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Bond doesn’t see the world in terms of sexual divisions. At least not in the way that most of the rest of the world does. For him, the divisions are quite simple, really. He asks himself two questions: "Is this person someone I want to fuck?" and "Are the odds reasonably in my favor that I will succeed?" If the answer to both is yes, then it's all systems go. Age, gender, and societal convention enter into the negotiations little, if at all. Bond prefers real beauty, but will in an instant leave that standard for the merely conventionally pretty, especially if he gets information, weapons, or other useful commodities from the proceedings.
M was a yes to the first question, always and a resounding no to the second. He's a third through a bottle of good Scotch that Kincade sent with his condolences; neither the soda nor the glass made it beyond the desk in his temporary office; when he hears the door open. He ignores the intrusion, continues staring out over the city and drinking in long pulls from the bottle. A moment later, it's pried from his fingers and returned, slightly lighter. The scent that wafts over to him is familiar, a mix of gun oil, ozone, and earl grey.
He looks at Q and nods once, "Q".
"Bond." They don't shake hands. They've both come here directly from the funeral and there was far more touching; hugging and handshaking, comforting pats on the back; than necessary, wanted, or acceptable. Too many people knew how, and where, M had died. He didn't want their fucking compassion. That was not how to carry on. Q pulls another bottle out from beneath his jacket and sets it on the rooftop between them. The silence stretches until the scotch is empty. Bond hurls the bottle and it vaporizes into a rainbow of shards against the stairwell door. Three swallows into the next bottle, vodka this time, and Q speaks.
"She saved me, you know."
"She saved all of us. But she'd throw any one of us away without hesitation if it meant achieving the greater goal. That's what made her great." And so fucking, brilliantly gorgeous, Bond does not add. The true Iron lady keeping Britain safe.
"You're wrong, Bond. She hesitated with you. You were her favorite."
Bond laughs at this, a short, ugly bark. "Her favorite. Her favorites are all psychopaths and murderers." He thinks about himself, Silva, even Alec. "She would give her favorites up first." Because she knew they understood the job and didn't take it personally. Except that they did.
Q is silent after that until the second bottle's been wrung dry. Then he eloquently sends the vodka bottle to join the remains of the first. He does not throw like a girl. He puts his arm around Bond's shoulders as they scuff through the broken glass and through the door. He's barely staggering. Bond doesn't shrug the arm away as he's done so many times today. He can hear M in his head warning him to stay away from her quartermaster. But it's too late. Concerning Q, the answer to both questions is now decidedly yes. Mourning does not delete the rest of life's goings on. Not when you're M's favorite son.