Work Text:
Q doesn’t dance. Anymore.
But he did dance. One last dance. And he was watched that night. Watched by Bond, the night when Bond had become double-oh seven. That night, Q danced, but not for Bond. And Q hadn’t become Q yet. He was just a dancer, watched by Bond in a nightclub somewhere in London. Bond, who was not looking for a shag, not even flirting with anybody; he just sat there and watched a young man dance.
The young man danced alone, and yet, Bond could see, he was dancing with somebody. Somebody, who wasn’t there. Somebody, who wouldn’t be there ever again. The dancer became one with the music; his movements fluid, his body embracing the other, who wasn’t there; caressing the air as if, only to crumble into himself in an abandoned touch of an unseen face. The motions soft, innocent, naive. But this dancer knew his body, held himself firmly, even when the gestures at first seemed awkward and out of place, they fit into the flow of the music and the dance itself, building into a crescendo that seemed like a cry for help, a cry for that somebody, who wasn’t there, who would never be there ever again. It was visceral, tangible.
And as the music was fading away, the dancer had reached out and up, opened his eyes and smiled, his whole body giving in to one last hug of the lover, who wasn’t anymore. A gesture, as pure and happy as it was futile in its embrace of the void.
And Bond had watched, intrigued, fascinated. He wondered what had happened to the one, who wasn’t there. Wondered, as the years went by, what had become of the dancer. Bond became a double-oh that day; he became double-oh seven with a license to kill. He was young, he believed he could save the world, could make a difference. Oh, how naive he had been. How much he had yet to learn and experience to fully understand what the dancer–so much younger than him–actually was articulating, embodying in this one dance.
In the time to come, when he lost friends, lovers, his wife, he would think back to that night when he watched the dancer mourn his loved one. Years and years would go by, and the face of the dancer would fade from his memory, but not the movements, not the music playing. The tragic of the dance became a way to cope with the tragedy of his life, the betrayals, the grief, the killings by his hand.
Bond would cherish this memory of the unknown dancer. The dance stayed with him. It kept him alive when he was shot and killed.
Bond comes back from the dead. He meets Q, the new Q. A man, who wears an anorak that keeps his body hidden behind bulky material. A man, who is snarky because he is young, the youngest ever to become Q. But a man, who will keep Bond alive and safe, no matter what needs to be done, what rules must be broken. Q, who has a spine of steel if needs be, who will put their boss in place and not back down. Q, who is loyal and trusts Bond. And Bond trusts him. Does so from the very first moment he realises that this is Q, his new quartermaster. To Bond, Q feels as someone he has known for a long time, as if they have been friends for years and years.
Then, at a party where people are supposed to be dancing, Q refuses. Q doesn’t dance. Bond wonders, because by now he has watched Q, has seen, how well he moves his body, how easy he follows the rhythm of a melody. Suddenly, Bond realises that Q, this Q, is his dancer. He sits down and asks. Simply.
Why don’t you dance?
Q sees the sincerity in Bond’s face. And he tells Bond. About his lover, his one true love, about the murder, the lies, the hopelessness. How he tried to fight the Secret Services, the Press, the World. Bond listens, asks questions, lets Q talk, rant even. And Q explains, describes, smiles, and cries; Bond holds his hand, grounds him, as Q continues, exhausts himself. Then, Q looks at Bond, really looks at him, as if he sees him for the first time. Back in the National Gallery. Because Q still does not know that Bond has seen him, so many years ago. Quietly, Q says:
I don’t dance. Anymore. You see, I danced one last dance. So many years ago. I said goodbye in that dance. We–we never danced together, there was no time, because we thought, we had all the time in the world. It was my last gift to him; my way of closure, of deciding to start a new life, to fight this madness from within. To become the quartermaster, who would have saved him.
And Bond understands. Even more than Q probably ever will.