James didn't know what his next gameplay was going to entail. He rarely did, being such a creature of instinct. But he knew that if he needed him, Q would step up to the plate. The arena of espionage in which they currently found themselves was literally his expertise. Those shadows and lines of code through which M had been chasing the illusive shape of SPECTRE for so long. In her time, she had unable to provide definite evidence of their existence but knew - creature of instinct she herself was - that all the troubles and challenges faced by her intelligence in recent years sprung from that source. A pattern had emerged. A pattern that weaved together the human elements of the business of espionage and the new wave of terrorism that was surging through them, attempting to wash them all away in the swell of its unseen power. But M had known. While these rogue elements used the shadows to their advantage, they themselves still cast shadows of their own. And the old dogs of MI6 still knew how to use those shadows to their advantage.
A thirty minute drive and they had arrived at their destination. Neither man spoke on the journey there. Silence as effective a weapon as the words spoken between colleagues, friends and lovers. On arrival at the desert complex, rooms and a fresh set of clothes were provided. As Q took in the room, a framed photo on the nearby dresser caught his eye.
It was a picture of him and Charles Sebastian on the day he told him he had incurable cancer. Possibly the worst day of his life. It was a quiet coffee shop on the Southern coast, one of their favourite haunts. Charles hand rested on his. Q had dropped his head and didn't have to see his own expression to remember the tortured moment in which he had witnessed his entire future with the man before him crumble to dust and be scattered to the winds.
No crueler fate than to love and to lose.
His next thought was where they had sourced the photo. White was honest in that regard, he thought. SPECTRE truly were everywhere. And nowhere. Well, at least until now. Now he and James had travelled through its open jaws and into the belly of the beast.
He also knew they were on their own, the last encrypted call he had made to his right hand in Q Branch to order her to wipe all evidence of Bond's Smart Blood.
Bond was having an equally enlightening time in his quarters. A similarly framed image of the man who had fostered him after his parents' accident and the boy who became his foster brother for a brief time cast a sombre trio in the photo that graced the dresser of his room.
A lifetime… No. Maybe two lifetimes ago. Because since the loss of his parents, the carving of a life into an indispensable cog in the SIS machine, he had since begun a third phase in the life and times of James Bond. A life with Arthur Clifton.
Bond wondered for a moment what M would make of it all. What he had found, guided almost entirely by her hand, whether he wanted to admit the truth of that to himself or not. Her chosen two. Together facing the SPECTRE that had plagued her in the years leading to her end.
Bond was not a sentimentalist. Nor did he believe in any other fate but the one he made. They were teetering on the edge of something monumental - a scenario with a number of possible outcomes, and as with most scenarios of this making, a sacrifice would be expected. It felt a little like playing chess blind. But in the end, Bond would do what needed to be done. As far as he was concerned, all he had to do was to get close to Obenhauser and this could be ended. He only hoped he wouldn't be ending himself and Q in the process. He'd grown quite fond of what they had together.
"He's waiting for you." The man, whom Bond recognised from his infiltration of the meeting in Rome as one of Obenhauser's close associates greeted them in the hallway as they exited their rooms, fresh dressed. "This way please," he said, extending his hand in the direction he wished to take them. Bond glanced at Q. He had been pleasantly surprised at the seemingly unnerved state of his Quartermaster. Not a field agent, but displaying the first class behaviour expected of an employee of Her Majesty's Secret Service.
Champagne was declined, despite thirst and the obvious temptation. Neither Bond nor Q were ones for taking unnecessary risks. Stupid risks maybe where Bond was concerned, thought Q to himself, but never unnecessary. As they entered the dark room where their host awaited them, Q considered what he had done, how far he had come to be here, in this moment. He looked at the agent next to him who was fighting the urge to give him a reassuring squeeze of the arm. It would not do to betray any feelings beyond their professional relationship while in the situation. Such displays never ended well. Q took a deep breath to steady himself. The shadows opposite them on the far side of the room moved into the warm stream of sun spilling from the skylight above, the only source of light in the room and their host stepped forward to reveal himself.
Everything was converging, aligning right now. As the three men stood and appraised each other, Bond felt the thud of his heart increase, noticing the look Obenhauser was directing at Q. He knows him…
He turned and gave Bond a most predatory stare. "James. My little cuckoo. I am so gratified you could make it." He returned his gaze to fall upon Q who had remained riveted to his position, eyes never leaving the man responsible for so much havoc, so much destruction, so much loss.
"Arthur," he said, an almost tender fondness lacing his tone. "I am especially glad to see you, my little Bombe…"