International Man of Fucking Mystery | Skyfall | PG-13
Title: International Man of Fucking Mystery
Fandom: Skyfall
Pairing: Q/Bond
Rating: PG-13
Length: 288
Warnings: Mild schmoop?
Summary: “You've got man flu, not a gun shot wound. The latter you're far more adapt at treating.”
A/N: Quick drabble written for a friend needing some H/C, stat.
“This all seems highly unbefitting,” Bond said as he further slouched into the sunken cushions of Q's hand-me-down sofa. Why the man had chosen something burnt orange that appeared circa the seventies was beyond him.
“And yet you remain,” Q said with a quirk of lips as he swept a hand in Bond's general, pathetic direction, “clearly a slave to my fancy of Nurse Nightingale.”
He swept out of the room and into the cluttered, kitschy kitchen, leaving Bond to scowl and sniff through painfully clogged sinuses. He sounded like a bloody goose, for fuck's sake. He honked again, his nose protesting. Glowered at the knitted blanket pooled around his waist and listened to the rattle and chime of Q preparing tea in a most haphazard way. No one made more of a mess in putting on the kettle than did Q.
“I won't be imposing the entire weekend,” Bond said, picking a loose thread at the bottom of his green and white striped football top. Q had said the Celtic colours were ghastly on his currently wan skin, but as if Q could talk. The man wore sleeveless jumpers.
“Don't bother yourself with the effort,” Q said, popping back in with a tea tray loaded with toast and steaming mugs. “You've got man flu, not a gun shot wound. The latter you're far more adapt at treating.”
“I'm an international man of fucking mystery,” Bond said, inwardly wincing at the sound of his own petulance.
Setting the tray down with a soft snort of a laugh, Q swept past the couch, his slim fingers combing once, lightly, through Bond's short, tousled hair.
“Of course you are, love. Eat your toast.”
Fandom: Skyfall
Pairing: Q/Bond
Rating: PG-13
Length: 288
Warnings: Mild schmoop?
Summary: “You've got man flu, not a gun shot wound. The latter you're far more adapt at treating.”
A/N: Quick drabble written for a friend needing some H/C, stat.
“This all seems highly unbefitting,” Bond said as he further slouched into the sunken cushions of Q's hand-me-down sofa. Why the man had chosen something burnt orange that appeared circa the seventies was beyond him.
“And yet you remain,” Q said with a quirk of lips as he swept a hand in Bond's general, pathetic direction, “clearly a slave to my fancy of Nurse Nightingale.”
He swept out of the room and into the cluttered, kitschy kitchen, leaving Bond to scowl and sniff through painfully clogged sinuses. He sounded like a bloody goose, for fuck's sake. He honked again, his nose protesting. Glowered at the knitted blanket pooled around his waist and listened to the rattle and chime of Q preparing tea in a most haphazard way. No one made more of a mess in putting on the kettle than did Q.
“I won't be imposing the entire weekend,” Bond said, picking a loose thread at the bottom of his green and white striped football top. Q had said the Celtic colours were ghastly on his currently wan skin, but as if Q could talk. The man wore sleeveless jumpers.
“Don't bother yourself with the effort,” Q said, popping back in with a tea tray loaded with toast and steaming mugs. “You've got man flu, not a gun shot wound. The latter you're far more adapt at treating.”
“I'm an international man of fucking mystery,” Bond said, inwardly wincing at the sound of his own petulance.
Setting the tray down with a soft snort of a laugh, Q swept past the couch, his slim fingers combing once, lightly, through Bond's short, tousled hair.
“Of course you are, love. Eat your toast.”