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The alley stank of rain, oil, and old rubbish.
Bond’s shoes hit the slick pavement in measured silence, every sense running hot. The echo of pursuit had faded two streets back, but he didn’t trust it. He never did.
Then—movement. A pale shape against the darker wall.
His hand went to the Walther before his mind caught up. Three strides closed the distance. Gun low, eyes narrowing.
Q.
Slumped half on his side, one hand braced against the bricks as if that alone might hold him upright. Blood striped down from his temple, rain streaking it into something messier. His chest rose and fell—quick, shallow.
Bond dropped to a crouch, gun sweeping the alley once more before he holstered it. Close up, the damage was worse. Glass glittered at Q’s knees, his shirt torn open at the sleeve, dark with spreading red.
“Q,” Bond said quietly, steady and clipped, a voice designed to cut through fog. “With me. Eyes open.”
Q blinked, tried for words, but they tangled on his breath.
Bond shifted closer, steadying him as he angled him from the wall. “Hold still.” His voice stayed low, controlled—command threaded with reassurance.
He swept a hand through Q’s hair, fingers checking for bone beneath the blood. A shallow gash. Messy but not deep. Q hissed when Bond’s thumb brushed too close to the edge.
“Conscious, oriented… mostly.” Bond muttered it like a checklist, eyes flicking down. Jacket torn, sleeve soaked. He pressed against the damp fabric, felt the give of blood beneath. Not arterial. Manageable.
Q made a noise of protest—thin, half-swallowed. “You don’t have to—”
“Quiet.” Bond’s gaze cut back to the alley mouth. A car horn blared somewhere distant, followed by the rise and fall of voices too far to parse. He stilled, listening, one hand flat to Q’s shoulder. Only the rain, dripping from broken guttering, answered.
Safe for a moment.
He tore a strip from his own shirt with a sharp twist, wrapped it around Q’s arm, tight enough to staunch. His touch gentled at the wrist, a grounding pressure.
“You’ll walk,” Bond said simply, finishing the knot. “But not alone.”
Q blinked at him, pupils uneven in the neon glow. He tried for a laugh, but it caught in his throat.
Bond steadied him, thumb brushing once against clammy skin before pulling back. Then—boots on wet grit. Deliberate. Too close.
Bond eased Q down into shadow. “Stay down.”
Q’s fingers caught his sleeve, clumsy but insistent. “Don’t—”
“I’m not leaving.”
The rain muted the city’s pulse, but every sound carved itself sharp: an engine idling, water slapping into puddles, the faint creak of a door hinge. More than one set of footsteps.
Bond flattened to the wall, Walther raised. His free hand brushed Q’s shoulder once—silent instruction: stay quiet, stay with me.
Shadows flickered past the far end. A voice muttered, clipped, foreign. Bond tracked it with his breath held, finger taut on the trigger.
Then—nothing.
Footsteps receded. A car door slammed. Tyres hissed away into the night.
Bond waited, counting seconds. Five, ten, fifteen. Only then did he lower the gun and glance back.
Q hadn’t moved, jaw tight, breath shallow. His eyes met Bond’s, glassy but clear.
“Still with me?”
A faint nod.
Bond crouched closer, hand at his arm. “We’re moving.”
Q tried to push upright, faltered halfway. Bond caught him, arm firm around his waist.
“You can argue later. On your feet.”
The protest died when Bond pulled him up, steadying his weight. Too light, but his legs held enough.
Bond’s eyes swept the shadows as they moved, gun angled down but ready. Q’s breath rasped against his shoulder, warm even through rain-soaked fabric.
“Lean,” Bond murmured. “Don’t fight it. I’ve got you.”
Q’s head tipped briefly against him, a fraction of surrender.
The alley narrowed, pressing them tighter together. Bond angled himself to the outside, body between Q and the open street.
Two corners on, Q faltered again. Bond stopped them short, grip tightening. “Easy. Breathe.”
Q obeyed, a shuddering exhale misting the damp air. His weight sagged into Bond’s side, no protest left.
Bond tugged his jacket free, settling it over Q’s shoulders. Sodden, but warmer than nothing.
“Almost there,” he murmured. He didn’t know if it was true—safehouse, cab, anywhere with four walls and a lock—but Q’s lashes fluttered at the words, the fight easing from his jaw.
Bond glanced back once, eyes raking the rain-slick street, then forward again. The danger wasn’t gone.
But Q was still breathing, still moving with him.
And as long as that was true, Bond would not let go.