Chapter Text
For failure and notable service alike, MI6’s memory is unknowably elastic. On the upper floors, greying faces can be recognised as having been rather too close to that fellow in ‘78 who leaked a small forest’s worth of military reports to Yugoslavian friends, or known for blunders in Nairobi that lost them a brace of promising moles. Their mistakes having been forgiven, or their past oversight now handily overseen itself, they trickle along steady paths toward CBEs and quiet cottages on Anglesey. While in the lower reaches, humbled in lowly pen-pushing positions if still employed at all, are those who might otherwise have been thanked for neatly maintaining a hair’s breadth between embarrassing affairs and the ears of the British press, or for effecting aversion of a minor nuclear holocaust.
Max understands all this at least as well as any of his colleagues, so he must admit that recognition for his role in dismantling Nine Eyes has been as universal as he could hope. Since November, other – well, his fellow – section heads have been stopping him on the way out of meetings or in corridors to shake is hand and confess with less deliberate blandness than usual that things ‘could have gone rather badly’. Some (the less greying) even come to his office to deliver their congratulations and dole out further diabolical understatements.
On each occasion, once he’s detached his own palm from theirs and found it drifting to his still-flat stomach, he is reminded that he’s ticking off names from a finite list; once every hand has been shaken and shoulder grasped, this cloud of gratitude will disperse and the next crisis will descend. The grace period may last a week or the rest of his career - and there’s always the possibility that the two are synonymous – and he’s a fool if he doesn’t take advantage of the goodwill while it still presents itself.
He thinks all this several times for a few weeks, then requests a meeting with M and Tanner. He arrives three minutes late with a fresh cup of tea to hand, and smiles warmly as he takes his seat.
‘I’ll be taking a year off, starting at the end of June.’
Mallory blinks, but otherwise remains impassive.
Max suspects wavering eye contact will be read as a sign of weakness – he doesn’t glance to Bill.
‘I’m pregnant – due in July – and I’ll be taking the full parental leave allowance stipulated in my contract. Of course, I won’t be completely uncontactable for the duration: if there are any cyber security code reds then I will log in to help repel the attack.’
And that’s the most you’ll get from me.
‘I wanted to give you the most warning possible.’
He smiles again and takes a slurp of tea.
There’s a moment’s pause before M says ‘Your contract...?’ and looks to Tanner, rather as one hoping to negotiate a speeding ticket with a Parisian police officer looks to the friend who claims to have done A-level French.
‘Ah,’ says Tanner.
Ah indeed.
There’s a popular rumour in the Service – or at least, moderately popular among those under-worked enough to theorise extensively on the career history of the higher-ups – that the current Quartermaster was coerced to the position rather than promoted to it. It’s a notion not entirely without logic; given his quick rise through the ranks and what’s known about his background, he could well have been caught tampering with one government firewall too far and been man-hunted from a gloomy basement rather than headhunted from Imperial.
And he supposes M can be forgiven for temporarily forgetting the finer details of how HR sourced his Quartermaster: it’s been a vicious period since he took the helm at Vauxhall; he spent what in any normal job would have been the honeymoon period rebuilding headquarters, attempting to fend off Denbigh’s insidious reforms, failing to do so, and – finally, with the help of present company – staging a minor coup d’etat by overriding a democratically agreed international security system in the name of actual democracy and international security.
Max supposes Mallory has stooped to imagining his contract negotiations as some kind of an ‘it’s us or extradition to China, pretty boy’ offer. Probably in front of a two-way mirror.
But Tanner knows better.
‘Ah. Yes,’ Tanner clears his throat. ‘Sir, Q’s contract has the same enhanced parental leave provision as all higher-level staff.’
‘Of course,’ says M, valiantly unruffled.
He turns back to Max, and his eyes are as pale and sharp as January. His forehead wrinkles begin to reappear.
‘I suppose there’s nothing I can do to change your mind.’
And there’s the disappointment that, knowing it would weigh more heavily on him than most negotiation tactics, Max had steeled himself against.
‘If I may speak honestly, sir—’
M inclines his head.
‘I’ve only been Quartermaster for two years so I don’t expect you to be anything other than royally ticked off about this, and if you really wish you could find some watertight pretext to haul me back earlier or push me out entirely, I’d be powerless to stop you. But if I have any say in the matter – and, since everyone in the building and the better half of Whitehall know that I’ve scaled Shit Mountain in roller skates twice for this job, I rather suspect that I do – I’ll be taking the year.
After that, it’ll be business as usual. And I’ll still have twenty five years on every other section head in the joint security services.’
His tea is still pleasingly hot as he has another sip.
He enjoys the brief moment of silence before M casts his eyes to the ceiling and Tanner lets out a snort.
‘Yes, well,’ allows M. ‘Very impressive.’
‘I am very impressive, sir,’ Max smiles from behind the cup.
M huffs out a squeaky sigh. His face’s simultaneous attempt at sad and fond is commendable. Or perhaps his lunch hasn’t agreed with him – so difficult to tell with these military types.
’Consider your request granted. Well, I say request…’
Max blinks. He had been expecting a little more bartering than this - hell, he’d been willing to at least throw in reviewing new schematics from home for the latter six months. Perhaps he should be offended.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Oh, no need to look so surprised. The moment for feigning modesty has long since passed. The finer details can be arranged in due course.’
He glances to Tanner for acquiescence. Tanner duly nods before addressing Max.
‘Q, I’m sure you’re aware – we’re going to need a little more information-’
If he hadn’t prepared for this there’s a strong chance the subject would have made him red to his hairline. But he knew the question was coming and, truth be told, he’d suffered far more invasive questions about his sex life during the vetting process for the job.
‘Who the other father is, you mean. Yes, not sure I can be of much help on that front,’ says Max, aiming for breeziness without flippancy. ‘We had a very brief encounter in the bathroom of Dusty’s in Stoke Newington three months ago – I’d struggle to give you even a basic description, I’m afraid. Did a quick check myself but the club has no interior CCTV to go on. I have no objections to you looking into it yourselves.’
M does an admirable, but ultimately unconvincing, job of looking as though this is all completely par for the course, but Bill nods along, face impassive. You can see him, flipping through potential methods for identifying Max’s unwitting co-conspirator, then discarding each one in turn as a monumental waste of government resource. He’ll save up his real comments - and you know they’re forming too, they’re just better concealed – for their next trip to the pub.
Christ, what will he order at the pub now? Will he be one of those squares who gets soda and lime?
A final nod. ‘Right. Well let’s face it, as long as he’s in the dark the chances of him posing a security threat are virtually nil. If you do happen to make contact at any point, inform me immediately and we’ll go from there. I’ll contact HR and we’ll sort out the rest.’
‘Very good,’ says M. ‘Well, I suspect the paperwork will be an albatross around all of our necks for some time yet, but I think that’s all for now.’
Max nods and rises, but is prevented from leaving by M standing and holding out a hand.
‘Max. May I offer my most sincere congratulations. You’ll make an excellent father.’
Faced with this unusual warmth, Max’s icy confidence of a few minutes before trickles out and pools around his feet. M has relaxed into that pleased, fatherly presence - usually seen once a year, at most – that can make even prime ministers and heads of state feel uniquely cherished, and he looks like he genuinely means what he says.
Max takes the proffered hand and his smile is in danger of becoming watery when he flashes it in return to Mallory’s.
‘Thank you, sir. Well. We’ll see about that.’
He’s not one for doing things badly: his whole life, he’s been excellent or he hasn’t bothered at all. It occurs to him that this time, he’ll be soldiering on regardless.
Bill claps him on the back - no more lightly than normal – as they head out to the lift.
‘Mallory’s right you know,’ he grins. Then a haze passes over his face and he looks into the distance for a moment. ‘Though god help us all when that child learns how to use a laptop.’
‘Oh, don’t pretend to be worried,’ sighs Max, punching the down arrow. ‘You’re already putting his name down on a recruitment list, I can tell.’
Bill’s eyebrows lift. ‘His?’
Max can see an office betting pool mustering on the horizon. He decides to head it off at a pass.
‘Slip of the tongue,’ he says quickly. ‘I plan on raising them gender-neutral.’
Tanner allows one eyebrow to drop back to it’s normal level, the other still very much in the middle of his forehead, and ushers him out of the lift.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder than that.’
Well. Not to worry; he’s got half a year to sell that one in.
In the lift, there’s moment of silence before Bill half-clears his throat.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Max cuts him off. ‘But I really don’t know. If I had anything to go on, I’d have contacted you and Control for a background check weeks ago.’
He knew the question would be asked - his explanation had gone down much too smoothly in M’s office to have been believed. But regardless of how truthful his answer is, he knows better than to think the question won’t raise itself again, in some form or other.
Not for the first time, he wishes that he had been better at performing his flaws since arriving at MI6. It seems that they’ve all been mistaking him for immaculately sensible, and it makes them suspicious when he demonstrates that he’s quite human.
***
Telling his parents is slightly less comfortable. To avoid the unnecessary stress of multiple Announcements, he invites them up to London along with his brother and sister, goes to Waitrose, and plans to lob the conversational grenade at them after a few bottles of wine that claim to go well with lasagne.
Unfortunately, even the act of scheduling of the visit has raised suspicions. As he greets his parents and Lydia at King’s Cross, his mother squeezes him, then looks around conspicuously.
‘Everything alright, Mum?’ Though he barely dares ask.
‘She’s wondering where your boyfriend is,’ supplies Lydia, swinging her backpack off her shoulder and holding it out. ‘Here, take this. My shoulder hurts.’
‘My boyfriend,’ repeats Max, darkly.
‘I assume that's why we're here,’ breezes his mother. ‘You never invite us all at once. Will we meet him at dinner? You’re not engaged are you?’
Whether she’s hopeful or dismayed is unknowable. His father smiles apologetically from behind them, but though he may be less theatrical than his wife, Max hadn’t missed him looking around before either.
‘Much as I hate to spoil your grounds for being outraged at me before the weekend has even begun: no, there is no boyfriend, fiancé, or husband that I have been keeping from you.’
Lydia masks her disappointment by fishing her phone out her pocket and ostentatiously not looking where she’s going as he leads them out to a cab.
They all settle into the flat, Mum and Dad asking him about work, and Lydia magnanimously approving of the spare bedroom’s new wallpaper. But the atmosphere is expectant; he finds himself asking far more questions about their news than he would usually consider, just to dodge any silences that he might be assumed to fill.
By the time Adrian and Molly arrive and he’s able to scamper away to greet them, Max has got himself into such a flap about avoiding suspicion that he’s poured out a glass of wine for himself and started pretending to drink it.
Adrian pulls his relieved form into a rough embrace, claps him on the back, and says ‘Christ, it smells like heaven in here Maxy. Is this new man of yours a cook?’
He thrusts another bottle of wine into Max’s hands, shows himself into the living room, and, by way of greeting, loudly tells Lydia that her nose piercing looks shit.
Max and Molly are left in the hallway; she kisses him on the cheek, squeezes his arm, and asks how he is in a way that makes him think she might plausibly, just possibly be alright with hearing an answer other than ‘Yeah, good thanks.’
He says ‘Yeah, good thanks’ anyway, and offers to take her coat.
Back with the others, Adrian has commandeered the conversation, describing the drive from Dulwich to Max’s flat as though he’s narrating a boy’s adventure novel. Like everything about Adrian, it should be tiresome but is inexplicably quite the opposite. Molly sits with her hand on his knee and occasionally cuts in with dry comments that would deflate anyone more precious.
Max tops up everyone’s wine then retreats to the kitchen, declining his parents’ offers of help. He takes a seat by the counter and rests his head on the marble top, letting it cool his cheek and forehead.
When he sits up he can see the lasagne gurgling and bubbling out the dish in the oven. He’s forgotten to put foil on the rung below, and he can already anticipate the scouring battle he’ll have to wage against the encrusted bechamel sauce tomorrow.
He supposes he ought not to delay the inevitable.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ he yells.
Lydia spits her mouthful out onto her plate, but then that might just be because it’s hot. He can see the half-chewed garlic bread in Ade’s mouth. Dad lets out a strange snorting noise.
‘Oh no.’ Says his mother. ‘Really?’
He’d assumed that the nausea would abate once he’d finally just said it, but the likelihood of vomiting does not seem to be decreasing.
‘Three months along,’ he says, stretching out a smile that will have to be pinned on with clothes pegs if he wants it to stay.
The interminable silence that follows probably only lasts eight seconds, twelve at most.
‘Are you keeping it?’ asks Lydia. A bit of her hair is dipping into the recently-ejected semi-masticated lump.
‘Don’t be dense, Lydia,’ says Adrian. ‘He’s hardly invited us all round for dinner to hand out save-the-date cards for his abortion.’
There’s a momentary pause, like Ade’s zapped them all with a stun gun. Max can see his parents gearing up to shout at Adrian, but he feels his own lips irrepressibly twitching and his shoulders starting to shake. When he dissolves into an unattractive mess of snorting laughter, Molly and Lydia swiftly follow him over.
Lydia becomes half-hysterical then recovers herself enough to say ‘I cannot believe you just brought up abortion Adrian, oh my god.’
‘I think you’ll find you just brought up abortion Lydia,’ says Ade, throwing a bread-crust at her.
‘Can you all just stop talking about abortion, for christ’s sake,’ snaps Mum. ‘Let your brother speak. Max, please explain.’
The laughter fades to make way for the cross examination.
‘I fail to see what else you’re entitled to hear,’ says Max, and immediately regrets it. He can hear himself sounding like the little know-it-all that had so often put him at odds with her and Lydia, and sometimes even Dad and Ade; buttoning himself up to be as smug and impenetrable as possible, winning the fight by being smarter, even when everyone including himself could see he was in the wrong.
Already he can see his mother and everyone else at the table tensing, deciding whether to battle on and pry some kind of detail out of him, or whether to apologise and let him stew until he gives her an answer.
He relents.
‘Sorry. Sorry. What else would you like to know?’ Though he knows very well what blanks she’d like filled in. He’s sure he won’t ever be able to tell her that he’d like them filled in too.
‘We’re just a bit surprised,’ says Dad. He reaches across the table, and the distance is awkward but, when he grips Max’s hand, the touch isn’t. ‘But we’re all very happy for you.’ He looks around at everyone, meaningfully
There are murmurs of agreement from around the table.
Max squeezes back and wonders if he should mumble out a thank you. He looks down at his untouched food. When he glances up again, Mum is looking a little uncomfortable.
‘Of course we are,’ she rushes out. ‘We’re delighted.’
Max knows she’s as embarrassed for not having thought to say it first as she is annoyed at having to say something she considers so plain to see. A dislike for lowering oneself to being obvious. Not a snobbery that he can claim to be innocent of.
And neither can he blame her for not jumping to say congratulations, or the rest of them for that matter. If it had been Lydia to break the same news, shock and indignation and surely having babies is for grown-ups would have been his first response. Uncertain happiness might have been his second. Joy waits to reside in a more settled constitution.
He squeezes again then retracts his hand. Restrains himself from fiddling with the tableware.
‘The other father isn’t in the picture, as you might have guessed,’ he admits, to his placemat. ‘But financially it won’t be an issue, and I’ve got a full year’s leave to work out childcare arrangements and so forth.’
He brings himself to look up and finds nothing in their faces that signals either relief or disappointment, only deliberate looks of encouragement.
‘But really, I just.’ He shrugs. ‘I’m old enough, and I have the means. And if I don’t do it now then who knows if I ever will. And one of us needs to produce some grandchildren for the two of you-’ he jerks his head at his parents, ‘-and it’s for the good of society if Adrian doesn’t disseminate his DNA into the human gene pool, so I’ve taken on the burden.’
‘Well said, little brother,’ says Ade, solemnly. He raises his glass. ‘To Maximilian, and his future spawn.’
They all follow suit, reaching for their wine glasses and tilting them toward him.
Lydia pauses, frowns at him.
‘Hang on. You should not be drinking that.’