Chapter Text
Kill both the mark and his two informants, show no mercy.
Q’s soft-spoken words remained in Bond’s mind as the agent sipped his usual vodka martini, using the vantage point of his box to study the guests at the Bregenz Open Air Theatre in Austria, guests still filing in close to the end of the performance’s intermission. A shuffle of fabric, and he turned in time for Eve Moneypenny to calmly sit down beside him, arranging her skirts before resting a hand on his in a show of intimacy, one that they had carefully calculated to fool the mark and any of his agents that may have been watching Bond since the agent’s arrival. “I’m surprised the staff here let you in, given what happened last time you visited,” Eve said after a moment, arching a brow when Bond gave her a wounded expression.
“That, the staff just simply changed rotation, or their memories are as bad as Tanner’s,” Bond said, mouth twitching as he heard R’s faint cough on the other end of the earpiece. “R, before the performance starts again, any word from Q?” he asked quietly, trying to calm the flare of concern in his gut—I should be there, helping him, if he’s as bad off as R and O’Reilly report. He consciously folded both of his hands flat against his knees, resisting against the urge to ease his worry over Q’s condition. Eve seemed to sense his dilemma, squeezing his left hand once before leaving her hand there, her skin warm against his finger where the ring should have been.
“Sorry, double-oh seven. He’s still out with the stomach bug, O’Reilly went to go check on him this morning and said that Q is hanging in there and that the illness should pass. But he’s sicker than a dog right now.” A sigh. “Perhaps you can Skype with him later, he definitely has his tech, so you can do that,” R said, stifling a yawn. “Has the mark appeared yet?”
“No, but intermission is about to end, so give him another few more minutes,” Bond muttered, clearing his throat in a warning for silence before taking another sip of his martini. R grumbled on his end, but fell obediently silent as Eve inclined her head once to acknowledge the discreet warning.
Bond scanned the audience below, finally spotting Ryan Westbrook, a confirmed Quantum informant, milling about in the aisle near a row that still had five seats available even as other guests began filling up around them. Westbrook straightened, and Mr. White appeared a moment later—halfway late for the performance, what kept him?—and waved off an attendant as he moved to take his seat, moving down the row until he reached the second of the five empty spots. Bond checked to make sure that his Walther was fully loaded, safety on, before pretending to knock over his glass, pitching it forward and nearly over the edge of the box. Eve jumped and a few people below shrieked as the alcohol splashed them.
“Shit, sorry about that, my dear,” he said loud enough for their neighbors to hear, allowing her to fuss and scold him as he pulled a handkerchief out and handed it to Eve. He leaned forward, pretending to straighten the glass and use a small napkin on the box edge as he studied White. The man remained standing, half bowing over a woman’s hand before gesturing that she sit on the fourth seat, leaving one empty between the two of them. Another woman took the fifth seat, and both sat down as White turned partway towards the back of the theatre with a furrowed brow. Westbrook, however, remained in the aisle,
“He’s waiting for someone, the second informant if I had to guess,” Bond said, sitting down again as Eve tucked the handkerchief back into his jacket pocket. “We’ll need to use facial identification on the women, I haven’t seen either of them before,” he murmured to her, stuffing the soaked napkin in his trouser pocket before leaving his glass on the edge of the box again.
“I’ll get the pictures, you’ve already caused a bit of a stir by dumping your drink on those poor, innocent guests below us,” Eve said, standing up as though to fluff her dress out before pulling her shawl closer and pin the edges together. Bond leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as he tightened his fingers against his kneecap—I have to be careful, one mistake and it will take even longer to finish this old vendetta with Quantum and then return home to Q.
“Holy shit.”
Bond turned sharply to look at Eve, whose eyes had widened as she stared at something below in the main auditorium, shawl dangling loosely in her fingers. Not caring about maintaining covers, he leaned forward as well, snatching his martini glass in an attempt to create a backup excuse for anyone who pressed the matter.
Fucking…
Q stood in the aisle next to Westbrook, dressed impeccably in a dark navy suit that Bond remembered him purchasing for the date that would inevitably end with Bond’s marriage proposal. His color still seemed paler than Bond remembered—he fell ill a day after Eve and I left London—but he was nodding in response to something Westbrook was saying, Westbrook’s body turned so that Bond couldn’t see his mouth. Even if Bond hadn’t been staring at the Quartermaster’s profile, he would have recognized the mop of hair anywhere. He was vaguely aware of Eve tugging on his arm, his heart sinking in a numb horror, anger, hurt as he watched Q look away to reach into a pocket only to stop when Westbrook caught his arm. A few whispered words, and Q frowned and said something as he tried to tug free, only to give up when Westbrook’s grip tightened on his wrist. A moment’s hesitation, and he followed Westbrook down the row of seats, his face pinching briefly before he shook hands with White. He then sat down on White’s other side, turning briefly with a frown as his female neighbor tapped his shoulder, but didn’t say anything as he turned to face forward again, shoulders squared and spine straight.
No, no, no, not like Vesper. Not this, no, not him. Please not him. Why, Alex. Why would you do this, especially when you fucking knew about her?
“James!”
He turned to find Eve studying him with a frown as the lights began to dim. “James, it’s all right, there’s got to be an explanation, there has to be,” she whispered, voice breaking with a disbelief that he felt deep in his bones. “There has to be.”
Bond didn’t reply, momentarily too shocked to process anything. He bowed his head, closing his eyes as he briefly fought to regain his breathing and heart rate. Without another word, he reached up and pulled his earpiece out, hoping that R hadn’t heard Eve. God, are he and O’Reilly in on the gig as well, to cover up Q’s absence as an ‘illness’? He barely heard the minuscule crunch as he folded his fist over the earpiece, destroying the tech as he struggled to bring his temper back under control: Q, after all, had ordered him to kill White and the two informants, whomever they may be, and Bond would be damned if he left a mission unfinished.
I’ll get his confession before I kill him.
Bond settled back in his seat, watching the curtain began to rise for the second act. He feel the hurt easing as the resolve firmed in his chest, silently vowing that Q would be the last one he ever let get close to him ever again.