Cambridge, 2002.
"I think we may have a problem…"
"You mean besides the fact that you are taking your sweet time to produce results on Mr Quinn and how deep down the rabbit hole he has fallen?"
It was early Wednesday morning, the day after his shared dinner with Jonathan, Stephen and his current conquest. Except after last night, Bond was of the opinion that Stephen Chaucer was the one who was being used, and not merely for sexual gratification.
Bond was jogging lightly through the park. A step behind him, Villiers jogged in sync with him.
"I am making progress," replied Bond, refusing to let the jibes get under his skin. Everything was a test with these people. Any emotional response would be seen as a weakness. And weaknesses could be exploited. Not a good trait in one seeking a career in the Secret Service.
"I had a look around this morning while Quinn and Chaucer were still asleep. There is a cellar. Though I couldn't find a door. My gut tells me what I need to find is down there."
"Well. That's something I suppose," replied Villiers, trying and failing to keep the edge of testiness from his tone. Bond smirked. Obviously, any delay on his part, meant Villiers was likely getting his ear bent by his own superiors. Anyway, that wasn't Bond's problem. Jonathan Quinn was, and now, a new player in the game it would seem.
"He and Chaucer are off on a field trip at the weekend. I plan to break in then for a more thoroughly search. If I don't find anything feel free to pull me off the mission."
"Tough words, Commander. We'll see." Villiers pondered for a few seconds. "You mentioned a problem?"
"Terence Masters."
Villiers frowned. "What about him? He has no bearing on the situation."
"He didn't," replied Bond, "but now he is in closer proximity to Quinn, thanks to his relationship with his flatmate. I'd prefer to err on the side of caution and have you do a background check on him. Something's not right."
"What makes you suspect his motives? I need a little more than the gut instincts of a field trainee on which to initiate an investigation."
Bond stopped by a park bench to stretch his legs. Villiers was left with little option but to follow suit. "I doubt it will put you out too much, given the resources you have at your disposal, Mr Villiers. Please bear in mind the time I've spent with Quinn and the opportunities I've had to observe. So you'd do well to heed my recommendations."
"You're mightily cocksure of yourself, aren't you, Bond?" Villiers responded coolly, before sipping from his bottle of lukewarm water.
"It's why I'm here. And why you need me." Bond jogged away from the conversation without waiting for a reply, confident his request would be met. After all, they chose him.
Villiers merely watched him go. His superiors were right.
He was perfect.
London, 2012
It was mid-afternoon when they got back to Central London, Bond in the rider's seat this time, with Q plastered to his back like a limpet, as close as he could be to nodding off without actually falling off the back of the bike. Bond took it easy, avoiding the main drags of the city and opting for the quiet side streets instead to avoid traffic.
He pulled up to the kerb and killed the engine. Q peeled a heavy head from the shoulder blade on which his cheek had been resting and looked around somewhat groggily.
"Where are we?"
"My place," replied Bond, propping up the bike, climbing off and wrapping an arm around Q to slide him off the back. "I hope you don't mind. I don't know where you live…"
"No, it's fine," he replied, voice as hollow as a drain, emotionally wrung out and too exhausted to protest. "Cats will survive until morning," he said, without thinking through a yawn.
Bond ignored the implication of the comment. "Cats?" he enquired instead.
"Two. Betty and Turing," he replied, eyes gazing heavy lidded at the agent. "Are you taking me to bed or what, Bond?"
Bond chuckled while wrapping his arm around Q again to steady him before climbing the steps to his flat. "There's the Jonathan Quinn I missed and remember."
"Indeed," Q replied, leaning against the wall while Bond took out his keys to unlock the door. "Don't be getting any ideas, 007. My shift starts at 8pm and I need a shower and some sleep. I'll change when I get to Six," he mumbled through another chasmic yawn.
Bond closed the door behind them, Q quietly slipping off his woollen coat before leaning against the hallway wall. Bond leaned close but didn't touch while stepping past him. "Come along, Quartermaster."
Bond passed through the living room into the kitchen, Q following a few paces behind. "Keep going, Q. End of the hall," he said, pulling a glass from a cupboard above the kitchen sink and filling it with water. Q carried on, unbuttoning his shirt wearily on the way.
By the time Bond got to the bedroom, Q was down to his underwear and curled up under his sheets. Bond watched with a small smile at the dark mop popping out from the covers, face buried absent-mindedly in the pillow, inhaling deeply, as though seeking comfort in the memories of the scent of the man whom he had wrapped himself around so many times and so many nights before their lives had gone to hell in a hand basket. Hovering on the edge of sleep, he looked over his shoulder at the agent placing the glass on the side table before meeting his gaze. Q reached behind without a word and pulled the sheets back. An invitation. Bond stripped with perfunctory calm and climbed in next to him, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts before wrapping large, strong arms around his waist and pulling them together. Bond buried his face in the nape of his neck and inhaled long and deep enough to rouse distant memories that had faded but never disappeared, forever hovering on the edge of his perception when he was feeling strong enough to look them in the proverbial eye and consider what he had been forced to give up. For both their sakes.
And yet…
Here they were once again. Fate, it seemed, was not without a sense of irony.
"We're complicating things again," whispered Q.
"Except this time I have a fairly attuned inkling about the fucking genius I have lying next to me right now…" Bond whispered gently against his ear.
"Christ," murmured Q, the irresistible pull of sleep, tugging mercilessly on his mind and body. "You haven't forgotten a thing, have you…"
Not a thing, thought Bond silently, running fingers gently down Q's side to rest on a slender hip, the caress lulling him gently to sleep, to dream. To dream hopefully, of the possibilities yet to come.
Bond was woken to the sound of his doorbell two hours later. He frowned at the intrusive and unexpected noise. No one aside from Six knew the whereabouts of his property and as he had been placed on leave during the ongoing investigation into M's death…
He reached for his Walther, always tucked beneath the mattress when he deigned to sleep, and slipped away from his dead-to-the-world Quartermaster. He kept his back close to the wall, sliding up the hallway towards the door.
"Commander Bond?" the muffled voice floated through the barrier between them. "If you're there, please don't shoot."
Now Bond WAS curious.
"My name is George Brosnan. I'm the Executor of the Estate of Olivia Mansfield."
Bond peered through the peephole in his door. Not sensing any immediate threat, he opened it a crack.
"Yes?" he asked gruffly.
The man looked at the half-naked Secret Service agent and cleared his throat. "I have an endowment from your late superior."
Bond opened the door further. "You mean that bloody bulldog wasn't enough?" He held himself still and watchful while the visitor opened the case he was holding and pulled out a padded envelope, thrusting it nervously towards Bond. "She insisted I deliver it by hand."
Bond reached forward and accepted the package. "Thank you, Mr Brosnan." And with a curt nod, the man tipped his hat and made a hasty retreat.
Bond pushed the door shut and ripped open the package.
When Q awoke two hours later to find the bed devoid of his agent, he rose and wandered into the living room. It was there he was greeted by the sight of Bond reclined on his couch in a robe, a whiskey tumbler in hand and a half empty bottle of Talisker on the table next to him.
And the face of Olivia Mansfield - M - staring back at him from the TV screen on the wall opposite.