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Q was used to multitasking. He was a quartermaster, a babysitter, and when summoned, a psychologist. A coder, a researcher, and when needed, an engineer. He was no stranger to emergencies and unexpected turns of events and always had a plan B just in case.
What he still couldn't get used to was Bond calling him in the middle of the night: just for kicks, out of boredom, only to piss him off. Q fumbled for his mobile phone ringing shrilly just beside him.
“If this isn't a matter of national security, I'm hanging up.”
“That's exactly what it is.”
Q rubbed his nose, trying to shake off the drowsiness.
“What on earth happened this time, Bond? You are not even on a mission."
Bond made an expectant pause and sobbed miserably.
“I think this is the end.”
“Of my patience? It is nigh, you know.”
“Q, I am serious,” Bond hoarsed out, sounding genuinely offended, and sniffed. “Maybe it’s a tropical fever. I feel worse.”
“You've got all your jabs. And you haven’t even left the country in a while.”
“But what if something bit me?”
“Well, something has definitely bitten you since you are calling me in the middle of—” Q said through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to give Bond a piece of his mind.
“Here, listen,” Bond interrupted him. “ A mosquito-borne illness… causes high fever and flu-like symptoms.”
“Wait a minute—are you googling your symptoms?” Q asked with disbelief and rolled onto his side, reaching for his laptop. The monitor lit up, making him squint.
“Sure,” Bond said in a dogmatic tone. “It's quite handy. It took me seconds to find the cause. It’s either Dengue or Zika. Both are extremely contagious.”
Q opened a command prompt and started to type in instructions and IP addresses.
“What else are they saying?” Q asked absentmindedly. He just needed to keep Bond busy for a bit.
“First there are muscle and joint pain... headache... hypertension...,” Bond mumbled as if he was reading out loud. Suddenly, he paused and said disappointedly. “It says that, in some cases, a rash can develop. Q, this is too much.”
Q was so consumed by the script creation that his tongue stuck out; lines of code were running against the black terminal window until the cursor blinked and stopped. The request took some time to process before the prompt appeared, showing Q the very result he anticipated.
“So, what about the treatment, Bond? Try and search what's recommended in your case," Q asked giggling to himself.
“You finally sound like you care, thank you, Q,” Bond said, a little huffed. “I’ll check it… if the page opens. It doesn’t. It throws an error. And there is this tiny little dino.”
“And what exactly does it say?” Q asked in a cooing voice.
“No internet. Try checking the network cables, modem—”
“Oh no, you must've run out of credit. You see, your network is a closed line, so I can only top it up from my office, not remotely. You’ll have to wait until morning,” Q sighed.
“But if… maybe you could—” started Bond hesitantly.
“Too bad, there's nothing that can be done right now, I’m afraid. You’d better go and have some rest. Or would you rather prefer I call an ambulance for you?”
“This is not really… I mean…”
“Well, don’t strain your voice then. Put a wet cloth on your forehead. Try to sleep. If it gets worse, don’t hesitate to call. But don't call me, call HR instead, they can help you with the obituary. Get well soon!”
Q hung up and switched to do-not-disturb–mode before Bond could utter another word. He checked the terminal window one more time: the traffic was now routed to bypass Bond’s network. If it occurred to Bond to google his symptoms, it was in Q's best interest to keep the man from his obsessive search for a while.
Q closed the laptop and made himself comfortable, snuggling into the blankets. The plan worked perfectly. He might even manage to get some sleep himself.