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She should have noticed sooner.
She should have noticed before James almost killed them.
But up to that point, it had been small moments, so easy to dismiss. Moments where James would no longer be with her, but Madeleine had chalked it up to him adjusting, having the time to finally sort through all the noise in his head. His occasional lapses into still silence seemed rather innocuous in the face of everything.
Until he froze behind the wheel on the Amalfi Coast, unresponsive to her panicked cries to stop the car as they neared a sharp curve. Just before they met the beautiful cerulean death that lay beyond the road barriers, Madeleine wrenched the emergency break and turned the wheel, bringing them to a lurching halt. Turning to James, adrenaline surging through her, Madeleine shook James for a distressingly long 37 seconds before he blinked and slumped in the seat.
“What the hell just happened?” Madeleine yelled, furiously frightened. But he turned to her, his eyes wide, looking for all the world like a lost child.
“I… I don’t know,” James said in a quiet voice that made her immediately stop, gently placing her hands on either side of his face.
‖‖ ♥ ‖‖
They found an apartment for sale, painted in the typical soft coral pink with dark green shutters. The kitchen was tiny but well-appointed with industrial-grade appliances, and to make up for that, there was a graciously sized balcony already filled with plants and a quaint bistro table. The bathroom was luxurious, and the bedroom lush. It was a lovely prison.
Madeleine was familiar with lovely prisons, being forced to take refuge in places whose beauty only highlighted her own lack of choice. The difference was, when she had been trapped in the gilded cages of her childhood home or the Hoffler Klinik, she had been alone. Now, she had James. She knows neither she nor James would have picked Salerno to settle in, but the San Giovanni di Dio e Ruggi d'Aragona hospital, with its ties to L’Università degli Studi di Salerno, offers exactly the care he needed while figuring out how to live with this new reality. Because once they knew what they were looking for, it was clear the seizures were happening daily, sometimes multiple times.
‖‖ ♥ ‖‖
The doctor ran a full panel of blood tests and a toxicology screen before sitting with them. James sat with an unaffected air, but Madeleine could see how his eyes darted around the room.
“What you are describing sounds like focal impaired awareness seizures, which used to be referred to as complex partial seizures,” the doctor said in his softly accented English. “When it comes to traumatic brain injuries, penetrating brain wounds have the highest risk of post-traumatic epilepsy.”
“But this only started recently, and that injury was three months ago,” Madeleine points out.
“Yes, a delay in onset isn’t actually that abnormal,” he explained, then turned to James and continued, “We need a copy of your medical records. I’d like to order an electroencephalogram, though you should be aware that with this type of seizure, there will need to be an event for the EEG to be definitive. I have to ask that you do not drive, Signore Bond.”
“For how long?” James said, eyebrows raised.
“Until we have a diagnosis. But please understand, you will likely need to refrain from driving after that until you have been without a seizure for 12 months.”
Madeleine watched James shut down. No one liked to lose their independence, but driving was more than that to James. It was both a skill set he had honed professionally, and a passion he enjoyed recreationally. There was already so much about 007 that he had left behind, or was trying to leave behind, but his love for the feeling of drifting around a hairpin curve was something that he had imagined he could keep.
On the walk back to the apartment, James does his best to appear relaxed, but his grip on her hand is almost desperate. They don’t speak until they are back in the kitchen, James nearly mindlessly prepping dinner.
“We will need to get your records. I don’t suppose you have kept a copy,” she says, but she already knows that was something far too forward-thinking for James to have bothered with. He shakes his head mutely.
“I can work on getting those transferred,” she offers. James looks relieved, and Madeleine smiles.
‖‖ ♥ ‖‖
Madeleine is adept at dealing with bureaucracy. She can be patient, cross the t’s and dot the i’s when it is the easiest way to accomplish your goals. But sometimes expediency requires a more direct method.
“Hello, Q.”
“Dr. Swann, to what do I owe the pleasure,” he answers in what she assumes is his best Quartermaster voice. They don’t know each other, though Madeleine has a sense that through James she has become more familiar with Q than the man would probably like, if he was aware.
“I hope you won’t be too offended that I am calling to ask a favour on behalf of James.”
“I’m afraid my contractual obligations to my agents end when they retire,” Q says in what Madeleine assumes was meant to be an impassive tone, but which betrays a sense of exhaustion.
“I know, and this isn’t about cars or exploding pens or whatever nonsense he hassled you for,” she says with a knowing fondness. “We need his medical records. Possibly help with ensuring access to those who have both expertise in traumatic brain injuries and the necessary clearances, if it comes to that.”
There is a long silence, and she can hear the man on the other end of the line shifting things around. It is late evening, and she imagines he is home or he would not have answered his personal number that James keeps programmed in his phone.
“Is he alright?” Q finally asks.
“He is safe,” Madeleine responds because it is the most honest answer she can give.
‖‖ ♥ ‖‖
It’s not about a cure, it’s about treatment. Medications. Dietary changes. The first medication makes him drowsy and causes him to have difficulties with his memory. Not his past life at MI6, that is still almost disturbingly clear, with his nearly eidetic recall for every minute detail of every mission. But the medicine impacts his short-term memory, meaning he has trouble storing any new information.
“I know I am lucky, I made it to retirement with my life and limbs. I know that people live with much worse,” he tells her the third time in one day he cannot find his reading glasses. He sounds angry, but Madeleine can see the way his eyes glisten.
“You are allowed to grieve, James.” She says this as much to herself as to him. Because Madeleine expected anger, she expected things thrown, caustic words casually slung at her when she tried to help. She didn’t expect him to seem so defeated.
Madeleine does her best to encourage James to make all the choices he can - picking the paint colours for their room (sage green) and deciding on which dietary regimen to try first (low glycemic index treatment). She doesn’t want him to ever feel as if she is coddling him in any way, because she truly is not.
‖‖ ♥ ‖‖
Q comes to visit. He drives, which surprises Madeleine, but James just chuckles.
“He hates flying,” James tells her.
“And yet he flew to Austria for you,” she says.
“He flew to Austria to bullocks me and save his job,” James clarifies. But he seems a bit chastened anyway.
Q arrives late on a Thursday evening, and immediately begins hauling in various electronic components and tools. He notes Madeleine’s perturbed expression and nods at the growing stack of equipment.
“If you and Bond will be here a while, I would feel better knowing you had the appropriate security measures.”
James makes parmigiana di melanzane and a large salad, and pours Q and Madeleine generous glasses of Taurasi wine. He himself has a very small glass, which Q notices but does not question. James answers anyway with a smile - “It doesn’t agree with my medication.”
He has a small seizure before dessert, and combined with the late hour and the effects of the new medication, he’s utterly shattered. Madeleine takes him to bed, tucks him in. She finds Q on the balcony when she returns. He hand rolls them each a cigarette and they smoke in silence. Eventually, Madeleine gets up to grab the wine bottle.
“When did this start?” Q asks.
“A month or so ago, we didn’t realize what was happening. Until he nearly killed us driving off the road into the sea.”
“Shit.” Q rolls another two cigarettes, his brows knit. When he hands Madeleine hers, he clears his throat.
“How are you doing, Dr. Swann?” It is the first time anyone has asked. Madeleine considers seriously before she answers.
“Fine, I think. It is hard, watching him struggle.”
“You are uniquely qualified to be a caretaker,” Q offers, “but it is always dangerous to mix business and pleasure. One could easily become quite burned out and resentful.”
Madeleine doesn’t have it in her to be offended. She actually finds that she is relieved to see how clearly someone else cares for James, her James.
“We both know it is not just the seizures. I am rather familiar with Bond’s mission reports and medical records. He wasn’t any more careful with his body than he was with my equipment. Let us just say there is likely a great deal of deferred maintenance that is likely to come calling.” Q giggles nervously at his own joke, then looks horrified. Which makes Madeleine burst into hearty laughter. Q shakes his head, and pours the last of the wine into her glass.
“You are a good friend, Q,” she says, leaning back in her chair.
“Yes, well, I hope to be a role model, because Bond is an awful friend. I never even knew he could cook. I have been positively robbed. He could have been plying me with food like that all these years.”
‖‖ ♥ ‖‖
She wakes in the night to find James standing by the window, staring out over the city view.
“James?” she calls softly.
“This isn’t what I imagined,” he says. She can see the twitching of his jaw, but otherwise he is perfectly still. Madeleine sits up, tucking the duvet around herself and asks, “What did you imagine?”
James is silent for a long time. Madeleine waits.
“Nothing,” he confesses. “I star on the wall at MI6, a funeral no one attended. And nothing.” His hair is silver in the moonlight and she thinks of watching him turn grey and the lines in his face deepen. Of course James Bond, 007, never imagined he’d survive long enough to have to learn to live for himself. Suddenly she fiercely wants to ensure he does. James takes a shuddering breath, and Madeleine realizes he is crying. Freeing herself from the bed, she stands behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest, arms crossed and hands resting on his shoulders. She holds him tight, feeling the tremors through his body.
“I’m afraid that you’ll leave this place,” he whispers, “afraid that you’ll leave my side, and yet, I’m more afraid that you’ll remain here forever. You did not sign up for this, Madeleine. You don’t deserve this. It isn’t fair.”
This isn't fair, not to either of them, not really. What they had between them was still so new, a handful of months is hardly enough time to know someone. Madeleine isn't even sure yet if their romance has enough substance for longevity. What she does know is that passion alone is hardly enough to sustain a partnership. She had watched her parents dance along the knife’s edge between love and hate, and she promised herself not to learn those steps.
She thinks there are worse things to base a relationship on than understanding and respect.
She thinks that for two people who have never allowed themselves to rely on anyone, they have managed a surprising level of vulnerability so far.
She thinks that she could get used to rattling the bars of their lovely prison together.
For now, she simply says, “Fair is hardly a realistic expectation. Now, come to bed because you have obligations in the morning. Q is quite cross that you never made him your famous Complète Galette de Sarrasin.”