Interlude
Neither of them takes leave, but they end up in a lull at MI6 that allows Q to work from home and Bond to do nothing but try to distract him. They don't talk about it-the inevitable future-even though the thought of it lingers at the back of their minds constantly. But Bond can tell that Q is trying because he's smiling a bit more without his usual restraint, and Bond thinks that if they can forget, even just for a moment, then their happiness might just last.
Money is no object, so Bond makes reservations at the most expensive restaurants and hotels, because Q deserves the finer things-outstanding food, beautiful scenery, bedsheets made from the highest thread count-in life, after everything he's been through. So Bond gets Q fitted for a nice suit and takes him to eat at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester and then books a suite for a weekend at Claridge's in Mayfair. The moment they walk through the door, Q is not marvelling at the beautiful space or the silken luxuries or the piano set under a window that looks out at the heart of the city. Instead, he just grins and pulls Bond toward the massive king-sized bed. They kick off their shoes and jump on the bed like children, and Bond really has never seen Q look happier, even after they spend the rest of the night making love on every possible surface.
It is only after that weekend-when Bond is trying to find ways to recreate the happiness in Q's expression-that he discovers that the lavishness is not necessary. Bond should have known that from the beginning, that Q's tastes are simple: Q likes food regardless of who cooked it, three Michelin stars or no, and he does not need a suite in Mayfair to make love to Bond like it's going out of trend.
Bond then tries to think of more meaningful ways for them to spend their free time. They take walks every morning and go to museums when they can-the National Gallery, the Victoria and Albert, the Royal Botanic Gardens-and they make it a habit to dance together on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, whether at the studio down the street from them or in the comfort of their own living room. Every day holds something to look forward to, and Bond feels complete in a way that he has never felt, made more perfect by Q's smile and the hands and lips on him at night. A year ago, Bond would not have thought this sort of happiness possible, and so he tries not to think about the end and the fact that there are no calendars or clocks in their flat anymore because measuring it is simply unbearable.
"That was a disaster," Q says, as they sit on the couch and eat takeaway, trying to ignore the smell of burnt bolognese. Bond thinks about revising the idea that they try experimenting in the kitchen more often.
"Not a disaster until we have to call the fire department," Bond replies, and steals a dumpling from Q's plate.
"There's always next time," Q says, and spars with Bond using his chopsticks. Bond lets him win, lets him take a piece of sweet and sour chicken and pineapple without a fuss, and watches him munch away happily on it. He does not realise that he is staring until Q raises an eyebrow at him and asks: "What?"
"Nothing," Bond says.
They clean up a bit and watch a film. Bond holds Q's feet in his lap while the other man works on something on his computer. It is not until later, when they are preparing for bed, that Bond speaks what's on his mind.
"There has to be a way," he says, and Q stops halfway through the process of pulling back the duvet. Grey eyes regard him with understanding, and his expression softens a bit as he slides between the sheets.
"I should never have told you," Q replies.
"It was eating you up," Bond says, as he joins his lover in bed.
"I shouldn't have lost control like that," Q answers, shaking his head against the pillow. "I should know better by now to not let it get to me. There's nothing that can be done."
"There has to be something," Bond says, a touch desperate, as Q removes his glasses and puts them on the bedside.
"Everything in life and death is cyclical. There's no cheating it," Q tells him, and takes Bond's hand. He squeezes it gently. "Believe me, I've tried."
Bond does not want to know what that entails, how much more pain Q has had to endure, so instead he asks:
"What can we do?"
"There's nothing we can do...except what we're doing. Being happy while we can."
"No, I refuse to accept it."
Q kisses him softly, sadly, and Bond never wants to let him go.
"It's alright," Q tells him.
"It's not alright. It's not going to be alright, how can you say that?" Bond replies, because it's not going to be alright, not when he gets the easy way out. He gets to die and forget Q will be left alone to mourn and wait and remember.
"It's never really goodbye."
Bond feels it resonate true inside of him, but the thought of leaving Q is equally painful. He thinks back to the first night they spent together, and the way he said I'm going to hurt you and the look in Q's eyes when he answered I know.
Q knew all along how it would end.
"How can you...again and again...all of this pain…?" Bond whispers, and for one treacherous moment, wishes that he was not in love, just so that he would not have to hurt like this.
"It never gets easier, saying goodbye to you," Q confides in him. "But I'd rather love and lose you than never have met you at all."
Bond closes his eyes, because looking at Q is nothing but agony, and he hates the universe for being so unfair. He always believed that he chose his own path, but it had always been an illusion. All roads led to this-to Q-where they would meet only briefly before losing one another to time, over and over again.
"James."
"We have to change it."
"I wish...I wish we could," Q says, and for the first time in the conversation, his voice breaks. Bond opens his eyes and sees that he is crying, still trying to smile. "Just once...I want to grow old with you."
"Then we'll grow old together."
"James…"
"No, we will," Bond says, and pulls Q close to him, wrapping their bodies in the warmth and safety of their bedsheets. It might be a dream, but Bond is not about to say that. Instead, he pets at Q's hair and asks: "Where do you want to go?"
"Wherever you are."
"If you could live anywhere-"
"It doesn't matter, so long as you're there."
Bond slides his hands under the hem of Q's nightshirt, and the man against his chest hums in approval.
"Where do you think is the most beautiful place on Earth?"
"This bed, because you're in it."
"Now you're just being a brat."
Q laughs and moulds himself against Bond. Their heartbeats and breaths are one and the same.
"I loved Italy," Q says, after a moment.
"Italy?" Bond repeats. He did not take Q for favouring sunshine and the Mediterranean.
"Yes," Q answers, and nuzzles Bond's neck. "Don't get me wrong, Greece was wonderful, too, and I'll always consider it to be home, but...Italy… I've never been so inspired by a place. Must have been the Renaissance."
"How was that?" Bond asks, round a laugh.
"Enlightening," Q says, and sighs. "Romantic."
"Tell me more," Bond says, and slides his hands beneath the waistband of Q's track bottoms to cup his arse.
"You were an artist," Q tells him, as he moves his hips against Bond's. "You painted me once, you know."
"Did I?" Bond asks, letting his head fall back as Q kisses his way up the column of his throat.
"Mm, yes. A nude portrait. Not quite as scandalous as it sounds, though, everyone was doing it," Q replies, and Bond's breath stutters a bit when Q sucks a mark just under his jaw.
"Now that's something I'd like to see," Bond murmurs, sliding his hands round to rest at Q's hips as the other man begins to undress him. "But should I be jealous? That you're hanging in a gallery somewhere for everyone to see?"
Q pauses momentarily and there is an expression on his face that Bond has never seen, but then he smiles and leans down to kiss Bond on the mouth.
"You don't have to worry about that," he says.
They make love with all the lights on. Above him, Q is breathtaking, but his eyes are somewhere else entirely. Bond places his hands on Q's hips to still him.
"Q," Bond says, letting his hand's move up and then down Q's thighs. Q is barely hard and Bond feels himself flagging in response. He caresses Q's sides, thumbs sliding up over the front of his ribs and asks: "What's wrong?"
"There was a fire," Q replies and closes his eyes. That tells Bond everything he needs to know. He takes Q's hand in his and kisses his palm, keeping his gaze fixed on Q until he composes himself and looks back at Bond. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Bond tells him, and manoeuvres Q until they are lying side by side. They've both lost their arousal, but that does not matter. Bond pulls Q close, until the other man is a warm line against his body.
"I sometimes wish...I didn't remember…" Q murmurs, kissing at the mark on Bond's chest. "That I didn't know…Is that horrible of me?"
"No," Bond says and kisses his hair. "Maybe in one life, you won't, and you'll get to fall in love again."
"Do you think?" Q asks, and he sounds so young and hopeful that Bond cannot help but lie to him.
"I think so," Bond says.
Q rests his palm over Bond's heart and taps his finger in time with his heartbeat.
"Tell me again," he says, just when the silence begins to lull. Bond does not have to ask what he means.
"We'll grow old together," Bond tells him, taking Q's hand in his. "We have all the time in the world."
Their sheets are skin warm, comforting, like the thrum of traffic outside, the steady beating of their hearts, Q's fingers curled around his own. Bond wants to stay like this indefinitely, permanently, because it feels like nothing can touch them, not even Fate.
"We have nothing but time."