Chapter Text
No.
The word kept running through his mind, over and over, too fast for him to count the repetitions.
No. No. No.
In his excitement of having stopped Silva from killing her, his mind had not registered that she was leaning heavily to one side as she chided him for taking his time getting to the chapel. He hadn’t noticed that she was pale and breathing heavily, almost gasping as she spoke. But then again, she had just had a gun pointed at her head by a madman who had chased her halfway across the UK just to kill her, leaving a wide swath of death and destruction in his wake.
Then he saw her take a side step and start to teeter on one leg, leaning over impossibly far. His mind clearly registered that.
He barely caught her before she hit the hard stone floor. As he cradled her limp body in his arms he could already feel the life slipping out of her, could already see Death’s cold hand reaching for her, caressing her face and sliding bony fingers over her body ever so gently.
No. You can’t have her!
He looked at Kincade with a questioning glance. The old man looked lost, bewildered. He hadn’t even known she was wounded until they had reached the chapel and she had finally asked to sit down. He didn’t even know her name, real or code. He called her ‘Emma’. Neither Bond nor M had corrected him. No reason to confuse the issue, there were too many other things to worry about.
“I suppose it’s too late to make a run for it…”
“I’m game if you are.”
Her voice was small and tight. She knew she was going to die. He could see it in her eyes. She knew that there was no escape for her from the chapel at Skyfall. She had probably known as he drove through the stone columns at the end of the long driveway that she wasn’t going to make it out of this alive. Silva was too powerful, too determined to end her days. She had probably known Bond would kill him, but that she would be collateral damage.
She looked at him, looked him right in the eyes, like a mother would look at her son if he were in pain, dying.
“At least I got something right.”
Bond held her tighter.
No. M, you got so many things right. I’m not even sure I am right. Everything feels so wrong right now.
He could feel the life gradually slipping out of her. He could feel her heart beating against his arm; feel the pulse in her wrist gently pushing against his, the two sensations in sync. The interval between the beats was getting longer and longer, losing the rhythm that measured life.
No. M, your heart needs to keep beating. Fight for this. Live.
He had heard that when death is imminent your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. But he couldn’t figure out why her life was flashing in front of his eyes, why his mind was replaying every scene, every moment, every drink, every argument of their years shared together.
Their first meeting. Her, the vaunted Chief of MI6, the legend that agents talked about in the hallways with hushed, whispered tones, occupying The Office on the 6th floor…an office few had seen and even fewer had actually entered. And him, the hot-headed young agent, filled with rage and anger and with a point to prove to her, to the service, to the world. She had briskly shook his hand and said ‘get to work’ before handing him a mission brief.
Many more such meetings over the years as she taught him how to be a proficient spy and he took on more and more responsibility. Her tongue-lashings when he screwed up, her praise when he was successful.
Her finally promoting him to Double-O status. She had flagged him down in the hallway on her way to a meeting and casually said ‘congratulations, Bond, you’re a Double-O’ as if she were merely giving him her morning coffee order. She had walked away and disappeared into the conference room before he could even respond.
Him breaking into her home and searching her computer, despite the fear that her husband would come home first and find him in the flat.
The warm glow of the sun on her face in the Bahamas.
The cold steel in her voice and eyes as she first berated, then trusted, him in Bolivia.
The snowflakes swirling around her in Kazan, Russia, the exact same color of her graying hair. He knew she had picked up the Algerian love knot necklace and put it in her pocket. He wondered where it was.
Her husky, cracked voice tickling his ear during high-stakes missions, almost like a lover whispering for him to come closer. But her commands were far different than those of a lover’s.
Take the bloody shot.
Death. His. But not real, not like this.
Him breaking into her home again. This time opening a bottle of her best whisky and unabashedly looking around her flat, opening drawers and closets, prying into her private life, safe in the knowledge that her husband wouldn’t arrive home first and catch him.
Calling her a bitch, knowing that she was on the other side of the glass, listening.
Stealing her away from London, hoping to keep her safe.
No. Why didn’t she say anything when he had asked?
“You hurt?”
“Only my pride. I never was a good shot.”
He looked down at the blood covering her hands, deep and red, where she had tried desperately to staunch the flow of her own life from torn veins. He looked at the shine of blood on her coat and skirt. He could see the tears and rips in the coat where the bullet had shattered the cabinet she had used for cover and then brought shrapnel with it into her body.
She was bleeding from so many wounds that it would have been impossible for her to survive without medical help. There wasn’t much blood in the chapel, none pooling underneath her. It had dripped out of her as she walked through the tunnel, across the moor, and into the chapel, leaving a trail right to her for Death to follow.
Now Death was tugging at her, trying to take her away from him.
No, Death, you can’t have her. Not just yet.
He felt the warmth of her last breath tickling his nose. Then he felt nothing. No heartbeat. No pulse.
No life.
She had died with her eyes open. He closed them. Her skin was warm and dry as paper.
No.
He pulled her closer to him and kissed her forehead, his tears falling from his eyes, landing on her cheeks, her chin, her chest. He didn’t care. He pulled her closer. He didn’t want to let her go in the hopes that he would feel the warm mist of a breath against his forehead.
He sees Kincade remove his hat and lower his head out of respect.
No.