"You sleep pretty sound for a goddamned spy," Felix says; the sound of his voice touches the edges of Bond's consciousness, and drags him out of slumber. "Get up, you moron." An elbow prods lightly against Bond's back.
"I'm up," Bond says, pulling himself up, and then he groans, pain spiking through his forehead.
"You fucking alcoholic," Felix says cheerfully, and he offers Bond a glass of water. "I gotta go to Legoland in an hour to see M. You have to go in today?"
He drinks quickly, the water moistening his tongue and throat and mouth. He narrows his eyes to the sharp sunlight streaming in through one of the hotel room windows. "Not today," Bond says. "You want me to come with you?"
"I'm a big boy, James." Felix rolls his eyes, but after a second, he shrugs and says, "You can do whatever you like."
"I want to see her grave," Bond says. "Do you." A pregnant pause.
"Sure." Easy as that. Felix takes the empty glass from Bond's hand, puts it on the bedside table; he doesn't look directly at Bond, but there's something reassuring about his presence, something solid and certain.
"All right," he says. He falls back against the bed, yesterday's crumpled suit sticking to his skin, his forehead still pounding. "Go, then. I'll see you at lunch, after your appointment. I'll text you the restaurant's address."
Felix stands. He's already dressed, all signs of last night's drunkenness gone from his body language. "Happy recovery," Felix calls, before the door shuts.
Bond snorts, and goes back to sleep.
"Roses, James?"
Bond turns his gaze away from a menu, and finds Felix pointing to the bouquet on the table. "I asked the florist. He said that they represent mourning. Or something like that. I don't know."
"The red ones, yeah, I think. Never saw you as someone who gave out flowers." Felix takes a seat across from Bond.
"It's traditional," Bond says wryly. "I thought it'd be weird if I just went empty-handed. If Tanner or one of her kids were there. And."
-respect. That's what it was, even if M might laugh at him if she was still alive, saying that he didn't owe her anything; if she were to miraculously appear and chastise him, he'd respond, You gave me the dog, ma'am.
(You gave me England.)
"My mom taught me lilies," Felix says. He's studying Bond's expression carefully. Bond merely stares back, neutral. "White lilies. But roses work just as well."
"Yeah," Bond says, letting out a low breath. "How did it go? What did you think of Mallory?"
Felix relaxes his gaze at the mention of Mallory, opening the menu on the table. "Competent. Capable. Old soldier type of guy, kinda like you."
"He's a good man," Bond says. It's a bit of a concession - but everything feels almost back to normal, to be honest, and Mallory's definitely got a good head on him. "You meet the new Q?"
"That snotty brat? Yes. I swear, he's been poking through your file, or noticed that I've been - ah, sniffing around MI6 sometimes to see how you're doing - because he looked at me funny. MI6 is just getting younger and younger, isn't it?"
"Brave new world," Bond echoes.
"Hear, hear," Felix mutters, the corners of his eyes crinkling with an unidentifiable expression. "But the boy seems quite competent himself. M seems sure of that, anyway."
Bond says, "He saved my life a few times."
"So did I," Felix says, grinning. "Like you were rhapsodising about last night. Now, hey, where's the waiter?"
It's nothing overly dramatic. Bond drops the roses down by the headstone, touching the indent of the letter M with the tips of his fingers. Felix watches him, his hands shoved in his pockets. When Bond gets up, Felix says, "Ready?"
"I think," Bond says. He starts walking away, but then he sees Felix still by the grave, putting a hand out. A brief salute. Bond smiles, just a little bit, and he says, "C'mon, then."
They stride back to Felix's rented car; by unspoken agreement, Felix takes the driver's seat. Bond sits beside him, shotgun. The car smells like air freshener, heavy and fruity - must've been the dealer who hung the thing - and Bond breathes slowly, fighting off the sudden nausea that overcomes his senses. He shudders; he doesn't know why, but he feels so terribly, horribly sick.
"What the hell, James," Felix says, quietly, catching sight of his eyes. "You're-"
"Fine," Bond says sharply. Irrationally, he finds himself thinking: you're going to be next, aren't you? He thinks of a man he killed with oil in the desert, saying: Everything he touches withers and dies.
Bond runs a hand through his hair, and wills the nausea away. Felix can take care of himself. Bond - Bond can watch out for him, too. And it's not as if they're on a mission together. There's no threat. (Although there always is.)
He reaches for Felix. One of his hands trace the rough stubble along the shape of Felix's cheeks, and he doesn't pull his gaze away from Felix's. "You think I feel feverish?" he says, his voice pitched low, as if it's stuck deep in his chest. "Must've caught something from - drowning, almost." He feels Felix smile under his fingers.
"Maybe," Felix says. His arms fall away from the steering wheel. They sit in silence for a long, long time.
"You're still here," Bond says. "I thought you left yesterday."
Felix is smoking a cigar outside the SIS building, the cloud a heavy halo around his face. He exhales, and Bond can practically taste smoke on his tongue. "Yes."
"The CIA told you to stay longer."
"No."
Bond doesn't know how to reply to this, besides with a crook of his eyebrow. He stands there, waiting for the explanation.
"I quit," Felix says. "Thought I'd say something about being relegated to an errand boy."
"You quit," Bond repeats. And over the phone, too, probably, he thinks, and for some reason he finds it dreadfully hilarious.
"Yeah," Felix says with shaky half-laughter. He coughs around his cigar. "Jesus, James. I've these damned limbs; they can't trust me with any real missions any more. So it's desk work. Making nice with other agencies. I don't." Felix stops. "Can't put up with this shit," he says eventually, flicking his cigar onto the pavement.
His eyes, Bond notices, are watering from the smoke, almost red.
Bond closes his own eyes for a second in momentary silence; he opens them, and nods. "All right. What are you going to do?"
Felix crushes the cigar under his foot. (The one that's real.) "A detective. Private. Freelance. Something like that." He doesn't ask Bond to come along with him.
"Good luck," Bond says.
"Thanks."
"Let's go drinking again," Bond says, and forces a semblance of a smile on his face. "I know a good pub. Better than the one we were in that other night." He shifts an arm around Felix's shoulders briefly, brings their bodies close, and then Felix laughs when Bond steals one of his cigars. Felix lights it for him, holds it up to Bond's mouth. Bond thinks that his hands feel cool.
