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Q felt a wave of dizziness crash over him again, and he collapsed back into his chair. As much as he would have liked to blame it on the pitch of the airplane, but they were cruising steadily away from the island. He put his elbows on the desk and rested his head in his hands, his fingers coming up and gripping his hair. His heart was racing, and he was freezing. Adrenalin, he thought. He’d been running on it for days, the actual fate of the world in their hands. And they’d done it, saved millions of lives, and now he was in the back of a C-17 struggling to slow his breathing.
Bond was gone. Gone. He had stared at the Smart Blood screen for…how long? How long had he stared at the agent’s vital signs praying for one of the lines to move—hoping, beyond hope, that the man had one more miracle left in him? It was Tanner’s voice that finally brought him back to reality, gently letting him know that the mission was done and that he’d done a good job.
It took another 11 hours of air travel to get back to London. While he was never a huge fan of taking the MI6 issued cars, he was glad to see one of the sleek, bulletproof cars waiting for him on the tarmac. He felt like he was on autopilot, shuffling over to the car and dropping into the back seat. If he was surprised that Moneypenny was in the car as well, he didn’t show it. She looked as bad he felt, and when she slid a little closer to him, he laid his head on her shoulder. When he felt her breath catch, Q reached over and took her hand in his. They didn’t speak as the car wove its way through the crowded London streets, full of people with no idea just how close they came to an apocalyptic event.
When the car pulled up in front of his house, Q gave Moneypenny’s hand a squeeze.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked.
“If you want the company.”
It was a kind offer, but he didn’t want company. He wanted Bond to be alive. He wanted to sleep for a week. He wanted a lot of things that didn’t involve Eve hovering. Q rubbed his temples. “I’ll see you at the office after a shower and some sleep,” he said, opening the door.
“Okay.”
“Thanks for the ride, Eve.”
“Anytime.”
The house was quiet and dark. Q put his keys on the hook and dropped his bag by the front door. One of the cats came over and threaded its way between his legs. He picked up the cat and held her close, running a hand down the length of her spine.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had a couple of the worst days of my life,” he said before putting her back down on the floor. He walked to the kitchen and got a glass of water, then opened the cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol, swallowing two before trudging up the stairs towards his bedroom.
He purposefully avoided looking at anything in his bedroom, heading straight for the shower. As the hot water helped loosen some of his tight muscles, Q rested his forehead against the tiled wall. He scrubbed at his skin like he could clean off the grief, leaving his skin pink and raw. After drying off, he wrapped himself up in his bathrobe and left his steamy refuge for the bedroom.
His eyes fell on it immediately—the small, black suitcase in the corner of the room. Q’s resolve waivered for just a moment before he knelt down on the floor next the Bond’s bag. It was unzipped, and when he opened it, Q found a few random articles of clothes—a couple sweaters and t-shirts, a spare pair of shoes…and an envelope with the letter Q written in the center. He settled on the floor and opened the envelope, withdrawing a few sheets of thick, ivory stationary covered in Bond’s aggressive script.
Dear Q,
Well, if you’re reading this, things didn’t go well.
Q stopped—the words had already blurred because of the tears that had sprung to his eyes. So, he’d known there was a chance he wouldn’t come back; a good enough chance that he’d left Q a note. He wiped his eyes clear and pressed on.
If I know you (and I do), you’re blaming yourself. Don’t. Because I know you, I know you did every single thing possible to accomplish the mission and save my hide. Sometimes you can’t do both in this line of work and I’ve had more lives than those…unique cats of yours. Plus, chances are I probably did something stupid after you told me not to.
“Stupidly heroic,” Q muttered, sniffling.
You’re one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, Q. From the moment I met you at the National Gallery I knew you were both one of kind and one of the good guys. Youth may be no guarantee of innovation, but you are. The tools and weapons you designed kept me alive more times than I can count. I’m not sure if I ever thanked you—probably not. Let me do so now: thank you, Q.
Any run of the mill genius can design tech but having your voice in my ear (both literally and figuratively) has been a gift. You always knew when to push, when to tease, when to say absolutely nothing. I can count the number of people I trust on one hand—your position on that list has never wavered. I don’t know how I earned your trust in return, but I’m grateful I did.
Tears were rolling down Q’s face and he had to take his glasses off to dry his face on the sleeve of his bathrobe.
I want you to do something for me, Q. Reschedule that date I ruined. Fall in love and do a better job at it than I have. When the world gets to be too much, go here: 18.1155 -77.2760. It’s yours. I’m sure you’ll be able to get around the security. I hope it can restore you the way it always did me.
Q typed the coordinates into his phone and saw they were for an isolated spot on the Jamaican coastline. So, that’s where he’d been hiding out.
Build a life you love with someone you love, Q. Have kids, more cats, both—whatever makes you happy. You deserve every good thing.
There’s no one like you. Thank you for everything, Q.
Love,
James