For the sake of this story, a certain death which occurred during Skyfall didn't happen, but nearly did.
She had been away for nearly two months recovering,- they had said that she could have as long as she liked to recuperate but the mere implication that they were purposefully trying to keep her away had been enough to ensure a determined recovery- she had been back for ten minutes and already she had managed to irk him. Well, not so much irk as baffle him. But perhaps it was his fault. After all, it was him alone who had supposed that things might have changed between them, ever so slightly, given everything that had happened. Thinking she was going to die, thinking that she was dying before his eyes, he had taken her in his arms, held her and kissed her. Perhaps he was wrong in supposing that that constituted something fairly momentous between two people.
Clearly, it was entirely ordinary to M. The way she was behaving, you would have thought that they perhaps bumped into each other outside of work or nodded to one another on the stairs. She was maddening composed and impersonal. And dressed entirely in white, a matching thick silk scarf draped as a shawl over shoulders and the natural light in her restored office gleaming over her soft-looking- well, he knew it was soft now- hair completed the impression. Almost as if she had died, her appearance was angelic; until, that is, she looked up from her desk and the revealed the old look in her eye, the vaguely warped mixture of cold removal and the devil incarnate. Yes, she was the same as ever. Not a touch softer.
She clicked the lid back onto her pen and settled it with precise neatness in line with the her paper, looking at him as if only just noticing his presence.
"Well, 007," she addressed him as crisply as he remembered, making him almost feel as if he was the one who had been on a two month leave of absence and that she had been here all of the time, "It's good to see you again."
He inclined his head slightly, knowing there was not much else he could say to that. He might as well accept it without question or anything that could be construed as rebuff; it might be the most fully-formed complement that M ever paid him.
"And I must admit, Bond, there were times when I thought I wouldn't get the chance to. See you again, that is. And that it's largely, well it's all down to you, really, that I'm able to now."
Perhaps it was just the light, but looking up at her, he could have sworn that she looked that hint softer that he had missed before. She was almost smiling, even. Almost, but not quite. As much as she ever did at him.
He felt himself smile too, almost laugh even. It was absurd that he should feel like this now, at the height of proof that she ultimately what she felt for him was at best professional, at worst dismissive. Either that or she had great- great in the sense of astronomical- difficulties acknowledging her feelings. Well, she was a spy. And so was he. And I knew only that when he had held her in what little remained of the cold skeleton of his childhood, when he had thought she was dying, he had felt the most piercing, burning sensation of loss, everything eclipsed, as if he was dying there with her. This woman who could be so cruel, so merciless, so brutally beautiful and unwittingly tender in her weaker moments was leaving him and in his soul he could not bear it. The feeling had haunted him ever since he had kissed her. He had never kissed anyone as wholly, wanted to convey so much to them through silent lips as he had tried to in that moment.
She watched him.
"Have I said something amusing, Bond?" she wanted to know.
He cleared his throat.
"No, Ma'am. Will you require a formal debriefing about the mission at Skyfall?"
"I hardly think that will be necessary, I was there if you remember, and we were supposed to be under the radar."
He nodded curtly. He was rather glad she had said no, if he was honest. Too much talking about it might lead to inadvertent admissions on his part, and if she didn't want to ask him questions, he certainly wasn't going to volunteer answers. He got up prepared to leave.
"007?"
"Yes, Ma'am?"
"One thing has been puzzling me."
"About what happened at Skyfall?"
"Yes."
"And what would that be, Ma'am?"
"Oh, I think you know."
He felt his ears glow a little red, but kept his countenance, raising his eyebrows, inviting her to go on.
"Do you always kiss the women who die in your arms?"
And she could be unprecedentedly blunt at times.
"Not always," he admitted, "Generally."
He wondered if that was a flicker of disappointment in her eye, but given her next question he concluded that it wasn't.
"Why?" she asked, testily.
"Well," he shrugged his shoulders, his hands in his pockets, "That rather depends on the woman."
She snorted audibly.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Bond," she told him, unable to suppress a smile, "It just doesn't sound very much like you, that's all. If you don't mind my saying."
Well, he did mind. He imagined it showed in his face too, but he didn't care. He had destroyed his childhood home for her, ungrateful bitch, it didn't matter that he detested it, it was the first place he had known. He had risked his life to save her without so much as a second thought, he had tried to make what he thought were her last moments on earth bearable. And ever since, he had been haunted by images of her, her hand holding tightly to his jacket for comfort, looking into his eyes and trying to remain conscious, lying in hospital partly conscious, squeezing her hand around his fingers, and trying to tell himself that what he felt for her wasn't love of any sort, let alone the sort of love he felt might finally complete him. He loved her, and she was laughing at him.
It had showed in his face, and she had noticed.
"I'm sorry, Bond," she told him, sounding sincere, "I just wanted to know and I'm too shy to ask," now, he suspected, she wasn't being quite as sincere, "Why did you hold me like that?"
Suddenly, the toes of his shoes became very interesting.
"Why did you kiss me?"
He looked at her quite timidly.
"I didn't want you to die alone," he confessed, "I didn't want you to feel you were dying lonely."
"I knew I wasn't," she told him, almost briskly "You had just fought for my life. I couldn't have felt alone if I'd tried. But it was kind of you, Bond, all the same. To kiss me, that is."
And she smiled at him. He wanted to smile back, but he couldn't. It, along with any kind of coherent response, seemed to catch in his throat.
So he leant his weight over her narrow desk to where she sat and kissed her again, on the lips. She did not respond, but nor did she attempt to push him away.
He leant back and she looked down, as if examining the spot where he had kissed her.
"Why did you kiss me then?" she asked, her puzzlement barely disguised.
"Because I don't want you to have to live alone either."
"Oh, Bond."
It seemed that he had almost struck her dumb. Well, that was one thing at any rate.
But there was nothing else he could think of to say either, he had lain himself completely bare before her, his heart on his sleeves, with that one action, that one confession.
"Just think about it," he told her, making to leave, "Please think about it."
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