"Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature."
-Plato, The Symposium
Part III, Act I
Bond gets shot at in Cairo and has a bad bit of luck on an aeroplane, but manages to get home in mostly one piece. Q is livid because Bond had dropped his earpiece on purpose so that he could do the mission his own way. It gets done faster, but the entire Egyptian government is in a political uproar over the fact that half the city is on fire, though honestly, Bond thinks everyone is making too big a deal.
"It is a big deal," Q tells him when Bond says so.
"Why?" Bond asks, leaning back in his chair. "I did the job."
"Cairo's on fire-"
"Well stop complaining about it and put it out."
"You're insufferable. You nearly died. Again."
"Not a complete waste of a day."
"You're being reckless on purpose, aren't you? Just to see if you can give me a bloody coronary."
"Your plan would have taken too long."
Q shoves a thick file off his desk and papers and photographs go flying.
"My plan would have kept you out of harm's way," Q says.
"I'm an agent. There's no such thing as out of harm's way," Bond replies.
"That may be true, but I can at least offer you some small measure of protection," Q retorts irritably. His hands are shaking. Bond notices that he tries to hide it by sitting down so that the desk hides his hands from sight.
"I did the job," Bond says again.
"You cocked up," Q tells him, and gives Bond a warning glare. "It's a miracle you're not bleeding out on my floor on top of it."
Bond grins.
"You love me."
Q's expression darkens and Bond suddenly feels guilty for throwing that card on the table when they are at work.
"I do," Q says, sounding almost resigned. Bond feels his heart skip a beat and a half, then again when Q repeats: "I do love you." Bond can only sit, speechless, and watch as Q runs his hand through his hair, pulling at the strands at his right temple. He breathes and continues: "I love you more than anything... So when you do all of this… all this stupid, reckless shit…" Q does not look at him. Instead he glances at the Taj Mahal trinket next to his computer, surrounded by the few other kitschy things Bond has brought back for him over the last few missions, and he grimaces like he's in pain. "It's...hurtful, James, that you don't even try to be careful. Not even for me."
"Q-"
"Don't. I don't want you to apologise. I just want you to understand why I do this. I'm trying to protect you the only way that I can. I'm trying to keep you in my life because I've waited...I've waited so long, and I'm not ready to lose you. Not yet...I can't say goodbye to you yet. We still have a bit more time…we have to have more time..."
Bond can barely hear Q, he's whispering so softly, and his head is bowed but Bond can see the tears falling onto the desk, onto the mess of plans and reports and broken pieces of equipment. It sends a pang of guilt through him, because he had promised Q that he did not have to be lonely anymore. He knows it was a stupid decision-because Double-Ohs don't live long lives-but he knows that he can at least try to make things last, for as long as they have, which does not feel like long with Q's ominous words hanging in the space between them.
Q straightens suddenly, but then turns in his chair, his back to Bond before he can see his face.
"Out of my office, Bond," he says, a clear dismissal.
Bond leaves, properly shamed, and goes to Medical as if that might serve as some kind of repentance on his part. They patch him up and send him on his way, but Bond does not go back to his flat or Q's. Instead, he takes a car and drives about the city and thinks about how cruel he has been and what on earth he can do to make amends for it all. He knows that he can make promises that he may intend to keep, but might not be able to see through, and he's done making those sorts of empty gestures to Q. He also knows that he is not good at apologies or poetry, because his life has never really called for such things.
So Bond drives and drives and drives until he ends up in a place that he has not been in what feels like a hundred years.
And he has an idea.
It's not strictly legal and might get him into a fair bit of trouble with the authorities, but Bond is pretty good at these sorts of situations and he manages alright, even without the aid of Q-Branch. It takes him about thirty-five minutes to get back to Q's flat, and Bond knocks but Q does not open the door. He lets himself in, disabling the security system with his biometrics. The flat is dark, but not empty; Bond can hear the shower running and feel the humidity of the steam coming from the bathroom.
He creeps into the bedroom, his bundle in hand, and begins to lay out his apology the best he can.
When Q emerges from the bathroom, he steps on one; it crinkles under his bare foot. Bond watches from the corner of the room as Q fumbles in his towel for the lightswitch. The lights come on, and Bond watches the surprise take over his expression at the sight. Amaranths are common enough, but not in London, and even if they were, they would not be the beautiful species that are rich with lush reds, violets, and pinks. Bond picked the most colourful he could find, at least six different types, and displayed them as artfully as he could: a trail of purple leading to the bed, the reds and pinks in every available container he could locate (which comprise all the juice glasses and coffee mugs in the house), and he even draped some of the flowering tendrils over their lampshades. It smells like spring.
Q's surprise turns into delight and wonder, and then his gaze eventually falls on Bond, and he tries to look unimpressed, but does not quite manage it while smiling.
"Amaranths," Q says.
"It's appropriate," Bond replies.
"Where did you…?"
"The Royal Botanic Gardens."
"You stole from the-"
"Shh, it's romantic," Bond says.
Q stares at him, wide-eyed, and then he starts laughing. It gives Bond the bit of courage to move forward, still unsure if he is forgiven, not knowing if he even has the right to ask for such a thing.
"I'm going to have to answer a lot of questions in the morning, aren't I?" Q asks, indicating the stolen flora surrounding them.
"Not if you turn off your phone," Bond says. Q gives him a look, then brushes past him to pick up his mobile from the bedside table. He makes a show of powering it down, then a more enjoyable show of dropping his towel before stretching naked across the bed. Their bed.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you," Q tells him.
"No?" Bond asks, tugging at his tie.
"No, but it's a start," he says, and beckons him with a shadow of his mysterious smile. "And there are plenty of ways to earn the rest."
Bond strips out of his clothes and grins.
Q puts him through his paces that night and Bond gives him everything he asks for. Afterward, the sheets smell like sweat and sex and the slightly perfumed scent of flowers. Bond noses at Q's damp hair and says:
"I really am sorry."
"I know."
Bond tilts his chin up and kisses him slowly.
"I'll try to be more careful. I will."
Q smiles and breathes out a gentle sigh of relief.
"Thank you."
They shut out the lights and lay there in the dark. Q presses kisses to his jaw and neck sleepily as they wind down and prepare for sleep.
"I love you, you know," Bond says, and he does not know what compels him to say it in that moment, in the darkness, but he feels as if he needs to. Even if he does not really believe in soulmates, Bond cannot deny what they are and what that means, just as he cannot lie to himself and say that this thing he feels is nothing at all, nothing serious, when it is the most serious thing he has ever experienced.
"I love you," Q returns, and Bond can hear it, how much he is loved, just in those three words. "Always."
Bond has jumped out of planes and buildings and bridges and still never experienced such euphoria.
"Always," Bond repeats, and feels comfort in that sense of undying, unwavering devotion. He trusts Q more than anyone and loves him more than anyone and nothing can destroy that. Nothing at all.
Bond is just about to fall asleep when Q asks:
"What's it like?"
"What's what like?" Bond asks.
"You know. Falling in love?"
Bond looks down at Q and even in the dark he can see the spill of his curls over the pillow and the curve of his lashes.
"You don't know?" Bond asks.
"Of course I do. But I fell in love with you a long time ago," Q explains. "Ever since then...I've just been in love with you. There's no more falling for me. I'm in a state of perpetually being in love with you, all versions of you, irrevocably and undeniably, in every single life."
Bond smiles and he feels Q do the same against his chest.
"Well, honestly, it's terrifying," Bond says sincerely. "I'm still a bit terrified, actually,"
"Really?" Q asks, no judgment in his voice, only curiosity.
Bond feels a bit uncomfortable. He always has been rubbish at emotions, especially when it comes time to talk about them. But just as he's looking for the words, they spill past his lips.
"It takes a lot...to give yourself to someone else entirely. You have to trust someone enough to not hurt you and trust yourself to not hurt them. But people change and people fall in and out of love all the time. After a while, it's easier not to. So it's frightening to think about falling in love or being in love, because no one knows if their love is going to last. Well, except for you," Bond says, and smiles.
Q touches his face and pulls him into a kiss. It's sweet and borderline reverent, but very, inexplicably sad.
"Yes," Q murmurs. "Except for me."
Part III, Act II
There's something ominous in the air.
He tries to ignore it, but he feels it, like a far off storm, like the oncoming heart of winter. Bond does not bring it up with Q, but he must be patently obvious about it, because even Moneypenny notices.
"What's wrong?" she asks.
"It's nothing," he answers, and goes to his meeting with Mallory. She is waiting outside the door when Bond emerges and she has a cup of coffee in her hand.
"You sure?" she asks, continuing from the thread of their previous conversation.
"Absolutely," Bond says, taking the coffee when she offers it.
"Maybe you should talk about it with Q," Eve says, her eyes alight. "You two have been getting on."
"Maybe I will," Bond replies, and she winks like she knows all his secrets.
He is not even down in TSS a half moment before Q meets him on the threshold, wearing his anorak.
"Fancy a walk?" he asks and Bond raises an eyebrow at him. He looks a bit sheepish. "Moneypenny rang."
"Nosy," Bond replies, but joins Q on his walk regardless. They take a tour round the familiar shops and streets and stay out for a full fifteen minutes despite the chilly wind. Q links his arm with Bond's and then digs his hands fully into the pockets of his jacket.
"What are you thinking about?" Q asks.
"It's nothing," Bond replies.
"Hmm," is Q's noncommittal response.
They pass a shop with a display of wool coats in the window, and Q stops their trek long enough to look at the items.
"Maybe I should get a new coat this year," he says, and looks at Bond. "What do you think?"
Bond opens his mouth to tell him that he thinks it's absolutely imperative that Q get a decent winter coat, but the words that tumble past his lips are:
"What happens?"
"If I...get a new coat?" Q asks, and his brows are raised beneath his fringe in questioning.
"No, I mean, what happens," Bond asks. "With us."
The seconds trickle by where Q just looks at him like he's looking into his soul and then suddenly, Bond knows.
"No," he breathes, and Q's expression barely keeps from crumpling at that single word.
"James," he begins.
"No, it can't be," Bond continues, shaking his head. Q steps close to him and takes Bond's face in his hands. He kisses him once, as gentle as an exhale, and smooths his thumbs down along Bond's cheeks. "Please tell me it's not-"
"Shh...don't worry about that now…" Q tells him.
But Bond does, because while he always knew death was inevitable, he did not want it to be so, especially now, when he and Q have finally found each other and are happy. He worries because Q will not talk about it-not then and not after-no matter what Bond tries, and it's painful because sometimes he sees Q looking very sad when he thinks no one is watching. One night, Bond comes back to the flat and sees Q standing in front of the wall calendar with intense concentration, like he's counting the days.
When Q turns to welcome him home, the smile does not reach his eyes.
Part III, Act III
"Tell me about Greece," Bond says one morning.
He is two days into a mandatory leave after a rough mission in Beijing. His ribs are still sore and his wrist is in a splint, but Bond knows that he'll be back on active duty in no time. Until then, Q all but babies him, opting to work from home for the next week so that Bond does not have to be alone. Bond only allows it because that means they get to spend more time together and prevents Bond from having to trek all the way to Six just to have Q ignore him while he is running the branch.
"What about Greece?" Q asks, sliding his bare feet beneath Bond for warmth. They are eating breakfast on the sofa, bundled up in blankets because Q had cracked one of the windows to smell the snow.
"What happened to us? The first time," Bond clarifies.
Q appears thoughtful for a moment, as if the depths of his oatmeal will reveal all the answers to life's most difficult questions. He puts the bowl onto the coffee table and looks at Bond.
"I told you. I studied maths, you were a playwright," Q says. "The rest is, well, ancient history."
Q smiles, and Bond tries to, but he's thinking about the way Q stared at the calendar and the ominous feeling like something is going to happen, but he does not quite know what.
"How long were we together?" Bond asks. Q's smile falters a bit.
"A short while," he replies.
"How long is a short while?"
"I'm not sure."
Bond knows that Q is pointedly avoiding answering.
"How did I die?" Bond asks.
Q swallows and looks at Bond as if begging him to take back his question.
"Suddenly," Q replies.
"What happened?" Bond asks and Q looks away.
"A fever took hold of you," he answers quietly, brushing away the wrinkles in the blanket across their laps. "I begged the Gods to save you, and prepared sacrifices to Apollo for his mercy, but…"
Q's eyes are wet, but he does not cry.
"And after?"
"I often visited your resting place and laid amaranths on your grave, when the seasons permitted. You were writing about them at the time, you know? You told me that there was never such a beautiful metaphor for undying love than the amaranth, so I only thought it fitting…"
Q stops, removes his glasses, and rubs the sleeve of his cardigan over his face.
"I prayed that I would see you again and wished for a hastened death so that I could meet you in the afterlife," he murmured. "I thought about killing myself, but I couldn't, not without the consent of the Gods. It would have turned me out of the favour, and I knew I would never see you again if I were to end my life by my own hand. So I waited. Twelve years later, I succumbed to an infection of the lung."
The silence that follows is heavy with regret. Q continues to hide in his sleeve, as if it will protect him.
"And our other lives?" Bond asks, swallowing down the lump in his throat.
"Not important," Q says, and straightens up. His eyes and the tip of his nose are red. He pushes his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and smiles a broken sort of smile. "We need only be concerned about this life. The ones that have passed have passed."
"But what happened?" Bond asks, and reaches for Q's hand. It's cold and trembles in his. "What happened to make you so sad?"
"I can't…" Q says, and brings Bond's hand to his cheek, which is warm and damp with his tears. "It's just the way...things are."
"Tell me," Bond says, and pulls Q to him.
"No, I'm not burdening you," Q replies, sliding his arms round Bond in a desperate embrace. "I'm not doing that to you again."
"Q…"
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"You shouldn't have to do this alone. Not when I'm here."
Bond holds him for what feels like hours. By midday, it becomes unbearably cold, and Q gets up to close the window. Bond watches him and cannot help but think back to the moment they met at the National Gallery, when Q was nothing but an enigma comprised of harsh, untouchable lines. He looks similarly now, and they may be in the same room, but Bond suddenly feels like he is very far away.
Part III, Act IV
Bond returns to MI6 after spending too long in Cambodia and he's sore all the way down to his bones and wants to sleep for days. But he debriefs first and then returns his equipment. It's late enough that it's early, and Q has already gone home, so Bond leaves his kit with a Q-Branch kid and hails a cab back to the flat. It's miserably cold and dark and Bond huddles further into his coat as he makes the dash from kerb to the building. The lift rattles to the top floor and Bond is so very tired that he can barely stand.
But the moment he opens the door, he feels that something is wrong, and the exhaustion lifts as adrenalin kicks and flares in his veins.
It's very cold, and when Bond feels the wind cut through the space, he knows that it is because the windows are open. He turns on the lights when he passes through the foyer and into the living room. There are shards of glass on the floor and torn out pages of books and the shredded remains of the calendar that used to hang on the wall in the kitchen. Bond steps over the worse of it carefully, on high alert for an intruder in the house with him, with Q.
He smells smoke and follows it into the bedroom, where the lights are on and he finds his lover sitting beneath the window in only his vest and pants. There is a cigarette in his right hand and a near-empty bottle of something in his left. Their alarm clock lays in a broken heap beside him. His feet are bare and bleeding and his glasses are missing.
"Q," Bond says, and Q looks up at him. His eyes are sunken and dark, and Bond knows that he's drunk and maybe a bit strung out, but Q at least has enough presence of mind to look slightly ashamed.
"I didn't expect you back until tomorrow," Q says, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"Is this what you do when I'm away?" Bond asks, gesturing to the destruction around them.
"Sometimes," Q replies, and snubs out the cigarette on the floor. He goes to take a drink, but Bond reaches for the bottle and snatches it out of his hand.
"Stop this, Q," Bond says.
"Stop what?" Q asks, and his voice is razor sharp and angry. "Am I not allowed to have a bad day?"
"This is more than just a bad day."
"You're right. It's a bad fucking eternity."
Bond has never heard such venom in Q's voice, which no longer sounds like poetry when he's been abusing his throat with tobacco and drink. He places the liquor far from Q's reach, then sits down next to him and leans his back against the wall. His wounds smart at the uncomfortable position and the two of them are right beneath the window, so it is cold enough that Bond shivers, even in his coat. Neither of them says anything. It feels like forever before Q leans against him and rests his cheek against Bond's arm.
"I'm sorry," Q mumbles thickly. "I didn't...want you to see this…"
"Tell me," Bond says. He knows what this is about and if he's honest, Bond knows that this has been coming. People can only bear a burden so long before they break, and Q has been carrying this one for too long. "Please."
At first, there's nothing, and Bond thinks that it's going to be like it always is when he tries to bring it up. But then Q grips at his sleeve and lets out a shuddering breath.
"I've tried…I've tried to save you...over and over again...I keep trying but I… I can't… " Q says, his voice very small. "It's always you...you're always first, always…and it hurts...God, it hurts, James...to feel you die…like being torn in half... and then...and then I'm always…"
Bond can hear what he wants to say, trapped on the end of his tongue, because he knows Q now more than he knows anyone. He knows what his mysterious smile hides and understands why sometimes Q looks sad when he thinks no one is watching.
"I'm always alone."
Eternity, Bond realises then, is nothing but a prison.
"We'll figure it out," he says, because they have to.
But Q just shakes his head and pulls away.
"I'm going to be sick," he says. Bond helps him up, half dragging, half carrying him into the bathroom. He spends the next fifteen minutes sitting on the edge of the tub and rubbing Q's back as he retches weakly into the toilet. When Q is done sicking up, Bond draws him a hot bath and helps him into the water. His skin is as cold as ice.
"Relax," Bond tells him, and leaves Q alone for a few minutes. Bond turns up the heat, then goes through the house and closes all the windows. After, he sweeps up all the debris on the floor and bins it, along with the cigarettes. Bond pours the alcohol down the drain and stares at the place where the calendar used to hang on the wall.
Bond thought they would have more time.
He returns to the bathroom and stiffly kneels down next to the tub. Q is not dozing, but not awake, either. His eyes are dark and far away. Bond brushes his fringe back with a gentle hand, but Q does not seem to notice. He does not to know what Q is thinking about, how many lives he is reliving, because the thought of it kills him a little inside. Why is it that Q is the one that always has to wait, has to suffer, has to remember?
"It's not fair," Bond says, and Q closes his eyes.
Even though he is tired and sore, Bond manages to get Q out of the tub and dry, into warm clothes, and then bundled into bed. He follows suit shortly after, but does not sleep. Q's back is against his chest and it is dark, but Bond can feel him crying and every little breath breaks his heart. It seems like hours before Q succumbs to slumber, and his breaths are deep and even. Through the curtains over their window, Bond watches the evening sky turn grey and then lighten with the dawn. Next to him, Q is nothing but bones; he feels so small. And Bond hates it because there's nothing he can do. Fate is going to destroy them over and over again and they cannot change a thing.
Morning comes and Q has a fever, so Bond does not let him up out of bed. He brings him tea something to eat, but Q has no interest in any of it. His grey eyes are as dull as the clouds outside their window, heavy with moisture.
"Now you know," he says.
Bond sits next to him.
"There has to be something we can do," Bond replies.
"There's nothing," Q says, and lies down without touching his tea. He puts his back to Bond and sighs. "It's Fated that your heart must stop before mine and that my death will follow in natural course. I don't know why, that's just how it always has been and always will be."
"It can't be," Bond answers.
"It is," Q says.
"What do we do?"
"There's nothing we can do."
Q does not turn round to look at him, but his hand seeks out Bond's. His fingers clasp onto Bond's so tightly that he thinks they might leave bruises.
There is nothing else that can be said.
Part III, Act V
They have a deadline, an expiration date, and Bond is anxious because Q still won't tell him when it will happen.
"Even I don't know for sure," Q says, not even glancing up from his computer. "All I know is that it's nearing that time."
Bond shoves all the papers off Q's desk and knocks the lamp over in the process. It makes Q look at him, but his expression is stoic, removed, as if he's already prepared himself for the inevitable and that is the end of it. That alone makes the anger in Bond flare up, because Q is not one to lie down for anyone or anything which makes his complacency all the more enraging.
"Then what are we still doing here?" Bond asks. "We're still working and pretending like everything is fine. Why are we going through the motions when it's pointless?"
"Because," Q says, looking a bit desperate. "It's all I have."
"You have me," Bond replies, and Q's expression turns pained. "Stop it, Q. Stop doing this. I'm still here."
"And after? What then?" Q asks calmly. "I have to...prepare myself. It doesn't get any easier with time, James. It just gets worse. I've got to have a life after you've gone even if I don't want to. Do you know how hard that is?"
"Do you think I want this?" Bond asks. Q looks away.
"I'm sorry. I'm being horrible," he says. Bond comes round to the other side of his desk and kneels down in front of him.
"Let's take leave," Bond says. "Let's go do everything we possibly can while we can."
"Like what?" Q asks.
"Let's go to Paris."
"Paris?"
"Yes, let's go. Right now. I'll get us a suite at the most expensive hotel in the city and we'll order only the best champagne. How does that sound?"
Q kisses him.
"You're too wonderful to me," Q says, and smiles in a way that lights up his whole face and makes Bond's heart nearly stop with joy. "Let's go."
They are nearly out the door when Bond's mobile rings in his right pocket.
"Not answering it," Bond says, pushing him out of the office.
Q's mobile rings next.
"Don't answer," Bond advises him, but Q does. Within forty-five minutes, Bond is prepping to leave on a high priority mission to Moldova, something from years ago that is finally going to get wrapped up.
"It's alright," Q says, touching his hand. "We'll go to Paris when you come back."
They don't go to Paris when Bond comes back.
It's the middle of March when he finally returns. He's got three sprained ribs and stitches in his eyebrow but it's better than being dead, and he's pretty proud of that fact actually. MI6 is quiet as a tomb when he arrives an hour before dawn, but there is an SMS on his phone that says roof and Bond goes right away.
"Welcome home," Q says, when Bond meets him outside. It's a cold and clear pre-morning with no clouds on the horizon. There are two chairs that Bond recognises from the lounge nearest Intentions and Q is sitting in one, draped in a huge blanket that must be included in the standard Siberia field agent pack. Q smiles at him and holds up the edge of the blanket in invitation. Bond takes it, scooting his chair closer so that their knees brush and he can kiss the other man. His foot hits something and knocks it over with a clatter. Ice cubes scatter across the concrete.
"Well there goes the champagne," Q says cheerfully, and leans over to pick up the bottle. It's a cheap brand from Tesco, definitely not the finest Parisian beverage that Q deserves. But Bond knows that Q's trying, because he's smiling and it's still a touch sad, but mostly geniuniely happy. Bond scoops him up by the middle and pulls him onto his lap. Q laughs for what must be the first time in ages and turns to straddle Bond and put his arms round his shoulders.
"I love you," Bond says, and means it. It's not because they're running out of time, but because time can somehow feel infinite instead of limited when they are together. Q kisses at the wound on his brow. "And I'm taking you to Paris."
"Promises, promises," Q laughs.
They drink champagne straight from the bottle and kiss until sunrise and it may not be Paris, but it's theirs, and that's something.