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Agents in the 00 digits rarely retired. The retirement package always looked so nice, but not many got to enjoy it. More often than not, they died on assignment when they grew too old or too slow. Jame Bond did not expect to be one of the lucky few.
He woke up too often in hospitals. He woke up too often in strange rooms, bleeding from wounds that would never properly heal. And he often felt as if the missions and the pain and the stress would be endless, continuing even after he laid down to rest for the final time.
And then, the missions became… well James would never dare to call them “easier”, but he often felt more prepared, more informed, than he had in the last decade or so. And he knew who was to blame for that – his eyes and ears in the system, who often complained but never left him out in the cold during a mission. Q.
He made sure James had everything he needed, and he was always on call to help during missions. To a scary degree, actually. But often, James didn’t need help. He went dark on missions often and preferred to go in quick and quiet – no time to call for backup.
Then it was limping his way home to lick his wounds – both mental and physical. Those long, monotonous train rides back to jolly old English lulled him into thinking they would never end. They often blurred together in his memory – riding home on trains on endless tracks, through endless tunnels and families with kids and announcements made so quick and over such bad PA systems that you had very little hope of understanding them. Those rides lulled him into stasis more than anything.
Maybe it would be better to stay on the trains, he often thought. Just relax in his seat and let the train take him somewhere new. Or never get off at all. Sometimes he wondered why he didn’t just set himself up as a train bum, never staying in one place, no ties to anyone.
And then the train would pull into the station, and he’d compose himself and step off onto the platform. And somewhere among the crowd, somewhere near the exit, another new addition to his life was waiting for him. After decades of returning home to an empty car, an empty flat, an empty heart – now James was often greeted at the station by the same person who pushed him to leave.
Q sometimes smiled to see him – and those were brilliant, warm days when the missions went off without issue. Mostly, Q met him with stony, deciphering stares that searched for injuries and judged any decision James had made without consulting Q that resulted in those injuries. But it was always nice to see him standing there in his comfortable cardigans and large glasses.
He looked cozy. He looked warm. He looked like safety.
“James,” Q greeted him with thinly veiled worry.
“Benjamin,” James teasingly replied.
Q pursed his lips. “That’s not even my real name,” he said, reaching for James’s bag to help carry the load.
Amused, James let him slip the bag from his shoulder. “It’s my favorite alias,” he said. “The only time you joined me in the field.”
Q flushed, likely remembering their daring jaunts through the city and the way James’s mouth had felt when they kissed for the first time. It had been for the mission, but it had led to so much more afterward.
“Fine. Call me whatever you want. Let’s get you to medical before you tear open that wound on your arm.” He turned and walked away.
James didn’t expect to live long enough to collect a pension, but more and more he was wondering if he even wanted to retire. Because having Q around to praise and nag him was actually lovely, and he didn’t know what that would look like if he wasn’t working.
He easily slipped his hand into Q’s free palm and linked their fingers together. Sometimes he wondered if Q left one hand open on purpose. Either way, James wanted to keep coming back to him, wanted to keep holding his hand, wanted to keep Q in his home and in his bed.
If those days were endless, James would regret none of it.