Archive of Our Own ^beta

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On quiet evenings past Mathilde's bedtime, the Bonds have taken to sharing languid baths, limbs intertwined until long after the water has grown tepid. Glass of wine within reach, she will usually come to rest her head in the crook of his neck and offer her sensitive skin to his calloused fingers, or he will pillow his cheek on her breast while she strokes his chest from the tip of a nail. They talk about childhood memories needing healing that only the other can provide; about their daughter and what new ways she has found today to include her father in her adventures; about plans for the future (she wants to try for a second child; even though he’s concerned he might be getting too old, he craves the idea of another and finds himself imagining a little blond and curly head answering to Félix). And sometimes they don’t speak at all, and that's when they are the most crystal clear to each other.

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They go to Skyfall once, one Bond family's courtesy to another. If standing in front of his parents’ graves threatens to revive some long-buried feeling in him, the brush of Doudou's gangling body and of his restless daughter on his leg roots him back to earth and to his very lively offspring quickly enough. And if the picture of Mathilde playing on the church's hard stone floor while they set up their encampment for the night — they cajoled her into this trip by promising a less scary, much more playful adventure than the last one — is sometimes shadowed with the remembrance of an older blue-eyed woman laying on the same cold stones, he only needs to feel Madeleine's soft hand linger warmly on his neck to be brought back to the present.

They make a shooting contest out of a few bullets and rifles found in the gatekeeper’s shed, and, to James’ awed delight, Madeleine beats him in style, with that mix of quiet confidence and uncanny aiming skills she first displayed in that fateful desert train a long time ago. Taking advantage of their daughter's distraction chasing after a wild rabbit, he isolates the love of his life against Skyfall's crumbled hearth and kisses her fiercely, channeling the strength and pride of the prehistoric dwellers of this land. Here, he feels acutely that he is right where he belongs.

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The party invitation is extended to him by a giggling Mathilde, one or two sideway looks thrown at Madeleine betraying that this has been a well-rehearsed mission. Now that the Swanns are progressively introducing him into all aspects of their lives, he's more often than not at their London apartment anyway, but he relishes the sweet validation that they do want and expect him in their family.

The birthday party itself is a colorful affair: not only is there a big cake with candles that he gets to blow with the help and pudgy arms of an enthusiastic five-year-old, there are also heaps of presents. A delicious concept of long-buried familiarity, like a soft toy found hibernating under the bedding in one's childhood bedroom. First comes a watch, simple in design but whose large white wristband has been drawn on with a child's trembling approximations of ships and seagulls (« For when we go to Jamaica », Mathilde proclaims with finality) ; a turquoise turtleneck that brings a soft look to Madeleine’s eyes when he puts it on over his henley, and that he promises to himself to investigate later ; a couple of photography books that he remembers casually mentioning while they were strolling along a Leica store ; and, finally and deceptively innocuously, a whole pile of children’s books.

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow at the Swann council, his ladies sharing a secret smile and Madeleine placing her hand in Mathilde's as she announces that it is time he be introduced to their bedtime ritual. They thus spend the remainder of the afternoon reading together, bundled up on the couch with their feet propped up on a coffee table now drowning under vibrant paper wrappings. Mathilde is a tough customer, interjecting here and there to demand that James pitch his voice shriller for the Rose or deeper for the Fox, prompting a literary debate he would have never in a million years imagined he would get to voice his opinion in. Madeleine refrains from chiming in, but he can surmise from the way her chest shakes on the other end of the couch and from the mirth in her eyes that he has a long way to go before he's deemed master storyteller.

If his voice is a little raw and hoarse when they finally put Mathilde to bed, no one comments on it, still high from the thrill of sharing so many adventures. Cuddling quietly with Madeleine afterwards amidst the remains of the feast feels only natural, expanding the weighty warmth that seems to have taken permanent residence in his chest, the stem of his glass of wine coming to tickle her leg while she massages his scalp and twines her fingers around silvering strands of hair - longer now that he formally retired and ditched the military cut. Humming in contentment, he lets his thoughts wander to what stories they will pick up next.

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Italy, September 2019. Headcanon that James keeps this picture from their Matera honeymoon in his wallet. It’s been folded back so many times that the crease and edges are now as worn as Doudou's paws.