She dreams of him
She dreams of him. She doesn't mean to, but he edges into them, tormenting her with his presence. With every inhalation he's there, a presence on the circumference of her awareness. She reaches out to him, but he mutely shakes his head and ventures further out of her grasp. She tries to plead with him, but still he ventures further back, still with that same sad shake of his head. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he realise how much that she…
How much she…
The words won't form, even in the dream. She's too afraid to face the truth. And in that moment of realisation, the ground crumbles beneath her feet and she's falling, falling, always falling.
She's awake once more, the satin clinging to her sweat drenched skin. Drawing a hand over her face she's terrified to see it shaking, her fingers moving in a trembling dance of panic. Throwing back the covers, she kicks them away from her feet, needed to reassure herself that he is still there, that he hasn't left her yet.
She needs him more than she would ever care to admit. It's wrong to have created this emotional attachment, she needs to remain professional, but she can't.
She can't bear the thought that he might have left her in the night. Without saying goodbye… without saying something, anything.
'James?' the word is whispered into the night, and she sees him, the moonlight flickering over his short blond hair. She flinches slightly at the sight, remembering the old wives tale about sleeping in the moonlight leading to madness. With a superstitious hand she draws the curtains closed with a regretful sigh. No longer illuminated in the harsh white light, she cannot see him as clearly, cannot make out the beautifully chiselled features, softened by a deep sleep.
This favouritism is wrong. If they knew, they would call her weak, call her a fool for loving him. But how could they understand this need? They would pollute this situation with their filthy minds and base desires.
In sleep, he seems finally at peace. Against her better judgement, she reaches down and smoothes one of the thick eyebrows with the very tip of her finger, gently caressing each individual hair back into a neat arch.
He catches her wrist in one strong hand. It takes all of her self control not to show how startled she is by the sudden movement, by the instant realisation that he is awake.
'You care. You surprise me,' he mumbles.
'Yes, I care,' she says tartly.
Slowly he opens his eyes, the brilliant blue sharp even in the dim light. He yawns, showing even teeth and pulls himself into a sitting position. His shoulders are hunched, defensive, and she can't deny the explosion of feelings within her. She wants to soothe, to pet, to fuss, to bring a smile to his face.
She cannot bear to see him so dejected. Even though she blames him entirely.
'Why?' he asks roughly.
'Why?' she's forgotten her words already, distracted by his very presence.
'Why do you care about me?'
She sighs. How can she even start to put it into words? How can she explain without him thinking her a raving obsessive?
'Because I can't not.'
He watches her distrustfully, as if waiting for a blow, and she wonders what lovers have hurt him in the past? What women have made promises they have failed to keep and forced him deeper into this protective shell? It makes her angry, cutting through her own defensive nature, provoking this primitive reaction.
Gently he pulls her down, so she's sitting next to him. She's acutely aware that there is nothing but a thin layer of satin against her skin, that underneath, she's naked. It doesn't matter. Whenever he looks at her, she feels as if he bores straight through her clothes, her body, to her soul beneath.
They sit in silence. And then she feels his arms around her, and she turns instinctively, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders, aware how small she is beside him. He rests his head on her breast and she pulls him closer, stroking his hair, murmuring nonsense to him.
'I'm…' he starts to speak, but stops, clamming up suddenly.
She says nothing, just waiting for him to either speak or to sink back into silence.
'The kills,' he says finally, his words muffled. 'They were too easy.'
She laughs. She doesn't mean to, but it burbles up from within her, escaping in a gleeful chuckle. He tenses in her arms.
'So?' she asks, not unkindly.
'Shouldn't I feel something?' he asks, and she hears a trace of the boy he had been once. Before his parents' death, before the harsh reality of the world he inhabited came crashing down upon him.
'Yes,' she whispers, 'pride. You did well, James. Better than I expected.'
'Is that why you promoted me?'
The spell is broken. She realises it instantly, and pulls away, getting to her feet as gracefully as she can. She wishes she had a dressing gown to pull around herself, but her own pride will have to do.
'You were ready, James. You always were resourceful. Your coming here tonight merely proves that.'
'But 00? So soon?'
'You won't let me down, will you, James?' she asks pointedly. Idly she picks up the Evening Standard newspaper with its damning headline from where she threw it early and hands it to him. 'You did what you had to do there, and you'll do it again.'
He stands, and offers her a mock salute. 'Yes, sir.'
M nods. 'You're learning, James. You'll do well.'
'Or face the consequences,' he smiles and slowly, she smiles back.
'Don't cross me, Bond. You won't win. I may have given you this opportunity but I can take it away just as quickly. Don't let me down.'
He's heartbreakingly earnest. 'I never could, sir.'
She passes him his jacket, half angry at herself for showing affection. 'Paradise Island, James. Your flight to Nassau leaves soon. I suggest you get to Heathrow as quickly as possible.'
He shrugs on his jacket, turns to leave. He pauses, then places his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to press his lips against her cheek.
'Just go, James,' she snaps. 'Don't draw this out anymore than it has been already.'
'Sir,' he's gone, hidden behind the lift doors.
M collapses to the sofa, still warm from his muscular body. She knows this affection is wrong, this desire to do well. She sees in James the same vulnerability she recognises in her son. A man who has lost his way. The boy hidden just beneath the surface. She has pushed and pushed for his promotion, knowing just how well 00 status will suit him.
It's not lust that drives her, but ambition. If he does well, it will reflect on her. She wants him to be the best, and she wants to be responsible for his success.
She will leave her mark on MI6. She will not be known as the Evil Queen of Numbers, but rather the woman who promoted James Bond to 007. And if that means letting him close to her, then she will let him. If it means letting him sleep at her apartment, then so be it. She admires him. She needs him as much as he needs her. Their relationship will never be easy, but she will be there for him.
She will never admit to herself how much she needs him.
Later, much later, he will come to her again, and she will hold that body as it shakes, wracked with sobs. She will be the only person who witnesses the moment that Bond loses it, and mourns Vesper Lynd.
She will protect him. Until the day he dies.