2020
Title: 2020
Author: gwylliondream
Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: NC-17
Words: 200
A/N: Written for the 2016 007 fest Last Drabble Writer Standing. Prompt: Dare hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
Q awakens from his morphine sleep, the smell of antiseptic in the air. He knows the scent of MI6’s medical branch even before he opens his eyes. He inhales deeply and welcomes the aroma, the comfort of home.
Amid the beeping machines and the pinch of the monitor’s adhesive on his chest, Q finds a hand that quietly engulfs his uninjured fingers.
Q exhales, relieved that he’s back on British soil. Else how could Bond be there to hold his hand?
For four years, President Trump dared Q to hack the US Secret Service. Q rose to the challenge, never expecting that he’d be plucked off the Tube, hog-tied, and transported to Washington to face the tyrant himself.
Perhaps he gave American civility too much credit.
A few broken fingers… a concussion… a fractured rib… it took Bond days to find him. Damage had been done.
Bond soothes Q’s good hand with gentle fingers.
Q opens his eyes. “I expect a full report,” he rasps, voice broken from wailing through his torture.
“They’ve all been disposed of, including their ringleader,” Bond assures him.
Q sighs, grateful for Bond’s willingness to rescue him from the bullies- 2020 can’t come soon enough.
Author: gwylliondream
Pairing: Bond/Q
Rating: NC-17
Words: 200
A/N: Written for the 2016 007 fest Last Drabble Writer Standing. Prompt: Dare hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: I did not create these characters. No disrespect intended. No profit desired, only muses.
Comments: Comments are welcome anytime, thanks so much for reading!
Q awakens from his morphine sleep, the smell of antiseptic in the air. He knows the scent of MI6’s medical branch even before he opens his eyes. He inhales deeply and welcomes the aroma, the comfort of home.
Amid the beeping machines and the pinch of the monitor’s adhesive on his chest, Q finds a hand that quietly engulfs his uninjured fingers.
Q exhales, relieved that he’s back on British soil. Else how could Bond be there to hold his hand?
For four years, President Trump dared Q to hack the US Secret Service. Q rose to the challenge, never expecting that he’d be plucked off the Tube, hog-tied, and transported to Washington to face the tyrant himself.
Perhaps he gave American civility too much credit.
A few broken fingers… a concussion… a fractured rib… it took Bond days to find him. Damage had been done.
Bond soothes Q’s good hand with gentle fingers.
Q opens his eyes. “I expect a full report,” he rasps, voice broken from wailing through his torture.
“They’ve all been disposed of, including their ringleader,” Bond assures him.
Q sighs, grateful for Bond’s willingness to rescue him from the bullies- 2020 can’t come soon enough.