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The word around town had always been this: that James Bond was always gone by sunrise.
Of all the rumours about him, it was the one he lived with most easily, chiefly because it was true. He could count on one hand the number of sunrises he’d seen with someone beside him in bed. Those memories were buried deep; vaulted away, to be accessed alone at the bottom of a bottle.
Tangled up with Q, though, Bond had overslept. The sounds of London, muted through the window, were in full swing. The traffic whooshed and honked and beeped past, fogging up the city. Q slept on, oblivious. It was a Saturday; he was allowed.
Bond dressed himself in yesterday’s suit as quietly as he could. It as a slow process, slower than usual, because he’d suddenly remembered why he made it a rule to never make it to sunrise with anyone.
In the morning light, everyone looked beautiful.
Bond took in the day’s worth of stubble on Q’s chin, the unburdened slackness of his face, the rosy glow of his cheek. He looked ten years younger than he was; ten years younger than everyone Bond knew above ground. He could have been the boy sidling up to Bond on a gallery bench, drowned in his anorak, as cocksure and pretentious as any fresh Cambridge graduate.
But he was not that same boy. He was a man, made anew by too-long days and nights, chiseled into a new shape by failure and pain.
The terracotta sun from outside almost hid the nascent grey at his temples. It brightened the bags under his eyes. It smoothed over hid burgeoning crows feet. It caught at the edge of a sleepy frown where a drop of saliva was gathering, ready to fall to the pillow beneath.
All these years. All that pain. If Blofeld had been the author of Bond’s misfortune, had he been the same to Q?
Bond rolled up his tie and pocketed it. It was past time. He headed for the door.
But from behind him, Bond heard Q yawn. “What time is it?”
“Only five,” answered Bond. “Go back to sleep.”
“Mm. Always the early bird. I expected you to haunt my nights, not my mornings. It’s a bloody cruel hour you’ve chosen.”
It was the hour before tea. The hour of sleep in the corner of Q’s eyes, where his dreams and visions still lingered. He hadn’t rubbed them away yet. He wouldn’t while Bond was still here. After so long studying it, Bond knew that much about human nature.
“You could stay,” Q said kindly. Too kindly. He was as magnanimous today as he’d been angry and sullen yesterday. “You could always just stay.”
Bond smiled sadly. “You know I can’t.”
Q’s mouth twitched. It was a frown masquerading as a smile. Bond smelled the salt gathering behind Q’s eyes. “All right. See you tomorrow morning?”
“You should—”
“Tomorrow. Please.”
Bond wanted to tell him to let go, that this was madness, that nothing good came of chasing spectres. But letting go was a two way street and, in life, Bond had always been too selfish for his own good. In death — or whatever purgatory he inhabited now — he was no better.
“Tomorrow, then. Sweet dreams, Q.”
Bond turned and left the warmth of Q and the sun behind.