Chapter Text
Driving had always been an act of liberation for Bond. He’d spent a lifetime of schooling, military, espionage, only knowing enough to complete the assignment, the order, the mission. But when driving there was only him and the feel of leather smooth and fitted to the form of his hands, the thrill of adrenaline from taking corners much too tight, and the crystal clear dome of blue arcing over him, dotted with the white of drifting clouds.
He drove as if he were running, fleeing what he'd left behind.
"You know what you're doing, Bond," he'd chastised himself. Leaving one last thing for .... something else.
He could have asked, the words had burned on his tongue before dying on his lips. He knew, almost by looking, as if he could read the Quartermaster's mind through his eyes. Had he asked Q would have followed.
He didn't ask. Bond still knew how to do the right thing. So he drove until he arrived at the small cafe, pulling up to the curb and smirking as he eyed the woman sitting at a small wrought-iron table. She met his eye evenly before pulling a scarf from her bag and wrapping it around her hair. She stood and walked to the car. She was beautiful, in a cold, detached way.
His heart ached to look at her but he noted the feeling was a pale echo of what he felt when he'd first driven off. He quirked his lips in an attempt at a smile as she settled in. He tried to mean it sincerely. The quirk in her brow told him he'd failed. It didn't matter as he revved the engine and flew through the streets of London.
They made one stop, at a small, nondescript flat in the middle of urban banality for Bond to collect a small suitcase’s worth of items. Madeleine waited for him by the door, quietly taking in the space. It wasn’t empty it was just - devoid, impersonal. There was nothing in the spartan furniture or bare walls that spoke to the man who claimed to live there, which perhaps said enough.
Bond moved quickly, gathering clothes, and stopped just before leaving the room to grab the overcoat hooked in the door of his closet. He let it drape over one arm as he slung the bag over his shoulder and paused. There was a peculiar weight to the coat. He hefted it a few times and furrowed his brow as he looked down. Probably a phone, he thought, then walked out to join Madeleine .
The first few weeks were spent adrift, flitting from country to country. Madeleine proved as adept at the lifestyle as Bond expected her to be, yet after the second month he could tell by the set of her shoulders it was starting to wear. They didn’t speak of it and yet when they approached their 8th day in Cape Town he said nothing about moving on. He chatted about plans for a round of golf in a few days and she’d nodded, but the soft slump of her shoulders signaled relief.
After the second week they’d begun what he was sure she would term ‘sessions’ if what was between them wasn’t romantic. Perhaps it was the nature of her profession and it was to be expected that she would dig a bit. It was not lost on him that the woman he chose to leave his past with was a practicing psychologist. It had begun with languid post-coital talks in the semi dark of a hotel room. By the time they were looking for a shared flat in Cape Town they both knew they would need a second bedroom.
“Surely there must be some rule about sleeping with one’s therapist,” Bond said as they watched movers position a sofa in beneath a Rembrandt print. He smiled after a beat. An attempt at softening the hint of bitterness in his tone.
“Likely, but I doubt there’s one against making your girlfriend your therapist,” Madeleine replied smoothly. She’d grown adept at sailing past his moods, smooth as a skiff over placid water, paying no mind to his turbulent depths. She moved forward to thank the movers before herding them away to the other rooms. Bond stayed behind, hand reaching reflexively for the phone in his pocket. He thumbed it open, MI6 technology recognizing his DNA signature.
He should have left it behind or discarded it somehow, but when he and Madeleine had settled in that first night, he’d dug it out of the coat and seen a little flashing light notification, a message from Q.
He kept the phone fully charged now, and on him as often as possible. The messages came with irregularity, but they came. It was wrong, he knew, reading them. A violation for all that they were addressed to him. But he could not help himself. There was something soothing and familiar in Q’s words. He could hear the familiar cadence of his voice when he read them. Rereading them had become a habit.
He opened the one from New Year and reread the words Q had sent out into the void, to him.
I’m in love with you. Have been for years. I Was an idiot for never saying anything.
The words brought the same, familiar stabbing ache he’d felt the first time he read them five days gone. He scrolled to pull up the one that had followed the next day. Q had been in a panic at the thought of Bond actually reading his emails. Yes, that’s guilt, he acknowledged to the emotion surging up his chest, but he went back and reread Q’s confession again. He could likely recite it in his sleep. It didn’t matter. He still read it a dozen times a day.
He went back further, to Q on Christmas.
Do you remember last year? At the party. There was a moment where you looked at me and time did that thing where it slows down. For a moment I thought you'd kiss me.
Bond sank down onto the couch still wrapped in plastic and closed his eyes. He remembered. Q had actually been in a suit. Not bespoke. Likely off some god-forsaken rack somewhere and yet it had hugged the lean lines of his body in the most distracting way. Bond’s heart began to race as he let the memory spin out.
His hair had been styled, not its usual shaggy mop but properly done, sleek and black. Alcohol had flushed his cheeks as red as his lips and they’d bumped one another awkwardly in a too-dimly lit corner.
It had been a scene out of a movie, snow falling, people milling around yet miles away as they shared a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, eyes locked on one another. Bond had wanted, longed, almost leaned into the kiss. Q had licked his lower lip and the shock that skittered under Bond’s skin had been, unfamiliar and oh, so welcome.
He still wasn’t sure what had happened, a shift in the light or music, the fracturing of some part of the universe ricocheting into them, but the moment had slipped by, gone as quick as it arrived and Q had nodded and smiled an awkward half smile as he moved to kiss Eve on the cheek.
Better that that moment had never happened, but at least I didn’t give in , Bond told himself. It was becoming easier to believe his nagging inner voice. Q had proved a temptation increasingly potent to James. He’d avoided his Quartermaster as much as possible after that night. It’s for the best.
“James, I need you!” Madeleine’s voice echoed through the half empty apartment and James started, guilty. He chastised himself as he stood and pocketed the phone. It would not do for an agent to lose himself so to thought. Nevermind that he wasn’t an agent any longer.
“Having a moment?” Madeleine asked as he joined her in the bedroom. Bond gave her a crooked smile.
“Testing the space,” he provided. She gave him a weighing look. They’d never mentioned Q, in their impromptu ‘sessions’ but he knew she suspected there was someone . She prodded elsewhere when they spoke, however, and so she let it drop.
Bond tried to lose himself in the orientation of the bedroom furniture but really he didn’t give a fuck. Finally after she’d agonized over the angle of the bed for ten seconds too long he turned and summarily dismissed the movers. “I can finish this myself,” he said, “now if you don’t mind close the door on your way out.” He hovered close to the men as they packed up to leave. Not quite looming but making it incredibly uncomfortable for them to stay. Effortlessly, Madeleine cut him off and led the men to the entry.
He stared Madeleine across their cavernous bedroom when she returned. She eyed him, and he felt himself weighed and measured. The judgement was unpleasant. He slid forward to wrap a hand around her waist. “James-” she attempted a protest which he silenced with a kiss, maneuvering her backwards onto the bed. “James there aren’t even sheets.”
“I won’t make too much a mess,” he promised. He dropped his fingers to unfasten the buttons of her blouse then kissed her again. She softened, pliant in his arms. Too soft.
She was stunningly pretty, he always told himself so when he saw the pale curves of her body flush with arousal. His body began to respond and yet a part of him remained detached, observing, a clockwork orange performing the rites and rituals of love in body only. He kissed her with a passion that transmuted longing. Joining with her was an ablution and, God, but she deserved so much more.
Bond made no pretense to not being horribly broken.
After, they lazed in the overlarge tub of the ensuite, Bond being true to his word and leaving the mattress nearly as immaculate as it had been before they started. Madeleine ’s small frame tucked in over his neatly and he dragged a wandering hand over her skin, tracing its lines down to the water and back up over arm and collar, neck and brow.
“Do you love me James?” She asked.
A vice clamped around his heart. He could not answer. There was no way she missed the tensing of his body as it surrounded her.
The next message came through at 6:50 in the morning that Saturday. His eyes opened as the light on the phone beneath the bed began to flash an eerie glow on the wall across from him. He always slept facing the wall, just in case.
Madeleine ’s breath was soft and even with sleep. She lay curled up against his back, small hand draped over his hip. Slowly he shifted out from under it and retrieved the phone, escaping to the restroom to read under the pretense of using the loo.
5 days since I’ve been in my flat. 5 whole long bloody days at MI6. I should requisition a better couch for my office. I’m the bloody Quartermaster I deserve better than a futon.
Don’t criminals and international terrorists take bloody holidays?
I’m so tired my mind is a jumbled mess. I close my eyes and all I see is code. 10 years ago I could chug a redbull and be fine … now...
And don’t give me shit about my age I’m 33 for fuck’s sake.
I can’t sleep. My mind keeps racing. My head’s spinning.
I’m so tired.
James smiled as his mind supplied an image of a sleepy Q compiled of many a late nights watching the man stumble to his office after all night handling a mission. Also, there was no way the man was 33. Though James had hacked personnelle himself and knew it to be fact, his Quartermaster always seemed so much younger. It was probably those terrible cardigans. And the hair.
Bond was overcome with the urge to run his hands through that unruly mane. He cursed himself for never doing it though he knew it was wholly inappropriate and he was fully justified in never having done so.
Longing and Quartermaster were synonymous within Bond, however. He let himself indulge, lulled by the surreal light of pre-dawn in a foreign restroom into wallowing in the misery of missed opportunity.
The day that dawn brought he and Madeleine spent shopping. It was incredibly domestic. He tried to find joy in it. This was what he wanted, what he’d chosen. He couldn’t help but prowl as they walked from shop to shop. He carried parcels, swiped his credit card, and took mental note of every person that walked past.
“James,” Madeleine said. There was a tone to her voice.
His back went rigid and he felt a chill freeze the muscles of his eyes. Consciously loosening he turned, giving her the closest to childlike innocent eyes he could muster. “ Madeleine ,” he said, teasing a smile into his lips.
“I see what you are doing,” she said as she hooked an arm through his and walked him down the crowded street.
“I’m assisting a beautiful woman as she spends all of my money,” he said, lifting his hand to display his burdens. Madeleine pressed into his side as if playfully seeking closeness but there was a sharpness to her eyes.
“I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t bring it,” she said with a sigh.
“You said something but I brought it.” He snapped, subtly adjusting the gun holster she’d shoved askew with her shoulder.
“You chose to bring it.”
“It is a part of me.”
“A part of you that you chose to keep with you.”
“Yes.”
He shrugged off her arm and they walked a block, side by side, before she spoke again. “Until you make a different choice you will never be able to move forward.” He grunted but did not respond. There was no response to make.
They walked until they passed a bistro Madeleine had come to like. He arched a brow at her in question and she nodded, breaking the tension between them with a forgiving smile.
They sat in the summer sun and gave their orders then sat in quiet silence.
“What will you do, James?” she asked when her salad arrived.
“Do?”
“Surely you don’t expect to putter around our flat for the rest of your life.” Madeleine took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “What do retired agents do with their retirement?”
“Agents don’t retire.”
“You did.”
James took a bite of his steak and regarded the adjacent plaza.
“Did you truly have no vision for what your life would be like?” She asked.
No, he hadn’t. His life should have ended a dozen times over. “I could drive a cab,” he offered, straight faced.
James did try driving a cab but the company didn’t take kindly to his opinion that speed limits were more suggestion than stricture. A few days of restless puttering alone in their flat, watching the ships at sea inspired him to buy a boat and secure a fishing license. It was small time but days spent on the ocean, in the sun, focused only on the next haul lent a certain comforting rhythm to his days.
January slipped into February and the emails came every few days. James counted time from one to the next.
Q wrote about his training, about the development of the exploding pen. He wanted so desperately to reach out, to respond when the messages turned to fear and self-doubt. He wanted to reassure that whatever Q may feel on his end of the comms, from the agent’s side he was always steady, an unswerving eye of calm in the storm of a mission. For all his shaky hands, his voice had been the rock anchoring Bond through mission after mission. And Bond knew his fellow agents felt the same.
Instead he read Q’s words and ached for him in silence.
The dreams began then, as he went to sleep imagining Q looking small and fragile in his office, nursing a drink after a midnight mission. The dream became a recurring feature in his nightly routine. He never discussed it with Madeleine , though she would know what they meant. That was why it passed unmentioned.
Even James knew what it presaged.
He stood in the dark, in the middle a bridge, space and time distorting around him in the surreal way of dreams. There was a hazy rain falling and everything at the edge of the light of a single lamp post blurred and fell soft at the seams. He knew this bridge. He could open a map of London and point right to it with barely a glance. He’d walked it dozens of times yet only one time was seared into his mind.
The slight shape of a woman, clothed in darkness but limned in a golden glow that made her hair shine like a beacon on a far shore, stood just on the far side of the bridge. His eyes ached just to look at her, a Goddess in a storm.
Behind him should have been Mallory and MI6. That had been the reality. But this was a tortured construct of his mind not a memory, so when he turned his Quartermaster looked back at him, dark hair dripping wet over his eyes. They beckoned him. Q’s mouth fell open, as if to call to him but there was no sound.
A wash of emotion surged over him and he almost raised a hand, almost lifted a foot to stride forward. Standing on that bridge he knew, despite years of restraint and walls built so carefully high, he knew what love was, the drive to consume and be consumed in the fire of another soul. Its scars were etched just under his skin, seared with the fire of blue eyes in the moment before they went black. Vesper .
He’d recognized the spectre of love when it first reared its ugly head, staring at a painting of a bloody big ship in the cavernous halls of a gallery, Q’s smile mocking him underneath an unruly mop of hair. He remembered, standing on the bridge in a nightmare of a dream. He remembered Q, the first moment they met, the moment he left, and all the moments in between. But above all that he remembered the lessons Vesper had taught him of love.
In a pouring rain, standing on wet road, he turned to the golden woman, he made his choice again, forsaking redemption for exile.
Yet with every step the bridge seemed to lengthen, an eternity passed as he stepped on wet pavement looking to the shape of the woman but it blurred then disappeared just out of sight as the rain turned from a drizzle to a downpour.
He woke without a start, eyes coming open to midnight darkness, breath coming in even and slow despite his pounding heart. It was the training.
He shifted and reached for the phone. Softly padding to the living room, he sank into a large, overstuffed chair, the night breeze coming in from large open windows, cooling his overheated skin. James didn’t bother with light, he unlocked the phone and read through Q’s last few messages.
The Quartermaster was nervous. James’s heart ached for him. It’s common , he wanted to say. He half typed a message. He wanted to tell Q that the first few missions were always fraught for new field agents. He wanted to hold him and tell him it would be ok. Q was sharp, in mind and body. Just a few sparring lessons had been enough for him to see. Q never made the same mistake twice and his eyes saw more than he thought. All he lacked was training and he had full confidence in the trainers of MI6.
The same skills Q used in his hacking, the preternatural instinct honed over years of infiltrating supposedly unbreakable systems came from the same place as the fighter’s instinct. Properly trained Q could be lethal. His problem wasn’t ability but knowledge.
James reread the message about Q’s brother. He’d known Q had a twin, a close one at that. He’d never had anyone really, but theoretically he could appreciate the loneliness and heartbreak that could come from lying to your other half.
It was part of the job but there was enough compassion in him to want to soothe that pain away.
Like so much else with Q, however, he shoved those urges deep down. He deleted his response. Q didn’t need to know how deeply Bond was betraying him. He sighed, promising himself one more reread before he stowed the phone away again. He’d read half the email when a new message appeared.
His chest constricted in apprehension at the subject line. “Things not good”.
I’m waiting...killing time. There’s a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something is wrong but I’m not sure what. 009 was supposed to check in with me an hour ago and I’m still waiting. I’ll give him 10 more minutes then I’ll head back to base. This park bench is freezing..988997h
…………….kkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
Sdoinxk.,i’asdn
Dddsfffff--0- =-0
99
-Sent from my iPhone
He was up, moving before his mind could process. If he stopped to think there would be no moving again. Rushing to the room, he dressed and was on the street in minutes, making for a safe-house he hoped was still extant.