Gareth Mallory is working late on a Friday night. He enjoys the peace and quiet of the empty office after a busy week and he takes his time scanning and answering all the paperwork that has piled up. Literally. It seems like the number of letters, reports and other documentary that is sent to his attention has doubled in size—if not in importance—since he's been appointed as Head of the Security Committee. They're all neatly printed and stapled and marked as confidential—and most of them aren't worth the paper they're printed on. So much for the digital age.
He closes the bi-weekly status report from MI6's Q-branch and stifles a yawn. While he deems himself tech-savvy enough to not look like an ignorant dinosaur when it comes to technical equipment and the ever growing opportunities it brings along, the tech talk used in the report was way too detailed to hold his attention. The important fact he's taking out of it, though, is that the new Quartermaster has established himself well in his job despite the young age.
M was right, Mallory has to admit, and that reminds him: he needs to set up a meeting with her. He puts the report onto the slowly growing Read pile and reaches for his keyboard. He knows that M will be suspicious the moment she'll see his name pop up and she has reason to be. Mallory takes a deep breath before he starts typing, putting some effort into phrasing the invitation, keeping the tone carefully neutral. It won't do to have her on the defensive before she's even heard his suggestion, it'll be hard enough to keep her from jumping down his throat once she's aware of his intentions.
M is a successful lady, that goes without question, but recent events have damaged her reputation significantly. The theft of highly confidential data that threatens countless agents traces directly back to her. Mallory knows that she's doing everything in her power to limit the damage and he knows that if anyone can prevent the worst, it's her—but he also knows that the Prime Minister has a very different opinion on that.
Mallory gives his drafted message a read-over and then sends it out to M and her assistent Tanner. Another task to check off his list. With another yawn he sits back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment before he reaches for the next file. It's not like he's got better things to do tonight.
As if on cue, the file folder contains the obituary for the double-oh agent who was supposed to retrieve M's stolen data. Emphasis on supposed to: the mission had failed, the agent is presumed to have been KIA, by friendly fire at that. The data is still lost to this date. This whole case really doesn't look good for M, not good at all.
Mallory quickly scans the words (Naval Intelligence… SBS recruit… successful MI6 field agent… one the the youngest agents to reach double-oh status… example of British bravery… giving his life for Queen and Country and so on and so forth). He's about to close the file when his eyes land on the black and white photograph that is attached—
He's hit with a feeling of dread so sudden and intense it feels like a punch to the gut and he gasps for air involuntarily. He barely knew the man, but his features will forever be engraved in his mind. He remembers those eyes had been steel blue, he knows for a fact that mouth could form the most reassuring smile and nothing will ever feel as comforting as those steady hands after months of captivity and isolation and abuse. Of course it had been a whole team that had rescued him from that IRA warehouse, but it was this man who had actually found him, barely alive. To Gareth, it had always felt like it was this man who had saved his life.
In the beginning, Gareth had wanted to meet his rescuer in person, to thank him for his efforts—and for his kindness. But recovery had taken a long time, and after that he had to get his life sorted out again. He'd had to prove that he was still fit for duty, that he'd been beaten but not broken, that he hadn't lost his touch, that he was still the capable SAS officer he'd been before. He couldn't afford to linger in the past, or show how much it had affected him. He had still thought of his rescuer often, wondered what had become of him, but afraid of showing the slightest weakness, he had never even bothered to find out his name.
Now he knows: Commander James Bond. Deceased.
Gareth reads the obituary again, carefully this time, paying attention to dates and places. There, SBS in 1991, it must have been one of his first missions after completing selection and training. And there, a promotion soon afterwards. It all adds up. He commits all the relevant facts to memory before he detaches the photograph and puts the rest of the file onto the trash pile.
For a long while, Gareth sits there and stares at the photograph in his hand, a mix of emotions washing over him: grief for a man he never got to know, gratitude and regret and a debt that he'll never be able to pay back, the memories of torture and terror lingering under the surface of his composure. A feeling of disappointment at himself for never having followed up on his plan to say thank you. Now It's too late.
"I owe you my life, Commander Bond," he tells the picture in a low voice. Embarrassed at himself, he lets out a self-conscious breath and then adds the photo to the collection of bits and pieces he keeps under his desk pad.
Grudgingly, he takes the next file from the stack, but then decides he needs a drink first when he sees it's a memo on communal spendings for CCTV.
It's way past midnight before Gareth switches off the lights in his office, finds his way back home, falls into bed exhausted and dog-tired. He falls asleep quickly enough but his rest isn't easy. Unsettling dreams take him back to Belfast, let him relive the horror of never-ending days and weeks and months in the hands of the IRA—before he wakes with a start, a scream on his lips, drenched in cold sweat. In his dream he never got rescued. His saviour is gone.