Work Text:
M thinks that Q goes to the graveyard too often, but she’s never been one to push her agents on how they ought to spend their time outside work. It’s not like she’s entirely over the loss either, but she’s also more used to it than the young Quartermaster. She’s lost agents before, and she knows it will happen again in the future.
But losing 007…it’s something that none of them ever expected.
Q walks into the graveyard with a book tucked under his arm. He walks slowly - as always, he’s doubting that he should even be here. The MI6 counselor, whom M had to threaten him into seeing, says that he needs to move on.
Moving on is something Q is just not ready to do.
He stops at the headstone. There are flowers lying there, and he guesses rightly that they were from M - despite all her chastising him for being there too often, he knows that she visits as well. He sits down on the ground, not caring about grass stains; this is where he needs to be right now.
“Hey James,” he says softly.
The silence is comfortable at this point, but bittersweet: it reminds him of the quiet moments they shared when Bond was still alive. Working in silence in Q Branch, or at home, Bond perhaps sipping a martini, Q usually with his nose in a book. Occasionally they’d look up, and their eyes would meet, and while no words were exchanged, there was communication. They had an understanding. Not perhaps an official relationship - no, they could never risk that - but they had an understanding, and somehow, to Q, at least, that seemed more significant.
“I miss you,” Q mutters. “I miss you so goddamn much. M does, too. We…I guess we never thought we’d lose you.” There’s a sad little smile on his face. “Guess everyone goes eventually.”
Why he’s here today, of all days - a work day, while MI6 is busy, with several agents out on missions and endless projects in the works - is something Q would never admit to anyone. It’s been thirteen months since James’ death, and of course, on the one-year anniversary, half of MI6 showed up with flowers. No; while this particular date is significant, it’s not something that anyone else would know about.
Q takes the book from under his arm and traces the cover. “Just brought a book,” he says. He doesn’t know why he speaks aloud; he just always has. Bond was someone he always felt he could talk to, and that was rare for him. He doesn’t see why that should change now.
“I’ve read it twice,” he continues. “It’s fascinating. Gödel, Escher, Bach. It’s a study of the connections between art, music, and math.” He chuckles to himself. “I think you’d tease me for it. But I thought you’d like it.”
Q carefully places the book over the grave, leaning it against the headstone. He’s brought other things over the past year. Newspaper clippings that Bond might have read if he were still here. Books, lots of them. Flowers. A candle at Christmas. He brings things that he would have shared with Bond if…if things had turned out differently.
“We miss you,” he repeats. “It’s hard without you. Damnit, James!” The tears are sudden, and they take him off guard. He pulls off his glasses and swipes at his eyes. “Fuck…how could you do this?” Q shakes his head, hands clenched in fists, knuckles white. “How? I…I don’t even know what to think anymore.”
The young Quartermaster hugs his knees to his chest, gangly limbs awkwardly wrapped up in a ball. He sits like that until the sobs subside, and when he’s caught his breath, he speaks again, softly.
“I know we never made things…official. We weren’t out to anyone. I think M knew, but no one else. But James, I…I kept track. Would’ve been five years today.”
Q presses a kiss to his fingers and touches them the headstone.
“Happy anniversary, James.”
-fin-