MI6, London/Skyfall, Scotland, 2012.
Darkness consumed the cold and fog-strewn Scottish moors. The fires from the remains of the Bond ancestral home burned the skyline.
And Olivia Mansfield, ten year long Commander-in-Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, died in his arms.
Quietly, without pomp and circumstance, less than befitting a leader of her calibre and influence. The silence that fell upon Q Branch was deafening. But, at least she didn't die alone.
She had lived making her last stand with her most trusted Double O by her side, stalwart in the eye of the tornado of violence that had whipped up around them all in recent days; Died, flanked by men of violence themselves, the children she had moulded in an image she believed could save the world from itself and the shadowy forces that threatened the ignorant and unwitting that they sought to protect from forces unseen every day.
Q had listened on the other end of their satellite enabled comms link, silent as a looming grave, confident Bond knew what he was doing, doing what needed to be done in the face of the usual insurmountable odds.
"Someone usually dies," he had said. Prophetic words indeed.
She bestowed a small parting smile as she looked into bright, blue eyes, glistening in the soft light of the little church, her look that of one who knows and understands the sacrifices that have to be made in life and in death.
"At least I got two things right," she whispered. "Take care of each other, Bond…" her voice fading into the gaping chasm waiting to swallow her up from this world.
And for the first time since he had known him, through the silence from the other side, Q heard the tears of a broken man fall.
Broken but not irreparable. Strong, resilient. Never beyond repair.
As always, Q, the voice in his ear, was there to ground him. "Come home."
"James…" he whispered, just before the earpiece went dead. "I'll be waiting," his words echoing in the void.
Cambridge, 2002.
"Weaponised sharks? In place of naval subs? Are you barking mad?" Bond was incredulous in the face of Jonathan's off-the-wall thinking. Then again, the boy could well be pulling his leg. It was impossible to tell.
"Well obviously they wouldn't be real sharks. That would be ridiculous." Bond was of the opinion that this entire conversation was ridiculous.
He had been telling him the bare bones of his time in the Navy on their brief stroll from the coffee shop to where Bond's mode of transport waited. Jonathan looked around briefly when they came to a stop on the pavement. "Where are you taking us for dinner anyway?" he enquired. "This area doesn't exactly appear to be the Brick Lane of eating establishments…" He refrained from further comment when he saw his lecturer lean down to unbolt the helmet on the ground from the wheel of the bike next to where they stood. Bond was looking up and smirking at him while reaching into the pannier to pull out a spare helmet, handing it to the bemused student, doing his best to prevent his jaw flapping in the breeze. I could get used to a sight like that, he thought to himself swinging his leg over the seat and looking over his shoulder. "Coming?" grinning like the cocky bastard Jonathan was quickly learning he was.
Jonathan did nothing to hide the fact that he thought the chrome beast was gorgeous, running fingertips across the soft leather seat before he climbed on, and wrapped one arm gently but not too invasively around Bond's taut belly. It was obvious he was into his boy toys and Bond planned to play any weakness made available to him to his advantage. He slipped on the helmet and settled behind Bond without a second thought. "Show me what you've got then, Mr Bond!" he muffled through the headgear just as Bond kickstarted the engine. "Oh don't worry, Mr Quinn, I plan to do exactly that!" he retorted, releasing the throttle and steering them into the traffic with such a deliberate jolt, Jonathan slid further down the seat, pressed from collarbone to shoulder down to groin meeting the small of Bond's back. Dinner can wait, thought Bond grinning to himself, first to take the boy for a little spin.
So for the next 30 minutes, James Bond took his time ensuring Jonathan Quinn's adrenaline was treated to elevated levels they hadn't experienced in quite some time.
And if this was a taste of things to come, bring it on, thought Jonathan, as they sped down cobbled streets, scattering flocks of doves to the safety of high perches.
"You honestly expect me to believe you are responsible for that little fiasco I've heard so much about? You're the talk of the College," Bond chuckled. "And I thought I was chaos on legs when I was your age."
"I did them a favour," said Jonathan precisely. "The firewalls were woefully inadequate. By hacking them I demonstrated simply enough where the weaknesses were in the system. The brightest and the best frequent these hallowed walls, Mr Bond. Surely you wouldn't want their personal data up for grabs by shadowy forces that would do anything to jeopardise our national security?"
"Your foresight is admirable, Mr Quinn."
"I'm well aware, thank you, but I appreciate the secondhand acknowledgement of that fact."
They were in the lecturer's personal quarters. It hadn't been the plan at the beginning of the evening but Bond had decided to just go with the flow. He strolled from the kitchen to the small dining area where Jonathan was sitting and put the plate of food in front of him. Dinner was a quick and modest affair, befitting University life. Wouldn't do to spoil the boy too quick, too soon. Might rouse unwelcome suspicions. Omelette, baked beans and chips it was then.
"You dine like a student," said Jonathan. "Not that I'm complaining," he said, lifting his fork to tuck in. "I find I'm quite famished."
"It's method eating," replied Bond, plopping himself in the chair opposite.
"Method eating?"
"Like method acting. Only a means to get into the head and mindset of the student so I can better understand what makes them tick. I am at a disadvantage having never experienced the higher education system firsthand as one myself. And all the… perks that come along with that experience."
They ate in silence for a few minutes, Jonathan enjoying the simple satisfaction of a simply prepared meal. On the fourth mouthful, as he raised the fork to his mouth, he also raised his gaze and watched Bond watching him intently in turn. The look on his features those of a man trying to pick apart a puzzle. Jonathan made a decision in that moment. Whether or not he would regret it was a risk he was prepared to take. Time to see how far this little game of bluff would go. He decided blunt was the only direction this evening could take. He put down the fork and folded his hands beneath his chin to rest it on the back of his hands. "You're not gay. Why are you doing this?"
"What makes you say I'm not?" asked Bond, unmoving.
"I'm neither a boy, a toy, nor a fool, Mr Bond."
"I never said you were and I apologise profusely if I've made you for one moment feel as though I perceive you as such," Bond returned calmly.
"Good," Jonathan replied, standing, Bond mirroring the movement. "Then I suggest we move this evening along."
"What did you have in mind?" Bond enquired tilting his head slightly and taking a step towards him.
The student reached for the hem of his lecturer's pullover and tugged him closer. "I think it's time I introduced you to the benefits of a slow, comfortable screw up against a wall…"