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From the moment that James Bond strolled into her office and casually announced his profession as a career killer, it had been obvious to Dr. Madeleine Swann that he was an arrogant, narcissistic, self-aggrandizing sociopath. His subsequent pursuit of her unwilling honor guard in a shabby little monoplane that was now streaked across the hillside like so much scrap metal soundly confirmed this diagnosis, while introducing the added nuance of undeniable suicidal tendencies, to boot.
It was hardly surprising. They were all the same, men like Bond. Men like her father. Men like the ones who had come to her office behind the barrel of a gun to drag her out into the cold. They all believed with a certain fanatical devotion that violence was the world’s richest currency, and they had sacrificed every other part of themselves—the part that pitied, the part that loved, the part that knew how to touch another soul without damaging it—in order to accommodate more.
Still, he was right about one thing. At the present moment, he represented Madeleine’s best chance at making it through this ordeal in one piece.
She looked at him, standing there in the snow with smoke on the air and a trail of dead men not far behind them, put her hands on her hips, and pressed her lips into a thin, furious line.
“Say I decide to trust you,” she posed, voice still a little hoarse from all the yelling she’d been doing during her recently diverted kidnapping. “What then? Will you whisk me away to some safe house somewhere? Or do you intend to take me in for my own protection? Shove me in a 5x5 concrete block in the basement of whatever shadowy organization you work for and leave me there to rot while you fumble your way through tying up your loose ends?”
Bond very nearly rolled his eyes. Everything from the tense line of his posture to the irritated curl of his fingers to the twitch in his jaw that he couldn’t quite suppress suggested he was used to retrieving a more accommodating sort of asset. Madeleine found that she took a vicious and uncharitable satisfaction in failing to conform to that particular standard.
“I can arrange either one if you’d prefer it,” Bond offered, and took a few crunching steps through the snow until he was pushing the boundaries of Madeleine’s personal space. “Though I had something rather less dramatic in mind.”
Madeleine didn’t cede a single inch. She arched an imperious eyebrow and put her head ever so slightly to one side, conveying silently and in no uncertain terms that he had better get on with it.
One corner of Bond’s mouth twitched up and he turned away, striding purposefully back in the direction of the barn he’d so unceremoniously crashed his plane through just moments before.
Madeleine watched him go for a few taut seconds and then made a strangled sound of aggravation under her breath and hurried to catch up.
Bond was smiling when she fell into step at his side, smug and close-mouthed. Madeleine fantasized briefly about reaching over and slapping the expression right off his face, but followed as he led the way around the front of the building and said breezily over his shoulder, “I thought we might pop into town and visit the Pevsner.”
Madeleine frowned at him, brow furrowed. The Pevsner was a bed and breakfast of middling quality situated a little further down the mountain that fell decidedly under the umbrella of ‘quaint.’ It hardly seemed characteristic of a man who possessed as clear a propensity for luxury and grandeur as Bond did.
“An associate of mine is waiting for us there,” he explained, leading the way through the splintered double-doors. “He’ll have information, provisions. A number of other things we might need.”
The interior of the barn was a mess of wood and wrecked equipment. There was a blocky little snowcat in the corner under a pile of twisted lumber, but Bond ignored it, stepping easily through the mess until he was close enough to tug the dusty drop cloth off of what turned out to be a two-person sled.
“And,” he continued, turning to flash that small, smug smirk over his shoulder, “I have it on good authority their bar serves actual alcohol.” He turned his attention away before Madeleine could properly roll her eyes, kicking some of the detritus aside to clear a path for the sled. He slipped into the front seat, giving the dashboard a cursory glance and smiling again when he discovered the keys waiting in the center console. He slipped one into the ignition and curled his fingers over the handlebars as the sled purred to life, then fixed Madeleine with an expectant gaze. “Coming?”
Madeleine heaved a short, sharp sigh through her nose and picked her way over. She settled into the rear seat and took a firm hold of the armrests as Bond kicked off, unspeakably grateful that she would at least be spared the indignity of clinging to his waist like a maiden on the front cover of a bodice ripper. If she found herself hunching in toward the heat of Bond’s back as they skimmed across the countryside, it was only because her simple black sweater was poor protection for the crisp chill of outdoor travel in the Alps.
They arrived at the Pevsner in short order, with very little by way of discussion in the meantime.
Madeleine managed to maintain her unhappy silence until curiosity and frustration and the desperate need for distraction from the bitter wind got the better of her toward the end of their trip. She leaned forward and called out over the droning engine, “Who do you work for?” just as they crested a low hill, the Pevsner’s tidy, modern silhouette coming into view through a slurry of snow that arced up from the sled tracks.
“Officially, MI6,” Bond replied, like it was the punchline to some secret joke.
After a moment, Madeleine ventured, “I take it this assignment isn’t official.”
Bond’s failure to respond was confirmation enough in and of itself. Strangely, it almost made her feel better about her predicament. At least she had been competent enough in her attempts to go to ground that she had escaped the proper notice of one of the more far-reaching illicit intelligence agencies, if not one of their presumably more bloody-minded agents, off chasing a wild hair under his own power.
They left the sled parked around the side of the building and made their way through the lobby with little fanfare. Bond spared a nod for the young woman behind the desk as she chirruped a greeting. She returned the gesture in kind and went back to some business on her computer when it became clear that they had no need of her services.
The operative awaiting them behind the door to room number twelve appeared at first more boy than man, with his tousled hair and his delicate features, the self-conscious hunch of his shoulders under a dowdy sweater of heathered brown and grey stripes. He glanced from Bond to Madeleine and back again while Bond made brisk introductions, just a quick flicker of his pale eyes behind the acetate frames balanced on his nose, and then stepped to the side and ushered them into the room.
The trappings were more modest than Madeleine had expected from anyone in Bond’s social circle—a small, comfortable sitting area done up in cool greys and dark wood, with a desk near the far wall that had obviously seen some use. There was a sleek laptop that had been personalized with an array of stickers sitting innocuously at the center, and a cast-off anorak folded politely over the back of a nearby chair.
Bond stalked across the room to peer out the window behind the desk as the agent—who went by the single letter ‘Q,’ apparently, and that was more in keeping with Madeleine’s expectations of international espionage—scurried after him.
“Bond,” he announced, “we need to talk.” He flashed another darting glance to Madeleine over his shoulder and tacked on, not unkindly, “Alone.”
He must know Bond very well, Madeleine considered, to have achieved such a level of trust and companionship. She wouldn’t have thought a man with Bond’s well documented propensity for violence would be so quick to offer his back to a potential threat, nor did an invitation into his private confidences particularly appeal.
“She knows,” Bond said dismissively, eyes roving the glacial landscape.
“But, Bond - ” Q started, and the man in question turned to pin him with a look.
“She knows,” he repeated, slower and more stern. “What have you got?”
Q glanced over at Madeleine again, and murmured, “Right.” His attention dropped to the floor for a spare second before he straightened himself up, putting his shoulders back and squaring himself to meet Bond’s gaze. This action had the added benefit of throwing the smudge of a blackening bruise into stark relief where the diffused winter light caught his pale cheek.
“I owe you an apology, OO7,” he said, prim and mournful. “You are onto - ”
“What happened?” Bond interrupted, eyes dark and fixed on the shadow along Q’s cheekbone.
Q frowned, confused at the sudden topical shift, and then sighed, “Ah.” He raised his hand as though he intended to reach up and touch the mark, then clearly thought better of it and let his arm fall back to his side. He took an awkward, shuffling step toward the desk and ducked his head away from Bond’s fierce, lamplit gaze. “Ran into a bit of trouble on the lift.”
“What kind of trouble?” Bond demanded, jaw so tight it came out in a snarl.
“Nothing worth concerning yourself over, OO7,” Q replied, dropping gracefully into his seat with a distinct air of unimpressed reprimand about his person that Madeleine appreciated. He settled behind his computer and fixed Bond with a pointed stare. “A couple of men followed me when I left the clinic. Undoubtedly they’d seen us talking and deduced that I might be an avenue through which to call you to heel. I managed to give one of them the slip and summarily dispatched the other when he caught up with me in a stairwell.”
Bond reached out, curling his knuckles against the blade of Q’s jaw and brushing his thumb very gently under the bruise marring his cheek. “Not before he got a shot in, though.”
“I believe the appropriate response in this instance is, ‘you should see the other guy.’” There was a delicate curl at the corners of Q’s mouth that suggested he might be smiling with all his teeth, had circumstances been less decidedly bleak.
Bond perked up somewhat, whether at this vicious promise of—seemingly unexpected—competence or at the proximity between them, Madeleine wouldn’t presume to guess.
“I told you that extra close combat training would come in - ”
“Don’t you dare,” Q muttered, narrowing his eyes.
“ - handy,” Bond finished, ignoring him.
Q let out an aggrieved sigh at the terrible pun and rolled his eyes heavenward. It was a relatively subtle gesture, but he managed to suffuse it with a commendable amount of dramatic flair. Madeleine decided she liked him.
“What did you get from the ring?” Bond asked, likewise choosing not to acknowledge Q’s obvious disparagement of his sense of humor, such as it was. He stepped neatly in to hover over Q’s shoulder, one hand curled over the back of Q’s chair and the other planted on the desk in front of him. It was a startlingly intimate position, and Madeleine felt her eyebrows lifting toward her hair in surprise.
“Oberhauser is still alive,” Q explained, tapping at the keys. “The ring proves it. And it seems they were all part of one organization. Le Chiffre, Quantum, Sciarra, and your friend Mr. Silva.”
Bond’s mouth quirked. “My friend?”
“He certainly isn’t mine,” Q replied. “There was trace DNA from all of them on the ring. And do you know who links them all?” He looked up before Bond could reply and met the other man’s gaze over his shoulder, mouth curling just a little as he prodded, “Go on, give us a guess.”
“Him,” Bond rumbled ominously, voice low and black. Near to Q as he was it would only take a shift of weight from one foot to the other to bring their mouths together.
Madeleine felt herself flush faintly at the realization, but didn’t look away. How very interesting.
“Exactly,” Q confirmed, and turned his attention back to his screen.
Bond continued to study Q’s face for a long, lazy second and then followed suit. “This organization. Do you know what it’s called?”
“Not yet,” Q said grimly, “but I will. I’ve been sorting through their financials and I think I’m getting close, but they have been exceptionally cautious in covering their tracks. Which begs the question - ”
“Why would they be so careless with the ring?” Bond finished for him.
“Precisely.”
“I did go to quite a lot of trouble to get it,” Bond pointed out.
“Yes, I remember,” Q replied, with a brisk edge of irritation. “It took me four days to scrub all the social media footage where you very visibly attempted to throw a man out of a helicopter.”
“I very visibly succeeded in throwing a man out of a helicopter,” Bond corrected cheerfully.
Madeleine’s mouth twitched before she could help herself, and some of the tension strung across Q’s shoulders appeared to loosen and dissipate.
“Irresponsibly public feats of prowess aside,” Q intoned, in his stiff, posh drawl, “this is an organization that has taken scrupulous care in camouflaging their existence for God knows how long. Franz Oberhauser has been presumed dead for years. Likewise Le Chiffre, and Dominic Greene, and more recently Mr. Silva. That their DNA might be lingering on the ring Mr. Sciarra was wearing is - ” He sighed and shook his head. “Call it unlikely, to say the very, very least.”
“You think it was planted.”
“I think the statistical probability of six dead men wearing the same piece of jewelry and leaving enough genetic material behind that I was able to trace it back to them individually is suspicious at best.”
“And here I worried you were just a pretty face,” Bond praised in a low purr, eyes bright and smirk pulling a dimple into his cheek.
Q rolled his eyes and glanced up at Madeleine, gaze wary and dark, before he rebutted with no small amount of resignation, “Despite popular wisdom, flattery doesn’t actually get you everywhere, OO7. It’ll take me some time to sift through these records. If you want the name as badly as you claim, you might better spend your own time seeing to the needs of your guest rather than offering me such pointless diversion.”
“Try cross-referencing ‘L’Americain,’” Bond suggested, apparently content to leave Madeleine to her own devices in favor of further complicating Q’s search.
She snorted quietly to herself and settled in to enjoy the spectacle.
Q started to type once more, muttering under his breath as he did so. Bond continued to hover, staring at the screen, transfixed, as Q worked. He was close enough that his breath occasionally stirred Q’s dark hair.
“Nothing,” Q said after a moment, shaking his head. “Whoever he is, L’Americain is a ghost.”
“It’s not a person,” a voice said into the comfortable stillness.
The brisk tattoo of keystrokes came to a sharp and sudden halt.
Madeline was surprised to recognize the voice as her own, though less so than Q, who was staring at her in open shock, and Bond, whose smug confidence in her eventual cooperation wasn’t quite strong enough to drive the last blush of surprise out from his own eyes, just a fraction wider than usual.
“It’s not a person,” she repeated, as though she had intended to share this information all along. “L’Americain. It’s a place.” She hesitated for a moment and then figured that if she was in for a penny she might as well throw herself in for the whole pound. “And the organization you’re looking for is called SPECTRE.”
“How do you know that?” Q demanded, instantly suspicious. His brow was furrowed under his floppy hair, and there was a blade-honed sharpness to his posture that convinced her for the first time that he might be more dangerous than he looked.
Madeleine raised her chin with the practiced haughtiness she had perfected as a woman in a male-dominated career field, and said, “My father was part of it.”
Q studied her for a long, silent minute, until Bond straightened up and curled a hand over his shoulder. He only left it there for a second, barely the span of a heartbeat, but it banished the rigid line of Q’s spine as effectively as a hot stone massage. Curiouser and curiouser.
“In that case,” Q said, sinking back into his chair and reaching for the television remote on the corner of the desk, “I think you ought to see this.”
He powered the television on to live news coverage of a massive explosion in a residential district of Cape Town. The anchor was just explaining that the local government had no leads as to the cause, and neither had any terrorist organizations claimed credit for the event. The death toll was continuing to rise as emergency workers attempted to clear the scene.
“I don’t know what’s going on yet,” Q explained. “I don’t have the whole picture, but it’s obvious that someone is making calculated moves on the global chessboard. I don’t like it.” He shook his head and cut his eyes up to Bond. “Especially with everything that’s going on back home.”
Bond strode forward with his gaze fixed on the screen, as though he might be able to crawl his way into the television and help if he only approached it from the right angle. He stood stock still for a moment, then turned on his heel with the economic motion of a military man and instructed briskly, “Q, go back to London. M’s going to need your help. And keep tracking me.”
“As if I would leave you to go haring off on your own to God knows where without any backup,” Q huffed, with enough derision to clearly communicate his opinion on the matter.
“I’ve got backup,” Bond argued, gesturing to Madeleine.
She shot him a warning look, because she didn’t remember agreeing to accompany him a single foot further than this pleasantly tidy room in an unassuming Austrian inn.
Bond sighed and inclined his head, asking, “If you would be so kind?”
Madeleine let him stew for a second and then gave him a tight little nod.
“Excellent,” Q snapped, in a tone that suggested this was not precisely the case. He turned his attention to Madeleine, just past Bond’s shoulder. “And where, exactly, will you be going?”
“Morocco,” Madeleine supplied, cutting her gaze coolly away from Bond and stepping around him so that she and Q could see one another properly. “Tangier.”
Q hummed, fingers flying across the keys and gaze darting to and fro. “The InterCity Express leaves from Ötztal Station to Vienna in two hours,” he said a moment later. “You can catch a nightjet to Tangier from there, though you’ll have to change lines a few times.” He paused to peer at Bond over the top of his computer. “I presume you have enough cash on you to cover a couple of train tickets?”
“Not going to make us a reservation?” Bond’s question curled through air, warm and amused.
“I already have,” Q replied. “On Lufthansa flight 4457 out of Innsbruck Airport, which should keep our band of merry pursuers suitably preoccupied while you make your way to Morocco by train. I used one of your more widely known aliases, OO7, just to be sure it gets properly flagged. Do take care not to let Richard Sterling pop up on any conflicting passenger manifests, won’t you?”
After Bond had nodded his acquiescence, Q turned back to Madeline and sounded sincerely apologetic when he continued, “I’m afraid I have neither the time nor the necessary materials to do up a set of false papers for you, Dr. Swann, but rest assured that I will be summarily deleting all record of your travel log as soon as you’re comfortably onboard.”
She inclined her head in a polite show of gratitude. “Thank you.”
Q smiled at her, reassuring and close-mouthed, and returned his attention to his screen. He fluttered away at a few more commands before closing the laptop with gentle snik. There was a shoulder bag on the seat of the chair with the anorak draped over its back. Q stood and leaned over to scoop it up by the strap, tucking his computer carefully inside.
“How are you getting back to London?” Bond asked.
“Same way I came here,” Q replied, securing the computer solidly in place with a couple of clasps. “There’s a Eurostar out of Zürich tomorrow morning. I’ll hop the next Ötztal direct headed that way and route through Paris from there, which should put me back in London a little before 2100.” He flashed Bond a small, teasing grin. “Plenty of time to pick up a curry on the way home.”
Bond snorted and shook his head. He crossed his arms over his chest, watching Q with close consideration as he shrugged into his jacket and slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Yes, what is it, OO7?” Q asked, with a sort of irritated fondness. He was obviously more than used to this kind of scrutiny.
“Where are you staying?”
“In Zürich?” Q blinked. “There are plenty of youth hostels just off the train station, and you’ve given me enough grief about looking like a uni student over the years. Figure I ought to make it work to my advantage for once.”
Bond nodded, approving. “Stay alert. Oberhauser’s minions might’ve got a taste for you, now you’ve trounced them so thoroughly.”
Q rolled his eyes and made to step past Bond, who caught him by the strap of his bag and tugged him back. Q yelped and stumbled to get his feet underneath him, then wheeled on Bond with a glower as he hissed, “Honestly! What now, OO7? Or did you forget you have a train to catch?”
Bond met Q’s gaze for a long, silent moment, smile slowly curving into existence as a faint pink flush bled across the bridge of Q’s nose and the little sliver of his throat visible above the high collar of his sweater. Bond still had his fingers curled around the strap of Q’s bag.
“Dr. Swann,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on the other man, “could you give us a moment?”
Q looked over at Madeleine, mouth open as if to speak and brow furrowed with confusion, then back at Bond, face flooding ever so slightly darker. He pressed his lips into a thin line and swallowed so thickly that Madeleine imagined she could hear it even at a distance.
“Of course,” she said, a knowing smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. She managed to school her expression and let herself out the front door, closing it slowly behind her with the handle turned all the way down and making sure to let it hit the frame with an audible thunk. She waited for a second, still holding the handle to keep the latch from catching, and nudged the door ever-so-slightly open. Just enough to hear, and maybe see a sliver of what was going on.
“ - the hell were you thinking, sending her away like that?” came Q’s low, frustrated hiss.
Bond chuckled, thick and rich like drinking chocolate. “I was thinking,” he rumbled, “that you might like a moment to say our farewells in private, as you’ve made your position on public displays rather abundantly clear.”
“Oh, of course,” Q muttered. “Because asking your asset to go wait in the hall while we have a snog is the very picture of discretion. It’s a wonder M hasn’t hauled us in for breaking fraternization regulations already, and you are not helping.”
Madeleine turned very slowly, bending at the waist to put herself below the average line of sight, and pressed her cheek against the cool wood of the door.
Q and Bond were standing together at the center of the room where she’d left them, only Q had spun to face Bond directly, and Bond had abandoned his grip on Q’s bag strap to curl his hands over Q’s elbows where he had his arms crossed mutinously over his chest.
Q appeared deeply embarrassed, glowing pink from the roses in his cheeks out to the tips of his ears where they poked through his hair. Bond was watching him with a softer expression than Madeleine would have guessed him capable of, eyes crinkled and smile wide enough to show his teeth over that pouting bottom lip.
“Regulations aside,” he said, “it’s hardly a scandal. Ours is emotional work. These things happen.”
“Oh, of course,” Q scoffed. “I’m sure nobody would have a negative word to say about the fact that the youngest quartermaster in history is boffing a bloody double-oh.” He frowned at Bond, concerned and suspicious, and continued, “You’re not usually so serene. Or affectionate. I think you must have taken a severe knock to the head while you were wreaking havoc up and down the mountain. Perhaps you ought to come back to London with me after all, get yourself properly checked out by Medical.”
Bond laughed again, a breathless huff of sound, and shifted one of his hands up to brush his knuckles over Q’s unblemished cheek before he cupped it in his palm. Q sighed, long-suffering, but only managed to hold his tight, angry posture for a second before he turned his face into the heat of Bond’s hand and let his eyes fall shut.
“You worry too much, darling,” Bond purred.
“And whose fault is that?” Q muttered, slanting Bond a narrow glare. “You’re going to drive me grey before I’m forty, the way you carry on.”
“You love it.”
“Yes, well,” Q grumbled, bringing his hands up to rest over Bond’s collar.
Bond smiled at him, wide and white, and leaned in to close the distance between them.
It was fairly chaste, as kisses went, just a lingering press of lips on lips. Bond snaked his other arm low around Q’s waist, tugging him in until he was pressed against Bond from chest to thigh. Q let his hands travel up to curl around the back of Bond’s neck, fingers threading through his short, soft hair until they twined together over his nape. Bond backed away for a breath and then turned his face to kiss Q again. And again, and again, a little shorter each time though no less tender.
When they stopped, they were tangled together with their foreheads touching, eyes half-lidded, Q panting sweet and shallow through his slack mouth while Bond grinned like a cat freshly glutted on canaries in cream sauce.
“James?” Q breathed, soft and hesitant. Bond hummed, nudging their noses together, and Q closed his eyes again, though he looked like he was in pain. He sighed against Bond’s mouth, reluctant and very clearly fighting his own will to get the words out as he said, “Please be careful. I - I know you can look after yourself, but something about this - it’s not - it’s just wrong.” He shook his head, and his voice was so quiet that Madeleine almost couldn’t hear it when he repeated, for the second time, “I don’t like it.”
“I’ll be fine,” Bond replied easily, and dropped another quick, tender kiss to the corner of Q’s mouth. He shifted back, just a little, wrapping his hands around Q’s biceps and giving his arms a couple of soothing strokes through the sleeves of that unfortunate sweater. “I’ll be in and out and back in London before you even have time to miss me.”
“You know that’s not true,” Q chided, though the raw edge to his voice had faded. He let his hands fall to Bond’s shoulders, dragging his thumbs absently across the fabric of Bond’s quilted jacket. “I miss you every moment you’re out of my sight, you absolute terror of a man. Mostly because I know that when you’re left without adequate supervision, something, somewhere is destined to explode.” He gave Bond a squeeze and then stepped away, that prim steadiness returning to draw him up, brisk and dignified. “Do try not to detonate an entire city block this time, hm? Our annual budgetary hearing is already gearing up to be a nightmare.”
Madeleine allowed herself a small smile as Bond nodded in the absently dutiful manner of a man making promises to placate his better half with very little intention of following through. It was equally clear from the fond exasperation in his voice that Q recognized Bond’s behavior for what it was, but he probably appreciated the farce, even so.
She tugged the door shut once more, slow and careful, and excused herself to the end of the hall. When Bond and Q emerged a few moments later, the former had reverted to predatory aloofness and the latter to his usual pale complexion, with only a lingering hint of pink staining the apples of his cheeks, which could be easily written off as a symptom of the weather.
“Dr. Swann,” Q nodded, tugging a knit toque from his coat pocket and pulling it down over his ears. It clashed rather terribly with the wedge of his sweater still visible through the front of his unzipped anorak, but at least it didn’t have a pom on top. He extended a hand, now clad in a pair of grey fingerless gloves, and Madeleine shook it, professional and perfunctory. “It was a pleasure. Best of luck in your travels.”
“And you in yours,” Madeleine agreed. She squeezed Q’s fingers before she let go and he rewarded her with another little flare of heat in his face and the startled curl of a smile.
“OO7,” he said, turning halfway around to nod at Bond, in turn. “I’ll see you in London.”
Bond didn’t reply, but he watched Q disappear down the hallway and around the corner with a sharp, fierce longing that he only just managed to temper before he turned to smile at Madeleine.
She could see the difference in it now. Oh, it was sincere enough, but there was none of that warmth behind it. None of the sweet, bruised tenderness like an overripe fruit.
Perhaps, she considered, James Bond was not so like those other men, after all.
“So,” she said, tossing her hair. “Tangier?”
“Tangier,” Bond confirmed. He took a step and then stopped, staring at the far wall for a second before he set his jaw and said haltingly, “You don’t have to come. What happened to your father was - ” he searched for a moment and landed on “ - tragic, but you’re under no obligation to tidy up the mess he left behind him.”
Madeleine pursed her lips. She suspected he wasn’t trying to be condescending but she got the sense that this was an arena in which James Bond often excelled with very little effort.
“I’ve already agreed,” she said. “And I’m not one to change my mind after it’s made up.”
“No,” Bond smirked. “I shouldn’t think so.”
“Besides,” Madeleine turned as she spoke and started to walk in the same direction Q had gone, toward the front lobby, “I doubt your quartermaster would ever forgive me if I let you go alone, and I gather he’s the type of man it would be unwise to disappoint.”
Bond laughed at that, a surprised burst of sound, and met the sly smile that Madeleine shot over her shoulder with a warmer one of his own.
“You’re not wrong,” he agreed. “Though I think he’s resigned himself to my misbehavior by now.”
“Perhaps, then, he is due for a surprise.”
“Perhaps,” Bond allowed.
“And so we arrive back at Tangier,” Madeleine said.
“Tangier,” Bond echoed again, in a parody of their earlier exchange. He offered Madeleine his arm and she rolled her eyes but tucked her hand obediently into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s hope it’s a short trip.”
“Let’s,” she agreed, and they went.