The day they read her will, Eve Moneypenny found him up on the rooftop looking out across the city of London. The Union flag flying a few buildings over ought to have been at half mast, James thought bitterly, for all she had done for her country. But M hadn't been a public figure. The legacy of her work at MI6 would remain widely unknown.
"She left you this," said Eve, holding out the dark grey box to him.
Bond hadn't expected a bequest from M and he took it with no small amount of surprise. He doubted any of her other agents had been so singled out and the gesture left him feeling both bemused and oddly touched. While he was in no danger of crying - he'd shed his tears for her in private - grief unexpectedly tightened his throat. He swallowed hard to ease its grip.
His gloved hand paused on the lid for a moment before he lifted it to reveal the box's contents. Then he understood.
She'd known full well his hatred of the Royal Doulton figure, and she'd cared enough to needle him with it just a little from beyond the grave. Bond smiled.
"Perhaps it was her way of telling you to take a desk job?" suggested Eve.
He shook his head. "Just the opposite."
M, with her posthumous GCMG and her full honours, was still calling the shots. Everyone in government knew the old joke about what those post-nominal letters stood for: 'God Calls Me God'. Bond didn't have to try hard to imagine that.
It made him feel better than he had done in days.
He took his inheritance home that night, to his new Chelsea flat with its boxes full of his pre-'death' effects. He hadn't had a chance to unpack anything yet. Or decorate. The place was the proverbial blank canvas, all magnolia walls and beige carpets. It was a boring strategy really, to help the seller achieve his exorbitant asking price, and never mind if it was effective. Bond was fairly itching to get the paint out.
He put the box down on top of another marked 'books' and removed the lid. The bulldog rested there impassively like a fat toad. It looked as grumpy as he sometimes felt, carrying the weight of England on its back.
James poured himself a drink, then lifted it from its box and eyed it critically. Her office had been blown to smithereens killing 8 in the process and there wasn't a scratch on it. How was that even possible?
He clinked his heavy glass roughly against the dog's nose in a toast to M. The glaze remained resolutely unchipped. Damned English craftsmanship. He took a large gulp of Scotch. What the hell was he going to do with this bloody thing?
It wasn't like the unwanted Christmas present you could surreptitiously pass on for someone else's birthday. He also doubted he'd be able to donate it to a charity shop or flog it at auction. If he could he'd take the proceeds from whoever was daft enough to spend money on such an awful object and buy himself a few drinks.
What would M say, he wondered? Probably something along the lines of 'Well if you don't want it 007, then don't feel obliged to keep it'. But it was what went unsaid, rather than the seemingly uncaring, annoyingly matter-of-fact words themselves, that he couldn't navigate his way around. She may be dead, but somehow this still felt strangely like emotional blackmail.
Maybe if he sat the animal precariously on the mantlepiece the cleaner would manage to accidentally knock it to the floor. Then it wouldn't be his fault it was broken and he needn't feel guilty about throwing it away.
James put it out for the night with the intention of letting her do exactly that, but next morning it went back in the box. Seeing it there was just too ugly a reminder of what he'd lost. (He suspected, as well, that if it did take a tumble it would probably just bounce and be none the worse for wear.)
He stowed it at the bottom of his suit cupboard, between his best black dress shoes and a pair of old Reebok trainers. It seemed as good a place as any for a ceramic dog, and he managed subsequently to take no notice of it when picking out his footwear.
One night months later he had it foisted back onto him.
After being cleared by medical to leave with the souvenir gunshot wound and broken ribs from his most recent mission, Eve had driven him home. She'd helped him inside to the bedroom and deposited him without ceremony on the bed. While Bond fought his way out of his clothes, she rummaged through his cupboards looking for an extra blanket. Instead, she came back out holding the box.
She put the mutt on his bedside table amongst his collection of pills, patted James on the cheek and stated, "Everyone needs a friend when they're sick." Then she left.
Bond just stared at the dog through his medicated haze.
First of all he wasn't sick, just wounded, and secondly, that lump of pottery was not his friend. But since he was too exhausted to drag himself close enough to reach the thing, it had to stay where it was.
The following morning he removed it from the bedside table - he'd never be able to sleep like that without chemical aid - and put it back in its kennel. But before he could replace the lid he found himself staring pityingly at the creature. He didn't especially want it on display but he felt he shouldn't leave it boxed up anymore either. Damn meds must be making him soft.
There was no way it could stay next to his bed, that was for sure, so he moved it to the dining table. But it ruined his meals staring at him.
He tried the corner of the bath next, then the windowsill in the loo behind the net curtains. Neither option proved particularly appealing.
He considered using it as a doorstop. It certainly looked the part for the job. But since nothing in his flat ever banged shut, even with the windows open wide, the only upshot of that idea would be an unfriendly nudge of his boot whenever he walked past.
For a while the dog found a home on the bookshelf in the spare room snuggled between his Fleming and his Forsyth. Eventually however it returned to its original vantage point above the living room fireplace. James wasn't in there much anyway, so what did it matter.
Later, when he found himself pushing it closer to the wall whenever the cleaner was expected and being just a tiny bit relieved to see Jack still in one piece on his return home, Bond realised something had changed. His feelings for the beast had softened, like his grief had for her.
Their situation seemed to parallel the way his and M's own relationship had evolved. In the beginning she'd found him arrogant and reckless, an upstart loose cannon potentially too dangerous to be ignited. She'd called him a blunt instrument, a misogynist dinosaur, a relic - and a few other less flattering things besides. The negative sentiment had been mutual.
By the end, they had a trust and respect for one another that went beyond the outstanding ability of each to perform their jobs.
His own feelings for Jack somehow mirrored that evolution.
He'd considered a few other names for the pooch before deciding to settle on what the manufacturers had called him. Pat the Dog was tempting, but no. Churchill - oh yes! - was too prosaic. George didn't seem to fit. Neither did Fred. Or Harriet. In the end, Jack remained Jack.
By the 1st anniversary of M's death Bond had grown rather fond of the ornament. He'd never have imagined he could become sentimental about an inanimate object, aside from his beautiful, tragic car of course, God rest her. Now the dog even joined his master in front of the television when he was home of an evening.
Which was where they were tonight.
James could have been out doing any number of things. Dancing at a club with a beautiful stranger. Sitting in a darkened movie theatre. Shagging double-D-34 from accounting who fluttered her lashes and pushed her ample chest forward whenever he was in the vicinity.
Instead he was home alone this Saturday night watching other people dance. The remote control lay abandoned on the arm of the chair. He'd heard the assertion plenty of times before, he'd just never really believed it until now. There actually was nothing on.
But that didn't matter and he wasn't really watching anyway. James wasn't looking for a distraction tonight. He was remembering the events of one year ago.
Remembering Skyfall.
Remembering her.
The grief was gone now. Time really did heal wounds. He could think of her fondly - as both his boss and his friend - and it no longer hurt to do so.
He leaned over and touched his glass against Jack's nose in a toast, only rather more gently now than he had done before.
To M.
A/N The idea of GCMG standing for 'God Calls Me God' comes from the old British comedy series 'Yes, Minister'.
Not sure if there'll be more to this, it just depends on whether the mood strikes me. Hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. :)