound both amused and uncomfortable. Apologetic, the Quartermaster whined and lessened his grip slightly. Bond's grip returned to the young man's hand and squeezed, pressing the long fingers into the muscle a little more tightly. Falk gave another squeeze, thanks, before returning to his mental coding. The feel of Bond's warmth under his hand was enough to ground him.

Bond gently dabbed around the wounds with a wad of cotton, not yet touching the shredded skin. The Chinchilla chittered regardless, ears flopping forward and back. One brushed Bond's hair and the older man looked up. Falk caught the movement from the corner of his eye and he looked over, dilated green eyes meeting calm arctic blue. Swallowing he jerked his head away again, this time flapping his ears forward to cover part of his face. After a few breaths Bond returned to the hand in his grasp.

It wasn't long before it was cleaned, disinfected, doused with a liberal amount of salve, and wrapped in stiff white bandages. Bond gently patted the younger man's wrist after setting it onto his knee with its twin. Falk's ears twitched.

Again a cool hand cupped his chin and gently turned the Quartermaster's face into the light. The double-oh tsk'd and went about wiping away the blood still dripping down Falk's face. There were several winces and one particularly embarrassing flinch paired with a pained chitter that prompted Bond to actually shush the Quartermaster before the agent pulled the stained cloth away. He expertly tossed the flannel into the bin across from the couch, against the far wall, and went back to eyeing Falk's wound.

"That counts as toxic waste, you know." Those few words were enough to make him cringe, his lip pulling in two directions. Well, that can't be good... Falk swallowed and pursed his lips, trying to ignore how that too felt wrong.

The double-oh rolled his eyes and deftly plucked a pair of tweezers from the bag and unwrapped them from their packet. He held a thick swathe of folded gauze in his other hand and stared at Falk, eyes calm arctic shards. "This will probably hurt, but I need to get those bits out." At his patient's thick gulp and weak nod, Bond went to work.

He had to bracket Falk's lean legs with his own thick thighs to keep the younger man from squirming away as the metal prongs dug into ruined flesh. After the first few attempts the double-oh huffed and pulled back. The Chinchilla's gaze followed, ears quivering against his dark mass of curls. His good hand was clenched into the fabric of the couch rather than Bond's knee, knuckles starkly white against the dark cloth. Bond sighed.

"Q..." A whimper was his response, Bond sighed again. He quickly tucked one arm under the younger man's knees and twisted. With the sharp change of direction Falk's body turned so that his head impacted the seat cushions. Bond wasted no time in straddling the younger man's hips and cupping his uninjured cheek with one strong hand. Bond's grip shifted to hold the boffin's head at a different angle, leaving Falk's panicked breaths to ghost over the webbing between thumb and forefinger. The thrum of the younger man's pulse beat against his pinky finger where it was pressed to the underside of his jaw.

Bond's tail wrapped itself around Falk's legs, keeping him from wriggling too much. The gentle press of hard scales against thin limbs both terrified and comforted the boffin. Bond was a living weapon, and here he was playing nurse to Falk. That of course, damn his imagination, prompted an oddly tempting vision of the double-oh dressed in a very short, old style nurse outfit. Falk promptly went about beating his subconscious into a metaphorical bloody pulp.

The sharp prongs of the tweezers dug into the soft flesh of Falk's jaw and he yelped, good hand slapping at Bond's sturdy mass. The tail unwound from Falk's legs to capture the flailing appendage and tuck it between Bond's thigh and Falk's hip. The younger man's tail was erratically switching between quivering and thumping the couch cushions. He really didn't like pain! The plated tail went there next and twined itself with the softly furred appendage, gently squeezing.

At some point Bond began hissing; a low, gentle sound that was one part seductive gravel, one part reassurance. The sound was out of place coming from Bond, but it helped Falk to relax somewhat. He chittered back; soft sounds that were almost pleading. The animalistic sounds weren't understandable as words were, but the inflection was enough. It didn't take long for all the bits of shrapnel to be pried loose. Each one was tossed onto the table beside them, landing with a metallic clink. The double-oh closed the worst of the wounds with butterfly bandages before smearing antiseptic over the rest and applying a crisp white bandage, matching the ones on Falk's fingers. The blonde remained straddling the boffin's hips for a few moments more, gently hissing and carefully turning the young man's head back and forth. At some point the Chinchilla had closed his eyes and didn't think to open them until he felt the double-oh pull away.

Bond looked far too at ease settled across the Quartermaster's lap, the points of his knees just under Falk's floating ribs, his thighs pressing against the bony juts of slim hips. The brunette found himself unable to look away from those pale eyes. The calloused pad of Bond's thumb gently stroked the corner of the younger man's mouth. Falk's tongue darted out to wet his lips, the tip just brushing against Bond's nail. The bigger man shuddered, legs tightening, tail squeezing. The Quartermaster watched as the slit pupil widened until only a white-blue ring was left. Breath caught in his throat, Falk didn't dare move as the double-oh leant forward until scarcely an inch remained between them.

This was unprofessional, he was the MI6 Quartermaster and he would be damned if he let some lizard get to him. Especially in his own lab! Any second now Falk would throw the double-oh off, tear a verbal strip from his hide, and then banish the deviant from his branch indefinitely. Yes, exactly! That would show him, no one could mess with - !

Really, he had intended to do just that. But with the first gentle press of thin, slightly chapped lips to his own blood-swollen pair, any thought the Quartermaster had entertained about asserting dominance promptly flew out the metaphorical window. The kiss was gentle, merely a brush of lips that seemed suspended in time. Bond's lips were outwardly cool, but the Chinchilla could feel the promise of heat with each breath the double-oh exhaled against his mouth. Falk's lips parted slightly and he chittered softly. Bond hissed back. There was the faintest touch of a thin, forked tongue to the warm inside of Falk's upper lip before the double-oh was suddenly gone.

The brunette blinked up, momentarily blinded by the overhead lights. Then he turned his head to watch Bond tuck the bloodied metal bits into a plastic bag, the top adorned with a thick red label that read 'EVIDENCE'. The agent tidied up the bloodied fabric and implements, tossing the whole lot into the bin to join the soiled flannel.

"What did you blow up this time?"

Falk blinked and lifted his head from the couch. His hair must be in a right mess, and his ears and cheeks flushed. The aforementioned appendages perked up, the rest of his body following until he was sitting properly on the couch. He gave Moneypenny a sheepish look. "It was an accident this time, promise."

"Mhmm," she gave him a pointed glare, promising a later, more thorough interrogation, before turning her attention to Bond. "And what part did you play in this, Double-Oh-Seven?"

"I was merely sharing the range when it happened. Anyone else with half a brain would have done the same." He slanted a cheeky grin back at Falk, "we can't have our Quartermaster bleeding out on the floor of his own branch after all."

Falk huffed, "it wasn't nearly that bad!" He held up his bandaged hand, "see?"

Moneypenny rolled her eyes and stepped forward to haul Falk to his feet. The mammal went with only the smallest of protests. Bond stood behind the coffee table, between the doors to the washrooms. He stared at Falk as they exchanged thanks and social niceties before Eve hauled Falk from the room. Bond's eyes didn't leave the Quartermaster's frame until the door shut behind him.

"So, what did you do, anyway?"

He huffed, tail curled around one thigh as he walked beside Eve. "I was testing that prototype SMG I told you about." She gave a quiet ah and he continued, "something went wrong in the chamber or barrel and it backfired."

Eve stopped and turned to stare at him, eyes wide and jaw slack. "Q, your gun backfired?!"

He coughed and scratched the back of his head, sheepish, "...yes...?"

She growled and swatted at him, to which he allowed. He probably deserved it. Well, not probably, definitely. She worried too much about him. "How are you so damn calm? You could have blown your head off!"

"But I didn't."

"But you could have."

"Didn't."

"Auuuuugh!" Eve turned on her heel, hands thrown into the air, and stalked away.

Falk laughed and followed her, tail once again bouncing at his back. He caught up and gently tugged her's; the caramel and dark chocolate fur soft under his uninjured fingers. "Oh come on, just lecture me, give me a big hug, and get over it." That earned him another swipe though she did grab his right hand in her left and didn't let go until they reached Q-branch.