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***
I’m coming home to you
Every night…
***
Q feels like he can feel James sometimes.
On the Tube, he’ll see someone in the crowd, a dove grey suit sleeve or a certain hairstyle in the right shade, and he can almost believe it was James, just passing by.
Perhaps he’s being cruel to himself, imagining that James is there, imagining that James Bond is anything more than a memory, an ideal that new double ohs hold themselves up to. Perhaps he’s just torturing himself.
Q doesn’t really care what the implications are. That vague belief is the only thing that keeps him going.
***
I’m the colorless sunrise
That’s never good enough
I’m the wind that’s in your hair
That ruffles you up
If you can find a reason
You can let me know
I won’t blame you
I’ll just turn and go
***
When Q gets up early, James is the sunlight pouring through the window in his bedroom. Walking alone at night, James is the wind ruffling his hair, just the way the man himself used to mess with Q’s hair, just because he knew how much it annoyed him.
Q had cursed him out numerous times for doing that. But now…now, he feels he’d give anything just to have James Bond pick on him again.
***
I’m coming home to you
Every night…
Coming home to you
Every night…
My mind is made up
Nothing could change that
I’m coming home to you
Every night…
***
It took James months to recover; he still doesn’t know who pulled him out of that ditch in the desert, who removed the bullet, who stitched up his lung. He woke up in a dirty hotel in Baghdad, with a few new scars and a recurring tightness in his chest.
But he woke up.
He’s in London, and he keeps an eye on his loved ones. Well…the people he can tolerate, mostly. Moneypenny is doing well, doing a desk job of all things, but she seems all right. M is managing.
It’s Q that he’s worried about. He doesn’t know how to show himself. He feels that in a way, his survival was a betrayal. Q watched him die – or, rather, listened. His composure surprised James. James had always insisted that Q was not to listen in on that, when the day came; he is more thankful than he can say that Q stayed on the line.
But now…now, he feels as if he’s betrayed the boy somehow, just by living.
He can’t face him.
***
Searching to find myself
But all I find is you
I can hardly stand myself
So what am I to you?
If you can find a reason
You could let me know
I won’t blame you
I’ll just turn and go
***
Q spends a lot of time in Internet cafés; it’s not for the wifi – he has absurdly fast fiber-optic at home – but just for the company. People who understand that if your headphones are on and you’re focusing on your screen, you are not to be spoken to.
One night Q glances over his shoulder and sees a familiar outline in the crowd. He is so sure, so sure of what he’s seen, that he nearly leaves his Aspire there on the counter. He grabs it, shoving things into his rucksack as he runs out the door.
He wants to call out, but somehow his voice is gone, and he’s mute, standing there, staring out into the crowd, as it starts to rain.
“James,” he breathes.
***
I’m coming home to you
Every night…
Coming home to you
Every night…
My mind is made up
Nothing could change that
I’m coming home to you
Every night…
***
Q can’t sleep that night.
He was so, so sure.
It was Bond. Nothing could convince him otherwise. It was James Bond, right there, fifteen damn feet away, and he missed him.
For probably the thirtieth time since it happened, he picks up his phone and dials James. He’s left messages sometimes; sometimes he just listens to the voicemail recording.
His heart nearly stops when someone picks up.
“Hello?”
“…James?”
Silence. A long, long silence, and neither of them knows what to say. Q pinches himself, does a reality check. He thinks he must be dreaming.
“James, you bastard,” he breathes. “Why didn’t you call?”
***
No matter, no matter
No matter what we’re facing
It don’t matter, don’t matter
‘Cause the reason that I’m here
Is the same through all these years
Not changing, not changing
Anything at all
***
James is at Q’s flat within ten minutes.
They can’t stop touching each other – not intimately, not at this moment, just touching, hands everywhere, each feeling that the other is about to disappear. Q pulls James down to the sofa, seals himself against him, holding him so tight it nearly hurts them both.
“How did you survive?” Q asks, resting his head against James’s neck.
“No bloody clue. Might never know. Don’t really care.”
Q pauses. “Why didn’t you come right away? It’s been months, James. You…you have no idea.”
James rubs his thumb over Q’s slender hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and it’s more honest than Bond usually sounds. “I…I felt I was betraying you, somehow. By living, I mean. You went through everything – you grieved, you mourned – hell, you listened to me die…”
“Bastard,” Q retorts, but he’s kissing James softly. “You’re not allowed to do this again; I hope you know that. You’re just not allowed.”
Q was expecting a snort or a chuckle or a snarky response, but James just shakes his head, cuddling Q closer. “No,” he says gently. “No more deaths, no more resurrections. From now on, I’m just coming home to you.”
Q is exhausted; it’s late, and he’s emotionally drained. He grabs the quilt he’s left on the sofa and pulls it over them both. “Every night?” he asks sleepily.
James hesitates, then nods.
“Every night, love.”
***
I’m coming home to you
Every night…
Coming home to you
Every night…
My mind is made up
Nothing could change that
I’m coming home to you
Every night…