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Chapter Text

2016

“007, please either stop making my techs nervous or vacate the premises.”

James Bond had been milling around Q-Branch, sneaking behind the minions and whipping them up into a nervous tizzy in an uncharacteristically absentminded manner for the last two hours. 

“Q,” he said, finally sauntering over and leaning against the quartermaster’s desk with his most nonchalant air, making the young man eye him suspiciously, “You’re acquainted with several retired spies. How does one go about…quitting effectively?”

The reason he had been loitering (and lurking) about the place was that he was trying to work up the…courage? No, not courage. Trying to make up his mind about whether to ask for this kind of help. Personal help. Something that had nothing to do with what Q as the Quartermaster of MI6 could give him, but what Danny Drake, the son of a retired double-oh agent and nephew to even more ex-spies, could provide. 

Q sighed softly. “You’re finally ready then, you old shipwreck?” he asked, tilting his head and crossing his arms in a pensive attitude. 

Seeing something in Bond’s face, he nodded and stood up, leading the way to his office, where they would be able to discuss things in a more private setting. 

“To be honest with you, I don’t know,” Q said thoughtfully, sitting back in his chair in that careful way he had that was almost dainty. “I’m sure there isn’t one specific formula. Everyone I know has gone about it in a different way. You know my father’s story. Rather abrupt, but I kept him extremely busy and distracted for a dozen years until I left for school. He had to learn how to deal with the boredom then, but I believe he’s content with his life as it is now. He’s got plenty of little projects around the house to keep him somewhat entertained.”

‘Like knitting,’ Bond silently inserted with a mental grimace. He didn’t think he wanted to come to that .

Q smirked at him, knowing what had gone through his mind. “He participates in community activities, and every once in a while he’ll go sailing with Stuart or visit one of the others.” He moved on. “Sam…didn’t have much of a choice, really.” 

Bond had read all about his predecessor’s final days in the position, which had been hastened by fourteen months in a North Korean prison as a captured spy. The less said about it, the better. 

“He pottered around a bit uselessly for a while after he was done, had his ups and downs—more downs than ups, unfortunately. But he’s in a good place now. Victoria…went about it sensibly. She’s always sensible, you know. She chose her time and did it. It took her a while to find something she wanted to do, but as usual, she excelled at it when she found it. She writes spy thrillers. Stuart, obviously, had to retire when he got sick, as it took him a while to get back on his feet. These days, he’s still sailing and having moderately less strenuous adventures. Just for fun, rather than as a job. Ivar – same story when he lost his legs, but kept up as a PI until he retired completely…mostly. Then he went mad with boredom and started writing extremely bad bodice-rippers—”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

Q grinned at him, knowing just how absurd the last words that had poured out of his mouth had sounded. “Under a pseudonym, of course. He knows they’re shit, but he thinks it’s funny, and if it keeps him from going off the deep end, then why not?”

Bond found himself closing his eyes slowly and fighting the urge to rub his temples. “Your family is…”

“Extremely unconventional? Yes, we’re aware.” Q turned to his computer and clattered away at his keyboard for a moment. “Here. I’ve programmed my father’s address into your car’s GPS. He gives end-of-career counseling.”

Bond raised a brow.

“He was the first of them to stop completely,” Q explained, his jade green eyes soft with deep understanding. 

Inexplicably, the younger man’s expression made something inside Bond’s chest twist. He wasn’t used to people understanding him like this. But his quartermaster was special, and always had been. He had practically been bred for the job, and didn’t balk at providing even unconventional assistance to his agents, such as emotional support and, apparently, referrals to a personalized retirement counselor. Of course, he often sighed and melodramatically mourned his allegedly soon-to-end career in espionage, but he always came through. Always.

“You’re not the only one who’s struggled with this,” the younger man said gently, “It’s difficult to give up a life like yours, especially after so long. Ultimately, it’s up to you to figure out how to stop, but it helps to talk to someone who knows exactly what you’re leaving behind and what you’re facing. You’ve already tried quitting cold turkey, so to speak, a couple of times. You might want to try the gradual route. Ease into it. Er, or out of it. You know what I mean,” he finished with endearing awkwardness.

Bond nodded, his brow furrowed, and left as silently as he came.

Q texted his father: 

‘Incoming: Brooding, angst-filled agent at loose ends. Prepare end-of-career lecture and PowerPoint slides.’

‘Bond?’

‘Obviously.’

‘I’m sure the sarcasm helps with the brooding and the angst.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course it helps. He even cracked a smile. I’ll admit that it was possibly an involuntary facial spasm, but I’m classifying it as a smile.’

. . . . .

It was mid-afternoon when Bond found himself driving up a gravel one-lane road that was more like a path than a roadway. He wondered briefly if Q had played a joke on him by sending him to the middle of nowhere, but dismissed it immediately, as Q didn’t have a cruel bone in his skinny, waifish body. Besides, this place had nothing on the isolation of rural Scotland, which was definitely not on the list of places he’d want to spend his retirement.

‘Destination on your left in one kilometer,’ the tinny electronic voice told him and he shook off the unease that thinking of Skyfall still brought him.

Soon enough, a small but respectable house appeared. It was surrounded by a well-tended garden with what looked like both flowers and vegetables, and a greenhouse could be seen beyond a large oak. A gnarled apple tree reached its branches over a garden table and chairs, and a bench was placed nearby. Bond could imagine a young Q stretched out under the shade with a book on a nice, breezy day. Or perhaps not; Q tended to burn horribly if he spent more than a few minutes in the sun, a fact that garnered him copious amounts of teasing from the double-ohs. 

He recalled that Q had mentioned that his father did a fair amount of woodworking, and cast an approving eye over the elegance of the carved wooden furniture as he walked up the stone path to the door. They had been cleverly constructed out of single large pieces of wood, leaving the bark and knots for a natural, rustic feel. The asymmetrical rings and curves had been polished smooth into pieces with unique beauty. He suspected that they had been made in the building that had been erected nearby, large but very obviously not a living space. Perhaps that was where young Q’s first projects had been created, too. 

It didn’t seem at all like the sort of place a retired double-oh agent would set up for himself, but then again, perhaps the man had wanted a simple life after all of his adrenaline-charged jet-setting years as 007 back in the eighties. Bond had certainly passed enough fields of cows and sheep to know that there were likely no adventures and very few surprises in the man’s life now.

That is, save for those provided by his son, of course. Apparently, a couple of Q’s nicknames growing up had been ‘disaster spawn’ and ‘chaos child,’ and he had more than lived up to the monikers over the years. 

The retired agent greeted him with a warm smile and thanked him graciously for the hamper of champagne and caviar that Bond had hastily picked up at Harrods before setting out on his pilgrimage to the alleged guru of assassin retirement. 

“Biscuits and coffee?” Drake asked him pleasantly as he ushered him through to the sitting room. The biscuits were freshly-baked, judging by the warm vanilla scent that wafted through the house.

The ex-spy was dressed casually in denim jeans and a soft button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and Bond suddenly felt much too overdressed for the situation. It wasn’t a common feeling for Bond, who wore his Tom Ford suits like armor, but he felt that perhaps in this case, he didn’t particularly need to be wearing the jacket and tie. After all, he had come to the man’s home for the express purpose of asking for advice, not to attack him. 

“I didn’t think you were a coffee man,” Bond said while he took in the evidence of what was definitely, indubitably, and beyond a doubt, a home. Not a place where an agent slept and ate and abandoned as quickly as he’d come. Not a safe house, which was never a home, or a set piece made to look like a home. It was a place infused with years’ worth of memories, of laughter and tears, of countless meals shared with loved ones…

He could imagine a tiny Q toddling about in the hallway, baking with his father and treating it like a chemistry experiment, and the teenage tantrums that would have shaken the walls of the small house, childish giggles and goodnight kisses…

“Not generally,” Drake said, knowing exactly what Bond was seeing in his home, “but you are.”

Bond, despite having spent several weeks with the man during Q’s convalescence after the Spectre spectacle, had drunk only tea in his presence to keep company with both Drakes, who were immoderate tea-lovers. He gave Drake a look that conveyed his appreciation of the man’s skills.

Drake smirked and disappeared into the kitchen. “Not rusty yet,” he called back. “Make yourself at home, Bond.”

. . . . .

Bond crumbled a perfectly-golden biscuit on his plate, not quite certain how to begin. Uncertainty was a strange sensation for him, as he had always known what to do, or if he didn’t know, thought of something on the fly and did it like he’d meant to do it all along. 

His companion was examining him closely without seeming to, in the way all seasoned agents knew how to do. Bond wondered if it was a skill that continued to come easily and naturally even after one no longer needed it to survive. 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve considered retirement.”

Bond remained silent.

“Whatever you say will stay between us. I won’t tell anyone, including my son.”

Bond shrugged. “He knows.” Q knew everything, after all. At least, if it was in digital form, he had, without a doubt, poked his inquisitive nose into it like one of his curious cats. 

“Only the bare bones of it. What’s in the files and what you’ve told him.”

Of course, having raised the ‘chaos child,’ Drake knew exactly what his son was likely to have seen and what he probably hadn’t. 

“He’s smart enough to read between the lines,” Bond countered. It was true; while Q was a little lacking in people skills and was sometimes rather oblivious, he did possess an odd mish-mash of insightfulness and a near-psychic ability of prediction. 

“He doesn’t know everything.”

“Doesn’t he?”

It was Drake’s turn to be silent, but his look told Bond that the older man still had secrets his son hadn't uncovered. Despite the Q-Branch minions’ insistence that their Overlord had superpowers, the Overlord’s father knew quite well that he had raised a very human child, who, despite his undeniable genius, did not possess the ability to read minds. 

Bond wondered how much to reveal. After all, he’d read Drake’s files, but Drake hadn’t read his. The world of espionage relied on a system of tit for tat (in which one endeavored to give as little as possible to receive more than the other side was willing to share in a never-ending cycle), and Bond was here to get something from Drake. As far as spy etiquette went, he ought to give a little to start the process. It wouldn’t cost him (or the nation) anything to tell the man something vague but also personal. 

“A few years ago, before Six was attacked, I was injured,” he started. “Presumed dead. M gave the order to the agent to take the shot. She missed and got me instead. It wasn’t surprising. She said she didn’t have a clear shot. But M insisted.”

“You felt betrayed.”

Bond didn’t bother to verify it; they both knew that Drake’s assessment was correct. “I didn’t go back. I wasn’t planning on going back.”

“Until the attack.”

Bond nodded. “After that mess” (understatement) “was cleared up, I thought about leaving again.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to go back to that…limbo.” 

Alcohol, pills, sex, and repeat…

“And then there was Q,” he continued slowly. “He- he was… different from the rest of them. He was ready to throw his whole career away for a man he’d only just met. He didn’t do it halfway. He did all that for someone whom everyone considered past his prime. And after, he came to see me, even though there were more important things that needed his immediate attention. He treated me like a person, a person who’d gone through shit, instead of a- a robot who’d take everything thrown at him and keep going. I’d forgotten what that was like. Now that I know his background, I understand why he’d done it. Why it was important for him to check up on me, to show that there was someone out there who cared. But at the time, it was…” He trailed off. 

“A bit of a novelty, wasn’t it?” Drake’s expression was a mixture of knowing and pride. 

“More than a bit. Your doing, I suppose,” Bond said gratefully. 

Drake shrugged. “Nurture, nature, who knows? He’s always had a good heart.”

“His strays?” Everyone knew about Q and his strays by now. He gravitated towards saving the most ornery of creatures with the sharpest (only sometimes metaphorical) claws and teeth. 

“Never could pass by any creature in need, whether it was a flea-ridden bag of bones or a rabid beast foaming at the mouth,” the father said with exasperation that didn’t hide the pride accentuated by a touch of resignation. “Gave him plenty of heartbreak when they didn’t live or had to be put down, as was often the case.”

“I suppose he’s had better luck with his human strays.”

“Much better.”

“He hasn’t lost one of us yet.”

“Chances are, he will someday.” The ex-agent looked tired.

“Yes,” Bond agreed quietly. And the fallout would not be pretty. He suddenly felt a surge of determination to do this right, to retire properly this time. He would not be the one to break Q’s spirit by dying on the job.

. . . . .

The shadows grew longer and Bond found himself sharing more than he’d ever told his agency-mandated therapists. Those doctors all were at the top of their field, but they didn’t know the way this ex-agent did. 

There was something in the way he spoke, or in his presence, that put Bond at ease. It was odd how much the man reminded him of his son, despite the vast differences in nearly everything about them. He was firmly out of the game, so there was no reason for him to use anything Bond shared against him, even if he could. He believed Drake when he said that nothing would leave the room.

They weren’t state secrets, of course, and there were no names or places mentioned – nothing concrete – but they were things he’d never really expressed, or gotten around to saying out loud. 

It felt…good to get it all off of his chest. 

“That wasn’t the first time I tried to leave. When I first made double-oh, on my first mission, I met a woman.” 

Bond watched his listener, almost waiting for him to make the face everyone always made when it came to him and women, but Drake merely raised a brow at the pause, signaling for him to continue. Bond took a breath and released it slowly. 

“I fell in love with her. Enough that I wanted to resign. Maybe if things hadn’t already been set in motion, I would have stayed gone, stayed with her.” He stopped. It still hurt, even after all these years. The could-have-been and the reality of what happened both. “She betrayed me. There was blackmail involved. Something bigger, much bigger. She died.”

“I’m sorry.” The green eyes were sincere, again reminding him of the quiet guilelessness of the son that played at such odds against their chosen career. 

“She was a traitor.” He spit it out; it had become a habit by now.

“You loved her. You’ve forgiven her for what she did to you.”

Bond gave his listener a sharp look. Oh, he was good. That was something they’d never picked up on. They’d taken his words at face value. It was only M, the old M, who’d known and understood. And now Drake.

Drake gave him the same cocky smirk Q had when he knew he had him. Or rather, maybe Q had picked it up from his father.

“Any loose ends that need tying?” 

Drake, was, of course, not Q. Q wouldn’t have been aware of the end of that conversation and the need to start a new topic. Q would have stalled and stuttered and Bond would have been the one to move on. Drake, however, knew that it was nearing the end of Bond’s visit. Bond, despite not knowing exactly what he’d come for, had what he needed, whatever that was. 

“No ends I need to tie myself.” He had the closure he needed, didn’t he?

Drake nodded. “Good. Then what’s stopping you?”

“Fear of being useless. Boredom.”

“Find a hobby.”

“Knitting and baking?” Bond said with a humorous twist of his lips, recalling his abject horror upon learning that Drake was apparently so bored in his retirement as to take up knitting.

Drake laughed. “Don’t knock it until you've tried it.” Green eyes danced.

Bond sighed. “A hobby.”

“Or ten. Mix it up. Booze, drugs, and sex don’t count, despite how much fun they might be.”

“You say that like you tried it.”

“Haven’t we all?” Drake said, reminding Bond that there was darkness in all their lives, especially when one had the kind of jobs they had.  

The older man leaned forward. “My advice? Keep my son in your life. That’s the common denominator here, among all of us. Of course, he’ll keep an eye on you regardless — you’re still one of his people, after all — but contact can go both ways. Cut the anchor line too soon and you’ll go adrift.” Of course the man had surmised that Bond was a navy man without even being told. That was easy; Bond could do it too, at a glance.

“That’s the secret? Stay friends with Q?”

“Not exactly,” Drake said, shaking his head. “It’s more…You have to keep connections active, not for the sake of having an escape plan, but as a reminder of what you fought and bled for, and what you have to continue to live for, now that the work is all over and done with.”

“I wasn’t exactly fighting for him,” Bond said drolly.

“Weren’t you?”

And damn, those green eyes were piercing and knowing, and Bond suddenly understood why Q had never really learned how to lie convincingly. It was nigh impossible to lie to those eyes.

Bond looked away, sighing softly in acknowledgement. “He was someone to come home to. He was sometimes the only person in the world really, honestly glad to see us come home in one piece, and not in a body bag or an urn. So we kept coming home to him, even when we should have given up. It’s a kind of enchantment, isn’t it? No idea how he does it.”

“Don’t ask me,” Drake said over the rim of his mug before he took a sip. “I was his first victim.”

Bond laughed. “You don’t seem to mind.”

“Nor do you.”

“No, I don’t. I was fit for the junkyard the first time I met him. But he got me started up again like the brilliant mechanic he is and kept me going instead of throwing me out for scraps like everyone thought I deserved.”

“Not scraps.”

Bond thought about his predecessor abandoned and tortured in a cold, dark prison for over a year, and corrected himself. “No, not scraps. I’ve had a good run, overall. But it’s time.”

“Any ideas for what you want to do?”

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

Drake smiled knowingly, mysteriously. “No, it’s not. You’ve had plans laid out since you realized that you might actually survive the job. Some of them are feasible; some are ridiculous dreams. But there’s one you always keep going back to.”

“I’ve always liked Jamaica.”

“Send me a postcard.”

. . . . .

Chapter Text

Jamaica

A few months later…

Bond stretched out on the deck of his yacht and stared up at the clear blue sky. No clouds. Smooth, sparkling seas. Lovely, beautiful weather. 

Just like yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. 

He was determined to give retirement a serious try, but it was damned hard. He’d never imagined that it would be so difficult. He ached for something to do. 

Something that wasn’t working out in his gym, diving in the crystal-clear Caribbean waters, or sailing and fishing in his boat. So far, he’d been moderate (for him) in terms of his drinking and womanizing, and he had eschewed the prescription drugs that had given him trouble the last time he’d tried to leave. 

He’d been good. Really. He was trying. 

But he was so damned bored. 

He’d made an effort over the past few months to keep in touch with people he knew by sending them postcards. This had proven to be easier said than done, as he was a reticent man who wasn’t social unless he needed to be. Some of the recipients of his missives were likely highly exasperated with him by now; he’d made an extra effort to send Q the most garish postcards he could find (one had even been pineapple-scented) with inane updates on his life:

“Fished today. Caught a couple. Did you like the barracuda I shipped to you last week?”

(Text message from Q: “Bond! You should know better than to send me raw fish *without ice* in regular mail. The mailroom wants your guts for garters. It still stinks down there, as, I am sure, was your intent.”)

He’d sent much more polite and respectful postcards to Drake Sr., and had in return received a visit from Stuart Thomas, who had evidently been sent to do what amounted to a wellness check on him. 

Having verified that while Bond was bored, he was not about to explode like a keg of gunpowder, Thomas had moved on with his seafaring; he’d stopped by Jamaica on his way around the Caribbean islands, doing whatever he did these days (rumor had it that he was the man known as ‘the one-eyed pirate’ who showed up and kicked ass whenever there was something nefarious going on in the high seas).

Bond sighed again and pushed his sunglasses up his nose from where they’d slid down slightly. 

Maybe he’d ask to join Thomas the next time he stopped by. 

For now, he was bored, and he’d had enough of the sun and water for the day. He might as well go back to shore and…

He racked his brain for something different to do that he hadn’t done yesterday or the day before. 

Ah. He’d start binge-watching that show with the dragons everyone was so wild about. That was on his very short to-do list, wasn’t it?

With that, he headed back to shore.

. . . . .

With the two fish he’d caught in hand, he made his barefooted way up the pier to his little bungalow (with all the state-of-the-art amenities for comfort, of course), thinking about what he’d do with them. One he’d grill and the other…

Maybe he’d send it to Alec’s place. Mail at Six would be on their guard now for smelly packages (and so they should; it was their job to parse out suspicious packages, wasn’t it?). It didn’t matter if Alec was hardly home; the more rotten the fish got while it waited for him, the better. 

No, Bond sighed. He’d send it to Q, overnight on dry ice this time. He deserved a nice treat every once in a while. He worked much too hard. 

Something caught his eye then, something that hadn’t been there that morning when he’d left, a small, dark-colored lump on the wooden pier. It wasn’t a dead leaf from the overhanging tree or a lizard sunning itself. 

It was a clump of ashes from a cigar. 

Returning to his boat with an eager spring to his step, he laid down the fish and retrieved his gun, feeling a thrill of excitement run through his body for the first time in months.

Had someone come to kill him? Or perhaps…

Only one way to find out. 

He entered his home casually, the Walther held loosely in his hand, dangling almost sloppily. He was on his guard, of course, but he was more curious than cautious. 

He entered and saw no one. Nothing different.

Then there, on the hall table. 

A cigar butt. He walked over to it and picked it up, despite knowing that he really shouldn’t pick up strange objects intruders had left in his home.

Cuban. Electado. 

He grinned. 

Felix. 

. . . . .

Felix had already gotten himself a drink and was lounging in a beach chair by the pool when Bond dropped down into the chair next to his, setting the gun aside on the glass table. 

“Why don’t you make yourself at home, Felix?” Bond asked ironically, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. 

Felix raised his glass. “Where’ve you been, James? I had to fix myself a drink. What the hell kinda host are you?”

“The kind who wasn’t expecting company,” Bond snorted and laid himself out in his chair with a contented sigh. He crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. 

Felix looked over at him sideways, in that way spies had: Never look someone straight on when you can look at them sideways, unless you’re going for intimidation or urgency. “How’s retirement treating you, brother?” he asked, letting his eyes do some assessing of their own.

“I’m bored.”

Now it was Felix’s turn to snort. “You look it. Why don’t you find something to do?”

“Like what? Writing romance novels?” Bond had, in his boredom, checked out a couple of ex-CIA agent Ivar Bryce’s books (written under the hilariously cringeworthy penname of Amanda Mount), but had been left completely uninspired (although thoroughly amused). 

Felix lifted his sunglasses off of his face to stare at him. “Why…? If you want to, sure, why the hell not?” he asked, sounding slightly - and deservedly - befuddled. Apparently he did not know what his former colleague had been up to in his retirement.

“I don’t.”

“Okay, then. How about…” Felix fished around for a suitable hobby for James Bond, (former) international man of mystery. Ah-ha! Fishing. Which Bond had probably thought of on his own, judging by the holey old t-shirt the man was wearing with a whiff of eau de poisson, which was a far cry from the Men’s Vogue cover-worthy outfits he usually wore. Unless he’d let loose so far in his retirement that he literally didn’t care what he was wearing or smelled like, Bond had definitely come in from a day of fishing.

“Knitting?” Bond suggested with an amused smirk.

Felix tried to imagine James Bond knitting and found his brain short-circuiting. “Uh…If you want. Incidentally, are these things you’ve already tried?” If they were, then Bond was further on in his descent into madness than Felix had thought.

“No.”

“Uh huh. Okay, then. Um.” His real questions unanswered, Felix sat back in his chair and let the silence settle awkwardly between them.

“The thing is, Felix,” Bond said conversationally, “I didn’t think I’d actually survive the job. I had this place ready for if I did, but it was more of a…” He waved his hand, trying half-heartedly to find the word.

“Safe house?”

“Something like it. Retirement option, but not seriously. Something to look forward to, but never attain. Now I’m here and I don’t know what the bloody hell to do with myself.” The frustration in Bond’s voice was palpable.

“Yeah. I guess settling down ain’t much fun if you’re all on your lonesome on this gorgeous tropical island paradise,” Felix said unsympathetically. “Easier to share it with someone, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bond sat, lost in thought. “Thanks, Felix.” He got up and headed for the bar (fully-stocked, of course) to get a drink of his own.

“For what?” Felix propped himself up on his elbows to watch him go. 

“I’ve got an idea,” Bond called back over his shoulder. 

“Hooo, boy,” Felix said, getting up from his seat and following Bond to the shade. He needed to refresh his drink anyway. “Does it have explosions in it? Because you know you’re not allowed to have those anymore.” 

“No.”

“You gonna share with the class?”

Bond, of course, only gave him a mysterious smile and didn’t say another word about it. 

. . . . .

Three days later

Norway

James Bond watched the woman step out of the clinic and fish in her purse for her car keys, not knowing that she was being watched. 

He knew he didn’t have long to wait; old habits die hard, even when one isn’t really in the game and only came into it by pure bad luck. 

He saw her tense at the sensation of his eyes on her, saw her glance up and around. 

Blue eyes met his. 

“James.”

“Hello, Madeleine.”

. . . . .

Two years later (incidentally, five months post-vasectomy reversal surgery)

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 09:47 GMT

To: Bond

Congratulations! I’m so happy for you both!’ (baby emoji)

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 09:48 GMT

To: Bond

‘BTW, I noticed you purchased some craft supplies and watched a few videos. My father swears by these tutorials. Enjoy!’ 

Attachment: Links to beginner instructions and videos for knitting.

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 09:48 GMT

To: Bond

‘Tell Madeleine she’s absolutely glowing.’ (pink and blue hearts)

..

New text message from Bond

13 January 2019 09:48 GMT

To: Q

‘Q, stop being creepy and come for a proper visit.’

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 09:49 GMT

To: Bond

‘Busy.’

..

New text message from Bond

13 January 2019 09:49 GMT

To: Q

‘Don’t you want to meet your godson before he’s born?’

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 10:06 GMT

To: Bond

‘You don’t know the baby’s gender yet. It’s too early to tell, and you haven’t even scheduled the appointment to find out. Besides, I’d rather meet your son or daughter after the birth, thanks. Babies are much more entertaining then.’ 

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 10:07 GMT

To: Bond

‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ 

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 10:07 GMT

To: Bond

‘You’re not really making me your child’s godfather?’

..

New text message from Bond

13 January 2019 10:10 GMT

To: Q

(Smiley face)

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 10:10 GMT

To: Bond

‘Bond.’

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 10:32 GMT

To: Bond

‘Why did you tell M that I am in dire need of a vacation? You know I’m far too busy to take time off for frivolities.’ 

..

New text message from Q

13 January 2019 10:46 GMT

To: Bond

‘Bond, answer me, damn it. I know you’ve seen my messages.’

..

. . .

New text message from Madeleine

13 January 2019 12:03 CET (11:03 GMT)

To: James

‘Q sent me flowers at the office. Did you tell him?’ 

Attachment: Picture of an immense bouquet of flowers in pastel colors, but subtle enough to hide the reason.

..

New text message from James

13 January 2019 12:03 CET (11:03 GMT)

To: Madeleine

‘He’s Q. He knows everything.’

..

New text message from Madeleine

13 January 2019 12:04 CET (11:04 GMT)

To: James

‘He knows my favorite flowers are foxgloves?’

..

New text message from James

13 January 2019 12:04 CET (11:04 GMT)

To: Madeleine

‘Everything, Madeleine. Everything.’

. . . . .

Chapter Text

May 2019

Norway

Bond finally managed to lure Q away from London in May, when Madeleine’s baby bump was large enough to make strangers on the street smile at her and Bond, if he was with her. 

Q brought Moneypenny with him, and the two of them oohed and ahhed over Madeleine’s belly and her glowing complexion. Bond was glad; Madeleine wasn’t the kind of person to form close relationships, so she had yet to make good friends in their community and her workplace. 

Both orphaned, both lone wolves, they had spent the past two years in their own little bubble, but now that their baby (a girl!) was on her way, they had agreed that they needed to spread their circle wider, lest their daughter have a childhood as isolated and solitary as both of theirs had been. 

Bond found that he had more people he considered friends than Madeleine did, which even she acknowledged with a wry laugh. 

(“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she had said, “You trust more people than I do.”

“You’ve been hurt by the people who should love you more often than I have,” he’d responded. 

“You won’t?” she’d murmured, her hands caressing the growing life within her. ‘You won’t hurt us?’ 

“Never,” he’d said, and he’d covered her hands with his warm ones. He’d kissed her, then her belly. “Never.”)

Felix was a given; they’d been through so much together that he would be Uncle Felix to their daughter. Felix’s wife Marion and rambunctious little girl Cedar rounded out the Leiter family. Madeleine had made a tentative connection with Marion, who’d warmly encouraged her to reach out to her at any time if she had any questions or worries about her impending motherhood. ‘Cece,’ as Cedar was affectionately called, was eager to serve as an older sister figure to the as yet unnamed baby. 

Madeleine had at first seemed distant on the topic of Q and Moneypenny. Bond had finally gotten her to admit that she was jealous of them. She’d immediately known that Bond and Eve had slept together at least once based on their interactions, and she’d evidently considered the amount of trust Bond had in Q to be rather suspect, too. Add to that the fact that Bond had chosen to rush to Q’s side without even a word to her that night on the bridge in London when he’d found out that he had been injured, and Madeleine had been left wondering where she stood in Bond’s affections. 

It had taken some work to untangle the mess Madeleine’s past had made of her psyche and self-worth (aside from her work), but they had managed it, and now she welcomed Q and Moneypenny with a shy smile as she opened their home to them. Indeed, she had been the one to suggest to Bond that he invite his friends to visit them in their new home. 

If Q suspected at all the reservations Madeleine had had about him, he didn’t show it as he cooed enthusiastically over the nursery and the tiny onesies she and Bond had collected. 

Moneypenny took the situation in at a glance, as she always did, and set about reassuring Madeleine, who was understandably feeling especially vulnerable, that she had no designs to sleep with Bond ever again, and that he was a friend and that was all. Of course, she did this without broaching the subject in any way, as was proper amongst spies, but Madeleine had softened towards her by the time they’d all retired to their respective rooms in the large house Bond and Madeleine had bought together. 

The two of them, the two damaged lonely souls, had come a long way in the past couple of years. They had finally been able to let go of their pasts and look toward the future. 

Madeleine had announced that she would sell her parents’ cabin where so many bad memories had leached into the woodwork, and Bond had followed her lead by selling Skyfall soon after. Kincade had passed away some time back, and there was really no reason to keep the old place, with its dark, cloying memories. 

Madeleine had rewarded him with a squeeze of his hand and a proud smile when the final sale had gone through. She knew how it felt, after all. She’d felt the same weight slide off of her shoulders after she’d let go of the ghosts in her past. 

They’d searched far and wide for their new home; it had to be close enough to Madeleine’s clinic, but not so close that she felt too consumed by her work. Bond would eventually need to find something to do, too, and it would be easier to do so closer to town. They’d shyly looked at schools and playgrounds, half afraid to hope for the kind of future when such amenities would be of use. With a little more daring, they’d looked at a house big enough for them and perhaps one or two more, and with spare rooms for the guests they fully intended to invite someday. 

And so far, so far, nothing had happened to shake their fragile hope. They’d tentatively put out feelers, and had finally taken the plunge when Bond had his vasectomy reversed (it had been a requirement for double-ohs starting in the late ‘90s to undergo the temporary sterilization in order to prevent…complications), and they’d soon found themselves expecting. 

They held their breaths again, as week after week, month after month, the culmination of their newfound hope became evident. And still, nothing untoward happened. They found themselves loosening their white-knuckled grips on fear and apprehension and enjoying the short time they had before their lives would change forever. 

They found themselves finally believing that they might perhaps deserve this happiness that had descended upon them. 

Upon shyly voicing this thought to their friends, their guests, Q had exclaimed, “Of course you deserve to be happy. What a ridiculous notion! Not deserve to be happy? Whoever put that thought into your head?” As though he wasn’t fully aware of how damaged their pasts had made them, but it was kind of him to be so affronted on their behalf. 

Moneypenny had elbowed her companion in the ribs (“Ow!”) and repeated his sentiment in a less indignant fashion. 

Bond had drawn Madeleine closer and basked in the warmth of her beaming smile. 

It was worth it. All of it. Everything he’d gone through to get here.

The isolation, the loss. The blood and death and pain. All of it. 

Even having to get up in the middle of the night to satisfy whatever crazy craving Madeleine had that month. 

Q popped his head out of his room as Bond passed by, shrugging his jacket on with a yawn.

“Where are you going at this time of night?” He asked with a jaw-cracking yawn of his own. He looked ridiculous in his striped pajamas with his hair in an even wilder state than usual. 

“Madeleine wants crêpes.” There was a small cafe that was open all night, whose owner would accommodate Bond’s sometimes extremely odd requests with an indulgent smile.

“But why are you dressed to go out?” Q stood at his door, blinking rather stupidly for a moment, then whisper-shouted down the stairs at him: “You mean to tell me that you’re a fully grown man who doesn’t know how to make crêpes?” He sounded absolutely aghast at the notion.

“No, Bond,” he whisper-exclaimed, marching out and grabbing Bond by the elbow. “No, you are coming with me right now and I am going to teach you how to make crêpes properly, and by that I mean you will actually learn how to make them, not watch me make them.”

The ruckus in the hall had, of course, woken Moneypenny, and she and Madeleine both came out looking sleepy and amused at his outrage.  

“Q, you don’t have to do this,” Madeleine protested. “Please go back to bed.”

“I am teaching this man a useful life skill. How can he expect to be a good father if he doesn’t even know how to make bloody crêpes, for heaven’s sake?” he demanded.

Moneypenny and Madeleine exchanged amused looks and followed the men to the kitchen, where Q had dragged Bond while lecturing him on what made a good father, in Q’s expert (and sometimes odd) opinion. 

The women giggled as Q unceremoniously ordered an eye-rolling and muttering Bond to pull out bowls and ingredients and measuring cups. 

“Hé!” Madeleine exclaimed suddenly and joined the fray. “You do not put in sugar?”

“Not in this recipe,” Q returned. “It’s more versatile this way.”

And thus began a friendly squabble about who had the best crêpe recipe. (Q had learned it from his father, who had gotten it from a chef at a Michelin three-star restaurant, while Madeleine was French, enough said.)

“Précisément!” Madeleine said triumphantly as she won the argument and poured a spoonful of sugar into the batter.

Somewhere along the line, they had switched from English to French without Madeleine even realizing it, and in this Bond detected the not-so-subtle machinations of Q, who wanted to put his new friend at ease. 

He and Moneypenny (who had declined to take sides in the debate, admitting wryly that her crêpes came out of a box) grinned at each other as they settled back and watched the two chefs pour and flip and soon accumulate a large stack of perfectly thin pancakes. 

Bond, of course, managed not to learn a thing about making crêpes, save that he loved his little family and hoped it kept growing. 

“Now pay attention, Bond.”

“Yes, James, you are not paying attention! How will you be a good father if you do not know how to make us crêpes?”

. . . . .

7 July 2019

New text message from Bond

7 July  2019 06:14 GMT (07:14 CET)

To: Q

‘Her name is Mathilde.’ 

Attachment: Photograph of sleepy baby-blue eyes and tiny, perfect fingers pressed against a rosebud mouth.

. . . . .