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To say that Q liked cats would be the understatement of the year. Q adored his cats, from the top of their fluffy tails, to the tips of their devilishly sharp claws, even when those claws were buried in his flesh.
But those were things that Q didn’t share with the outside world. He didn’t even mention them in passing while at work, and not only because of the security standards he was adamant not to break, but also because he preferred to keep anything work related separate from his private life and vice versa. Not that he had much of a private life to begin with, but a few hours here and there, spent browsing the internet in the darkness of a late evening after an impossibly long shift were something he had come to cherish and would protect with all his might.
At MI6, he worked with many people. A good chunk of them were spies and intelligence agents of varying caliber. His job as the Quartermaster required him to get acquainted with most of them, but there were only a few he truly enjoyed working with. And only one who has ever seen his cats.
The ginger cloud of a cat dashed through the room, meowing at the door, before running back to his spot at the window.
Q frowned, looking up from his laptop. If it wasn’t raining, he’d blame it on the birds teasing the cat from the other side of the glass, but the weather has gotten progressively worse over the past few hours.
“Go to sleep,” he said to the meowing, ignoring the ginger hairs flying through the air as the cat dashed through the crowded room again. The other cats didn’t seem so eager and continued their naps in peace.
But sleep was never an option, especially for a slightly overweight beast that could jump right onto your knees and demand attention with a glare.
“What is your problem today?”
Q picked up the cat and walked to the window. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but the dark and gloomy rain pouring onto the concrete and cars didn’t surprise him.
The cat wasn’t happy about being put onto the cat tree to the side of the room, but to be fair, he hardly ever was happy about anything not food related.
“You’re being extremely irrational, just so you know,” Q explained, but knew his words were missing the target.
He stood in the center of the room for a moment before realizing how badly he needed to stretch. The clock was somehow showing the middle of the night, even though Q could’ve sworn he sat down on that couch only minutes ago. He looked to the door and to the trash bags in desperate need of being thrown out.
Q didn’t bother taking an umbrella, because a long walk wasn’t an option. The trash containers, despite having a designated area, were always brought close to the doors of the building. None of the tenants ever bothered to walk through the whole backyard and a good amount of muddy grass to get to them, regardless of the landlords’ insistence.
The air outside was crisp and fresh, on the side of chilly. The nights were getting colder as well as longer, and Q couldn’t help but wonder if the snow would bother to visit the city that winter.
Deep in his thoughts, Q almost missed the bloodstains.
He would’ve missed the legs too, if he hadn’t almost tripped over them.
“Missed me?” you asked, pain taking away any humor put into the words.
Q sighed.
He didn’t speak as he dragged you up and helped you half limp back into the hallway. The silence followed you up the impossibly high stairs that for some reason made your legs not work anymore. The silence lingered in the doorway too, but was quickly dispersed by meowing so loud and obnoxious it was borderline deafening.
“I hate you too,” you muttered to the cat dashing right between your feet.
“Keep quiet,” Q scoffed through clenched teeth as he hauled you into the tiny bathroom. “You’ll bleed out faster.”
“There’s absolutely no correlation—”
"This is not the time to be a smart-ass.”
A lie so obvious required a response, but you missed it the moment Q propped you in the shower. The cold tiles hit your skin exposed through various rips that were not fashion choices.
Q left you to retrieve an ancient looking first-aid kit. The scissors cut open your blood soaked shirt with ease.
“What happened?”
“I ran into a bullet. Slipped on the roof. Casual Saturday.”
“You’ve had no missions in the log, I’m sure of it.”
“Are you checking up on me? How sweet.”
You hissed again when the water hit your stomach, spreading red over the tiles.
“I simply know my job.” Q piled the bandages on the floor behind him, steadying his hands enough to take the bullet out. He was by no means used to it, and the mandatory training he’d received could by no means be counted as experience.
“And I do mine.”
You took the tweezers out of his hand before Q protested. It wasn’t your first bullet, and you doubted it would be the last one.
It clicked on the tiles moments later and you sunk lower, utterly exhausted.
“It was M who sent me out,” you whispered. “No details, just a tiny bit of long distance spying.”
“Snipers?”
“Most likely.”
Q swore. It made you smile, even through the dizziness and fog swimming before your eyes. You could count on one hand the amount of times you’d heard him swear throughout all the years you’d known Q.
“I need to make a report.”
“You need medical attention and 5 hours of sleep minimum, right after I make sure you don’t bleed out on my couch.”
“I hate that couch, I want your bed.” The words came out as a mumble. Q took off your ruined jacket, looking for any other scratches you might’ve hidden. You wanted to tell him it was pointless, but your lips refused to cooperate.
“I just changed my bedsheets and you smell like shit. If you’re still alive by the morning and take an actual shower, then we’ll talk.”
Slipping in and out of consciousness, you half remembered Q getting rid of the bloodstained and muddy clothes, but it was only flashes of light and dull pain that you could no longer be bothered about.
The last thing you remembered before your mind finally gave up on staying afloat was the softness of Q’s favourite cushion and a voice you knew more than your own.