"...humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves."
-Plato, The Symposium
Part I, Act I
Skyfall burns to the ground and M is dead.
There is a procession, a funeral, and then a bone-deep sort of silence that falls over everything afterward. It pervades MI6 in the weeks that follow, only punctuated by the glances and whispers of colleagues and once-acquaintances: angry, accusatory words that only solidify the guilt in Bond's mind. He can hear them even when he returns to the privacy of his own flat, where the walls are light grey and bare and all of his things are still in boxes. The place smells of fresh paint and plaster dust and rain, because it has not stopped raining since she died. It makes him want to punch holes in the walls, but instead he sits in the dark and drinks and listens to traffic. The world is turning and people are moving, but Bond can only sit and look at that ugly old bulldog and think about how badly he failed her.
Bond does not want to admit that he feels lost without M. She was the one who brought him into the Double-Oh Programme, who had guided and screamed at him and ordered him dead. She also probably loved him in the same strange sort of way he loved her, which just makes it harder when he thinks about it long enough. With her death, there is a very real hole in him, much like the one Vesper left behind, and Bond tries to fill it with missions and violence and alcohol and fucking. But nothing seems to work, not permanently, and the hole does not go away. It just widens and widens and widens each day. It makes him feel tired in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with a life where there is nothing but ugliness because all of the good things die too fast and too soon.
So he takes mission after mission and picks up his gun and aims and shoots.
It's the only thing he's any good for now.
Part I, Act II
With M dead, MI6 feels somehow devoid of humanity.
Even though M could be a right bitch most of the time, she breathed life into the organisation like no one else, because she had a passion like no one else to prove everyone wrong and to get shit done. She was fire and poison and ice, but she did it all for Queen and Country. Bond respected her for that-still respected her even after she had him shot off a bloody bridge, still respects her even now that she's gone-and that is why it feels empty and wrong without her. The new M is not even close to touching her legacy. Mallory might not be a complete politician and can hold his own in a firefight, but he is not her and Bond will not call him M.
M was M and M will always be M in Bond's mind and no one can replace her.
So Bond goes through the motions. He was in the Navy; he knows how to show respect without actually giving it. And Bond knows that Mallory knows what he's doing, but he never calls him on it, not like M would, and maybe that is another reason why he doesn't respect him.
The new regime does not completely take over all at once. It happens in increments and every time Bond returns from one corner of the godforsaken planet or another, a few things are different, but in a manageable sort of way. Different forms, different debriefing procedures, more frequent use of the intranet, protocol for tagging weaponry and using it within the building, upgraded security badges, the list goes on and on. It irks Bond, even more so because it seems like no one else is bothered by all the changes. He wonders if it is just because he is an old warship who just cannot take new direction. He finds it hateful and believes that M is probably rolling over in her grave and so sometimes he goes out to the headstone and smokes a cigarette or three and remembers her. But he never brings flowers, because M would have hated that enough to send Bond off to Siberia for two months as punishment for going soft. The thought of it makes him laugh, but only when no one is watching.
Around him, the world is still moving and changing and it makes Bond feel dizzy and isolated, because it's like no one else notices or cares about what happened. He is struck by the thought that maybe he feels this way because M was the closest thing he had to a mother, to a friend.
That is not to say that Bond did not have friends before, or as close to the civilian definition of friends, anyway. After all, he and Tanner had always got on and while his relationship with Moneypenny was, and still is, a bit fucked up because of the whole take-the-bloody-shot business, they sometimes go out for coffee and talk about things that are not the weather or work, which is more than Bond does with anyone else at Six, which has to count for something. So Bond has more fingers on one hand than he does friends and there is a saying about that, though hell if he can remember what it is.
Then there is Q.
Bond cannot say for sure when his Quartermaster became more of a friend than not. He thinks about their first meeting and wonders if it had been then, when the boy had looked at him and smiled like he had a secret and all but challenged him with that voice that sounded like pure poetry. And then Bond wonders if it was the way Q trusted him after Silva escaped and helped him without question, even if that meant jeopardising his newly-acquired position. But perhaps it had been right after the events at Skyfall and M's death, when everyone else had been walking on eggshells around him and whispering cruel things behind his back when they thought he could not hear. Q was the only one who looked him right in the eyes when they spoke and who did not pity him. Instead, he had said I'm sorry about your car and made Bond laugh for the first time since that night in Scotland.
And Bond is drawn to him, to his peculiar angles and smiles and those eyes that make Bond think about storms and ocean waves and snow.
While MI6 is in transition, Q becomes a strange sort of comfort that feels as natural and familiar. Their relationship becomes ones of give and take, an ebb and flow, a perfect tempo and rhythm to a song Bond cannot remember ever hearing, but to which instinctively knows how to dance. And while Bond trusts Q more than anyone, the Quartermaster remains a mystery to him. He does not know his name or background or how he had been chosen for the position. His files are encrypted and inaccessible and the one time Bond asked, Q had just smiled that secretive smile and sent him on his way. Q is an enigma and he is still not-quite-beautiful, but Bond is intrigued regardless, just like he had been the day they met at the National Gallery.
Bond thinks that he might want Q in his bed, just for one night, just to take him apart and see what lies beneath everything. But then Bond realises how wrong it would be, because Q has his respect and his trust and is not a conquest. So, he flirts because that is what he is good at and breaks things just because he can and tries not to think about Q while lying in foreign hotel rooms across the globe.
He sometimes finds himself dreaming about grey-green eyes and pink lips and red, red flowers.
Part I, Act III
It is a Thursday during the first few weeks of spring when Bond runs into Q outside of the executive offices.
"Q," Bond says in greeting.
"007, welcome back," Q replies. He is the only one who ever sounds pleased when Bond returns. Unless there is broken equipment involved, of course. "I do hope you brought the car back in one piece."
Bond holds up the key hob in reply.
"Please don't tell me that's all that's left of it."
"Do you think so little of me?"
Q gives him a bored look and holds out his hand. Bond drops the key into his palm obediently.
"Thank you," he says, and continues on his way. Bond follows, catching up with him so that they are walking side-by-side. Q spares him half a glance and does not even look the slightest bit curious. "Don't you have debrief with Mallory?"
"Can't I visit with my favourite Quartermaster?" Bond asks, injecting a wounded tone into his voice.
"I'm your only Quartermaster. No one else will take you because you're too much trouble," Q replies dryly, though Bond can see that the compliment has hit its mark; the tips of his ears are red.
"Be honest, Q. You'd be bored to tears without me," Bond says.
"I suppose so," Q allows, as he pushes the button to call the lift. "Though I might actually fall in budget if you weren't my responsibility."
"You love it," Bond says, grinning. He watches as Q turns his head away from him, but he still catches the glimpse of a smile and something that Bond thinks might be the word incorrigible under his breath. The doors open and they step inside. Bond selects their desired floor. As the doors are closing, Q turns to him, fixes those grey eyes on him and asks:
"Would you like to go to dinner with me?"
He asks it with his usual tone: that confident, lyrical way of speaking that is uniquely Q and no one else. For once, Bond does not know what to say, because as much as he is curious, he knows it is a bad idea. Bond usually makes it a rule of thumb to keep his affairs within MI6 limited to the staff that he does not interact with on a daily basis, just to avoid awkwardness. And even though he wants Q in a way that might be sexual, Bond is not entirely sure if it is, because he still cannot help but think that his Quartermaster is nothing more than sharp angles and lines and bones, and that there is certainly nothing attractive about him despite the fact that something is. Bond feels compelled and he wants, but he's not quite sure why.
"I don't think...that's a good idea," Bond says eventually.
"Why not?" Q asks, and does not sound offended, just curious.
"It just isn't," Bond says.
"Is it because I'm a man?"
Bond is not a stranger to sex-it is hard to be anything but intimately familiar with it in his line of work-and he has had his fair share of affairs both on the clock and off with men and women. Although he has a preference for the fairer sex, Bond can appreciate men all the same, though he is much more selective when choosing a male partner. Q is not someone he would have looked twice at, but Bond did and somehow keeps looking. It must have everything to do with Q's alluring voice and his storm-grey eyes and his pale fingers; Q is Bond's exception. That has to be it, because Q is definitely not his type, and yet, he is constantly infiltrating his thoughts at every turn and making Bond want in a way that very few people have made him yearn before. That's when Bond realises how dangerous it is, because Vesper had been that way, too, and people like her and Q were the types who ruined people like Bond.
"No."
Q studies him a moment, and then something clears in his expression, as if he just stumbled across the answer to a troublesome problem.
"Is it because we work together?" he asks.
"Yes," Bond says, because it's easier than saying everything else.
"It's just dinner," Q says.
"It's never just dinner," Bond replies.
Q cocks his head to the side.
"Well, you're right. I was hoping to have sex with you after."
Bond does not know how to control his expression at that confession, though he's pretty sure that he manages something akin to stoicism. Inside, however, he's reeling. After all, Bond is used to the world of professional espionage, where people wear masks atop of masks and do nothing but utter lies and half-truths. Because of this, he cannot react with his usual finesse, and he only manages to get one utterance out of his suddenly-dry throat.
"Oh."
Q raises an eyebrow at his response.
"I'm sorry," he says and sounds it. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You didn't," Bond says, lies. He does not know what to make of Q and does not know what he wants from him. The thought of bringing him to bed is intoxicating in a way that does not make sense, but Bond has enough of it to know that it is not a good idea.
"Good," Q says, as the lift begins to slow. "I hope this won't interfere with our working relationship."
"No," Bond says, as the doors open.
"Good," Q says again, and steps out, not even looking back at Bond as he adds: "Until next time, 007."
Bond feels a tug, like he is supposed to follow, but he does not.
Instead, he takes the lift back up to the executive offices and debriefs. After that, he bypasses Q-Branch and goes back to his flat, where he showers, shaves, and dresses impeccably. He then goes to one of the classier bars he sometimes frequents when he is back on English soil and drinks until he finds a suitable partner. She has dark hair and green eyes and kisses like a punch to the mouth. It is enough to make Bond forget the feeling of regret in his gut, like he had missed out on something incredibly important.
They go back to her place and the sex is good and distracting. But even the sight of her under him is not not as satisfactory as he thought, not when he finally acknowledges that she looks too much like Q, but isn't him at all. It is only afterward that Bond finds himself wishing he had accepted Q's offer, though he hates himself because he does not know why. Q is definitely not beautiful, but Q makes him laugh and challenges him and is not afraid to dress him down for insubordination and Bond respects him so much that it's maddening. He wants Q, yes, but not just physically and that realisation is a little bit more than he wants to confront at that moment.
As he leaves the woman's flat for his car, reeking of sex and alcohol, he can only think that it's better he did not accept, because Bond's a cruel, self-centred man, and that will never change.
Part I, Act IV
The next time he sees Q, it is at work.
They both happen to be walking down the same corridor in opposite directions, but Q is looking down at a tablet and not paying any mind to the world around him. It is cowardly, but Bond thinks about dashing into the nearest office to hide. Instead, he continues walking. They are just about to pass by one another when Q glances up and holds Bond with a stare. His eyes are dark grey, like ocean skies before a storm, like brushed steel, and Bond knows that if he were a lesser person, he might have flinched.
"Oh, good, 007, just who I needed to see," Q says, his voice and expression nothing but professional. "Mallory needs you in his office. You're off to Borneo this afternoon. Stop by the branch for your kit after you've been briefed."
Q does not give him a chance to say anything. He gives the information and then is gone just as quickly. Again, Bond feels that tug, hard from under his ribs, telling him to follow, but he goes to his meeting with Mallory instead. Afterward, he takes up the folder with his assignment and hops the lift down to Q-Branch. One of the minions directs him to R, who has his kit prepared. She is just lecturing him on the proper use of one gadget or another when Bond interrupts her.
"Where's Q?"
"Busy," R says shortly, and continues on with her explanation.
Once she gives up the kit, Bond goes straight to Q's office. The door is closed, but not locked, and Bond goes inside.
It is empty.
Bond feels annoyed, suddenly, at Q's absence. Where else would he be? Bond stands at the threshold and taps the folder with his boarding passes against his thigh, debating how to proceed. It is hard when he himself does not know exactly what he wants or why he wants it.
He comes into the office and walks about the small space. There is a desk with two computer monitors, a drafting table, a few filing cabinets, and one large window, which overlooks the bullpen. It is kept as neat and tidy as a Quartermaster can manage, especially after the merger of TSS and R&D under the same division. Bond sees at least six different projects laid out and the paperwork for a good dozen more on the drafting table alone. The majority of projects in their design phases are for the Double-Oh Programme. Bond recognises the designating number from R&D at the top of a nearby pile. Bond snoops a bit more, moving from the table to Q's desk. The area is clean and there are specific incoming and outgoing trays with heaps of paperwork in both. At the far end, there is an anti-static mat with what appears to be the remains of a mobile phone. Tools lay neatly in a multi-pocketed sheath nearby. But what Bond notices immediately is that there is very little personality to the space. There are no photographs or personal effects, save for Q's Scrabble mug sitting just to the left of the keyboard.
And then, he sees it: a book hiding beneath a thick A/R report.
Bond slides it out from under the report and picks it up. It has a tatted red cover and spine and the pages are yellow-brown with age. It smells old when Bond brings it closer to read the title: The Symposium by Plato. Bond feels his eyebrows raise, because Q does not seem the type to read hard copy books, let alone one on Ancient Grecian philosophy. He is just about to investigate the contents when he hears Q approaching.
The other man seems only barely-surprised to see him.
"Please do not touch my things," he says primly, and Bond puts down the book atop the report. Q walks around him to the other side of his desk, drops the folders and tablet he had been carrying and then sits down in front of his computer. He reaches for his tea and then looks at Bond.
"Is there anything else you need? Or did you just come to bother me?" he asks. His eyes are piercing and unyielding and Bond feels ashamed for some reason. He looks down at the desk, at the book that rests between them.
"The Symposium," he says.
"Yes, what of it?" Q asks.
"Nothing, just doesn't seem like your cup of tea," Bond replies.
"Do you know what it's about?" Q asks, with something like a challenge in his voice, in the small smirk upon his lips. Bond imagines kissing him and wonders what he tastes like.
"I don't have to. Definitely not what I expected, Quartermaster."
"You'd be surprised to know that I do have varied tastes, 007."
There is something in his words that Bond can easily translate, but he does not. Instead, Bond picks up the book and flips through it. There are pencil marks under some pages, as if the copy has been well-used and often consulted.
"Is it any good?"
Q gives him a look.
"I don't think it's your cup of tea," he says, but the challenge is there again.
"Would you mind if I borrowed it? For the plane ride?" Bond asks.
It seems that Q might deny him, but then his expression softens just a bit and he nods once.
"Yes, but please try to bring it back. I do love this copy," Q says.
"Don't you have a digital one?" Bond asks, as he tucks the book under his arm.
Something almost wistful graces Q's expression, softening the sharp angles of his face so that he looks human and touchable for the first time that Bond can remember. It lasts the span of a second, and then it is gone, like throwing a shutter up on a bright day to cast a room back into darkness.
"It's not the same," Q says, and then looks at Bond with something like amusement. "But then again, I always have had a soft spot for relics of a more traditional age."
Bond knows that it is aimed at him, but not as a barb, and Q is smiling that secretive smile that has slowly been driving Bond mad.
"I'll make sure to bring it back," Bond says, because for a second time, Q has left him unable to form a witty reply.
"Good," Q says, looking at his computer. "Now, go, before you miss your flight."
Bond turns to leave and is just about out the door when he hears Q add:
"And try not to die, Bond."
"Why? Would you miss me?" Bond asks, and tries to get a good look at Q, but he's hiding behind his monitor.
"Just hoping that you'll spare me the paperwork, 007."
"Of course, Quartermaster."
Part I, Act V
Bond completes the mission in record time and without even coming close to dying. It's rather uneventful, and, if Bond is completely honest, dreadfully boring. At the end of it, he debates staying the extra night at the hotel so that he can find a lonely married woman to take to bed, because it's big enough for three and it is a shame to have it all to himself. But then Bond decides to go on standby for the next flight back to London and sits at the airport with the stupid red book that's been in his carry-on since he arrived. On the flight over, he had been too busy reading about his target and his cover identity to pick up the volume and now its weighing heavily on his shoulder and his mind. He stops at one of the terminal cafes, where he drinks weak coffee and picks at a bland pastry as he opens the book and begins to read.
It is definitely not his cup of tea.
Although Bond is by no means stupid, the language is a bit difficult to understand. He forces his way through the first few pages, taking note of where Q has underlined certain passages or dog-eared the corners. There are no notes in the margins, but seeing where Q has bracketed some parts and put asterisks in others somehow serves as a sort of guidance. The language slowly becomes more familiar, as if Bond can hear a rhythm in his head, but not in English, like the translation before him, but something else entirely. He hears a nonexistent, but distinct roll of waves and smells the salt of the sea mixed with something sweet, like fruits, like oranges, and tastes them on his tongue.
Bond stops and looks at his coffee accusingly, and the spell is broken. The words become a bit more difficult, and Bond has to focus on recapturing that flow from before. He reads slowly, savouring the words, reading again and again the underlined passages, trying to understand why Q loves the work so much. And then he finds a circled paragraph which reads:
"...humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves..."
It resonates somewhere inside of him, like a half-remembered dream, and Bond grasps for its meaning, but falls just short of touching it.
The PA system blares overhead, distracting him fully as it announces his flight. It calls for passengers to assemble at the gate, so Bond packs his things, bins his rubbish, and goes to wait. There is an open seat-not first class, but Bond cannot argue-and he takes it. When the wheels pull up and has a drink in his right hand and they are forty-thousand feet in the air, Bond takes out the book again. He reads without struggle, taking the encomiums to Eros about love between men and the beauty and pain of it. His fingers trace over the underlined words, following worn paths where a thumb has passed over the page again and again on specific passages. Bond imagines Q holding the book in his hand, caressing the text like a lover and wonders what it would be like to have Q touch him that way.
It's wrong, he tells himself, blaming the book and his already confused jumble of feelings. He should stop, because he and Q will never work, because Bond is selfish and cruel and will ultimately destroy everything. But then Bond envisions Q spread out on the smooth sheets of his bed, smiling that secretive smile and imagining kissing those soft lips makes him tremble like no other partner has made him tremble before.
His mouth is dry. He orders another drink and puts the book away and pretends to sleep for the rest of the flight.
He doesn't.
Part I, Act VI
It is evening when he arrives in London and far, far past normal business hours, but Bond goes to MI6 anyway, because he knows that Q will be there.
When he arrives, the place is quiet as a tomb and dark, with only the emergency lights up to keep the night crew company. The few souls about are dull-eyed and tired and do not look at Bond as he makes his way to Q-Branch. The techs do not even glance up when he enters, walks past them on the floor, and goes straight to Q's office. His Quartermaster is, as he predicted, at his desk, working on something with intense concentration. The only light in the room is from the table lamp, a modern thing that puts out a contradictory low lumen glow.
"Welcome back, 007," he says, not pausing in his typing. "You're earlier than expected."
"It's better than being late."
"Or bleeding and near death. I do hope that this will be a recurring trend. It's always good to have you back in one piece."
Bond remembers the words from the book, about how humans were originally one being and then split into two separate bodies, separate pieces, and there's something like ash on his tongue at the thought of it. He wonders why, because he's never thought about such things before, about how people are stumbling around and searching, always searching for the person that makes them complete. What if that person is already gone? Or the two people never meet? Or they do meet and then one of them dies? Then what? What is it all for? Bond frowns at himself. It's not like him to think like this. It's rubbish, all the philosophy and the poetic odes to love and devotion and the entire business of soulmates. Bond pulls the book from his luggage bag and places it down on the desk where he had found it a week prior.
"How did you like it?" Q asks.
"It was intriguing," Bond says.
"Is that a nice way of saying you didn't like it?" Q asks. Bond cannot see his eyes, only the reflection of the light of his screen upon the lenses of his glasses.
"No, it means that I thought it was intriguing," Bond says.
"Why is that?"
"It's about love."
"Do you not believe in love?"
Q asks it like they are discussing the weather.
"Not really," Bond says, and suddenly feels uncomfortable with the course of conversation. And yet something compels him to ask: "Do you?"
"Yes."
"You're a romantic."
"You could say that."
"I have to say, I didn't expect it."
"No," Q says, and smiles a small smile. "You wouldn't, would you?"
It's not a question.
"It's getting late," Q says, after a lull, and begins to click at a few things on his computer. "We should both go home."
"To yours or mine?" Bond asks, before he can think about what he's saying. Q gives him a hard look as he stands up from his chair.
"Don't be cruel," he says coldly, and begins packing up his belongings.
"I'm not," Bond replies.
"You are. And if you ever think to do it again, I'll have you reassigned to another handler," Q says. For the first time, Bond cannot hear poetry in his voice, only hurt, and it is then that he realises how badly he has wounded Q with his rejection, then his shallow flirting. It pulls something tight, taut across his heart.
"I'm not," Bond says again, with nothing but gentleness and honesty. "Let's have dinner."
Q pulls on his coat and slings his bag over his shoulder, walking round the side of his desk so that they are standing with nothing between them. Then he looks up at Bond through his lashes and his eyes are beautifully dark.
"I'm not hungry," he says, and there are all sorts of implications in his tone. Bond leans in and watches as the last vestiges of grey are engulfed by his pupils.
"Neither am I," Bond says, and kisses him.
And never in all his life did something feel so perfect.
