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Q finds the photos in a drawer, a random mix of black and whites, which he casually shuffles through. He’s curious, intrigued by the sentiment they suggest. He has never known Bond to favour reminders or keepsakes. Let alone anything from his previous life.
It’s no surprise that he is still gawking when James strides through the door.
Bond pours himself a Scotch and swallows it whole. He comes to stand behind Q, arms circling his lover’s narrow waist to pull him close. He mouths the soft skin above Q’s shirt collar and peers over his shoulder.
“Found something you like?”
Q holds up a portrait of a younger James staring directly into the lens. He wonders who was behind the camera. Who had managed to quiet all that kinetic energy and distil it into soul.
He lifts the image towards to the light. It reminds him of the way James had looked at him…after he came back from Skyfall.
“This one.”
It dawns on Q then who must have taken the photos, who is the only other person to whom James had ever bared his soul. He half turns in his lover’s arms, whispers into the hollow of his throat. “Vesper had a gift.”
James takes the portrait carefully from Q and lays it face down on the bureau. “I know.”
Scribbled on the back are a date, and the name of that little boutique hotel in Venice. An affection to commemorate the day he had resigned. The day before the whole world had gone to hell.
He still grieves, but it’s an old wound now. He touches his forehead to Q’s, lifts the boy’s chin and kisses him as if he might devour him whole.
Bond has learned to believe in second chances. And this time he’s never letting go.
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