"You are fucking Jesus," whispered Q, his usually well-catalogued thoughts scattered to the endless recesses of his addled mind. As far as he was concerned, he was speaking to/with/via a figment of his wishful imagination.
Or maybe he was dead and this was his version of heaven. Who the fuck cares.
"Unless you've changed your name to Jesus in the last three months, Q, no. I'm neither fucking Jesus nor have any designs on any other deity. Bar you," he said with a small smile.
Q pushed himself out of the chair just as James made his way towards him to break his stumble with outstretched arms. Q closed his eyes and just breathed him in, felt the solidness of him beneath his hands.
"James… Is it really you?"
In the heat of battle and the aftermath of the fight, James Bond was never much of a one for words. He wasn't even sure he could hear Q's words, much less process them now he was holding him in his arms, safe. He studied his features, the smooth angles, remembered the soft gaze in morning dawn and lust-filled green hovering above him in the dying twilight.
How could I ever have given this up?
His right hand, still clutching his gun, pressed into the small of Q's back. James wrapped his left hand around the nape of his neck and drew them together.
His dreams in the intervening months since James' disappearance had always been vivid. If this was one of them, Q didn't want to wake up.
Ever.
Four Days Later, Back On Active Duty.
Room 34, The National Gallery, London. Mid-Afternoon.
Bond gazed at The Fighting Temeraire. The click of approaching heels distracted him from his momentary reverie and he glanced to his right to be greeted by a pair of long, lean legs standing next to him.
He let his eyes travel casually up her body to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry. Have we met before?" The owner of said rather attractive legs took a seat next to him.
"I'm the one who should say sorry," she said. A familiar voice in his ear, a lifetime ago in Istanbul.
Bond shrugged as though being shot by a fellow agent was as normal an event in his day as grabbing a coffee.
"It was only four ribs. Some of the less vital organs. Nothing major. Not enough excitement in Istanbul?" he enquired, keeping his eyes on Turner's painting.
I've been reassigned. Temporary suspension from field work," she replied, crossing her legs and placing an elbow on her knee, chin resting on her hand to study the object of Bond's attentions.
"You don't say," he murmured.
"Mmmm. Something to do with killing 007."
He leaned over slightly, humour in his voice as he replied. "Well, you gave it your best shot."
She leaned towards him in kind. " That was hardly my best shot," she fired back with mock incredulity.
I'm not sure I could survive your best."
She gave a tight-lipped smile and extended her hand. "I'm Eve. Eve Moneypenny."
"Pleasure, Miss Moneypenny," he replied accepting the proffered palm.
"I was expecting the Quartermaster."
"I know," she said, reaching into her bag. "I'm doing him a favour. I owe him one or two."
"As do I," murmured James.
Eve held out an envelope. And a hotel key. A knowing smile now graced her beautiful face.
"St Martin's Lane, round the corner."
He stared at the key, hoping it meant what he thought it did. Eve closed her bag and stood. "Your passport and flight details are in there. Unfortunately, I couldn't get you a flight to Shanghai any sooner than this evening," she said with the measured nonchalance practiced all too well by Bond himself.
She made to walk off, glancing over her shoulder for a parting shot. "Merry Christmas, 007."
