Chapter 2
Jamaica
A few months later…
Bond stretched out on the deck of his yacht and stared up at the clear blue sky. No clouds. Smooth, sparkling seas. Lovely, beautiful weather.
Just like yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.
He was determined to give retirement a serious try, but it was damned hard. He'd never imagined that it would be so difficult. He ached for something to do.
Something that wasn't working out in his gym, diving in the crystal-clear Caribbean waters, or sailing and fishing in his boat. So far, he'd been moderate (for him) in terms of his drinking and womanizing, and he had eschewed the prescription drugs that had given him trouble the last time he'd tried to leave.
He'd been good. Really. He was trying.
But he was so damned bored.
He'd made an effort over the past few months to keep in touch with people he knew by sending them postcards. This had proven to be easier said than done, as he was a reticent man who wasn't social unless he needed to be. Some of the recipients of his missives were likely highly exasperated with him by now; he'd made an extra effort to send Q the most garish postcards he could find (one had even been pineapple-scented) with inane updates on his life:
"Fished today. Caught a couple. Did you like the barracuda I shipped to you last week?"
(Text message from Q: "Bond! You should know better than to send me raw fish *without ice* in regular mail. The mailroom wants your guts for garters. It still stinks down there, as, I am sure, was your intent.")
He'd sent much more polite and respectful postcards to Drake Sr., and had in return received a visit from Stuart Thomas, who had evidently been sent to do what amounted to a wellness check on him.
Having verified that while Bond was bored, he was not about to explode like a keg of gunpowder, Thomas had moved on with his seafaring; he'd stopped by Jamaica on his way around the Caribbean islands, doing whatever he did these days (rumor had it that he was the man known as 'the one-eyed pirate' who showed up and kicked ass whenever there was something nefarious going on in the high seas).
Bond sighed again and pushed his sunglasses up his nose from where they'd slid down slightly.
Maybe he'd ask to join Thomas the next time he stopped by.
For now, he was bored, and he'd had enough of the sun and water for the day. He might as well go back to shore and…
He racked his brain for something different to do that he hadn't done yesterday or the day before.
Ah. He'd start binge-watching that show with the dragons everyone was so wild about. That was on his very short to-do list, wasn't it?
With that, he headed back to shore.
. . . . .
With the two fish he'd caught in hand, he made his barefooted way up the pier to his little bungalow (with all the state-of-the-art amenities for comfort, of course), thinking about what he'd do with them. One he'd grill and the other…
Maybe he'd send it to Alec's place. Mail at Six would be on their guard now for smelly packages (and so they should; it was their job to parse out suspicious packages, wasn't it?). It didn't matter if Alec was hardly home; the more rotten the fish got while it waited for him, the better.
No, Bond sighed. He'd send it to Q, overnight on dry ice this time. He deserved a nice treat every once in a while. He worked much too hard.
Something caught his eye then, something that hadn't been there that morning when he'd left, a small, dark-colored lump on the wooden pier. It wasn't a dead leaf from the overhanging tree or a lizard sunning itself.
It was a clump of ashes from a cigar.
Returning to his boat with an eager spring to his step, he laid down the fish and retrieved his gun, feeling a thrill of excitement run through his body for the first time in months.
Had someone come to kill him? Or perhaps…
Only one way to find out.
He entered his home casually, the Walther held loosely in his hand, dangling almost sloppily. He was on his guard, of course, but he was more curious than cautious.
He entered and saw no one. Nothing different.
Then there, on the hall table.
A cigar butt. He walked over to it and picked it up, despite knowing that he really shouldn't pick up strange objects intruders had left in his home.
Cuban. Electado.
He grinned.
Felix.
. . . . .
Felix had already gotten himself a drink and was lounging in a beach chair by the pool when Bond dropped down into the chair next to his, setting the gun aside on the glass table.
"Why don't you make yourself at home, Felix?" Bond asked ironically, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.
Felix raised his glass. "Where've you been, James? I had to fix myself a drink. What the hell kinda host are you?"
"The kind who wasn't expecting company," Bond snorted and laid himself out in his chair with a contented sigh. He crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes.
Felix looked over at him sideways, in that way spies had: Never look someone straight on when you can look at them sideways, unless you're going for intimidation or urgency. "How's retirement treating you, brother?" he asked, letting his eyes do some assessing of their own.
"I'm bored."
Now it was Felix's turn to snort. "You look it. Why don't you find something to do?"
"Like what? Writing romance novels?" Bond had, in his boredom, checked out a couple of ex-CIA agent Ivar Bryce's books (written under the hilariously cringeworthy penname of Amanda Mount), but had been left completely uninspired (although thoroughly amused).
Felix lifted his sunglasses off of his face to stare at him. "Why…? If you want to, sure, why the hell not?" he asked, sounding slightly - and deservedly - befuddled. Apparently he did not know what his former colleague had been up to in his retirement.
"I don't."
"Okay, then. How about…" Felix fished around for a suitable hobby for James Bond, (former) international man of mystery. Ah-ha! Fishing. Which Bond had probably thought of on his own, judging by the holey old t-shirt the man was wearing with a whiff of eau de poisson, which was a far cry from the Men's Vogue cover-worthy outfits he usually wore. Unless he'd let loose so far in his retirement that he literally didn't care what he was wearing or smelled like, Bond had definitely come in from a day of fishing.
"Knitting?" Bond suggested with an amused smirk.
Felix tried to imagine James Bond knitting and found his brain short-circuiting. "Uh…If you want. Incidentally, are these things you've already tried?" If they were, then Bond was further on in his descent into madness than Felix had thought.
"No."
"Uh huh. Okay, then. Um." His real questions unanswered, Felix sat back in his chair and let the silence settle awkwardly between them.
"The thing is, Felix," Bond said conversationally, "I didn't think I'd actually survive the job. I had this place ready for if I did, but it was more of a…" He waved his hand, trying half-heartedly to find the word.
"Safe house?"
"Something like it. Retirement option, but not seriously. Something to look forward to, but never attain. Now I'm here and I don't know what the bloody hell to do with myself." The frustration in Bond's voice was palpable.
"Yeah. I guess settling down ain't much fun if you're all on your lonesome on this gorgeous tropical island paradise," Felix said unsympathetically. "Easier to share it with someone, isn't it?"
"Yeah." Bond sat, lost in thought. "Thanks, Felix." He got up and headed for the bar (fully-stocked, of course) to get a drink of his own.
"For what?" Felix propped himself up on his elbows to watch him go.
"I've got an idea," Bond called back over his shoulder.
"Hooo, boy," Felix said, getting up from his seat and following Bond to the shade. He needed to refresh his drink anyway. "Does it have explosions in it? Because you know you're not allowed to have those anymore."
"No."
"You gonna share with the class?"
Bond, of course, only gave him a mysterious smile and didn't say another word about it.
. . . . .
Three days later
Norway
James Bond watched the woman step out of the clinic and fish in her purse for her car keys, not knowing that she was being watched.
He knew he didn't have long to wait; old habits die hard, even when one isn't really in the game and only came into it by pure bad luck.
He saw her tense at the sensation of his eyes on her, saw her glance up and around.
Blue eyes met his.
"James."
"Hello, Madeleine."
. . . . .
Two years later (incidentally, five months post-vasectomy reversal surgery)
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 09:47 GMT
To: Bond
Congratulations! I'm so happy for you both!' (baby emoji)
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 09:48 GMT
To: Bond
'BTW, I noticed you purchased some craft supplies and watched a few videos. My father swears by these tutorials. Enjoy!'
Attachment: Links to beginner instructions and videos for knitting.
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 09:48 GMT
To: Bond
'Tell Madeleine she's absolutely glowing.' (pink and blue hearts)
..
New text message from Bond
13 January 2019 09:48 GMT
To: Q
'Q, stop being creepy and come for a proper visit.'
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 09:49 GMT
To: Bond
'Busy.'
..
New text message from Bond
13 January 2019 09:49 GMT
To: Q
'Don't you want to meet your godson before he's born?'
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 10:06 GMT
To: Bond
'You don't know the baby's gender yet. It's too early to tell, and you haven't even scheduled the appointment to find out. Besides, I'd rather meet your son or daughter after the birth, thanks. Babies are much more entertaining then.'
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 10:07 GMT
To: Bond
'You're joking, aren't you?'
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 10:07 GMT
To: Bond
'You're not really making me your child's godfather?'
..
New text message from Bond
13 January 2019 10:10 GMT
To: Q
(Smiley face)
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 10:10 GMT
To: Bond
'Bond.'
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 10:32 GMT
To: Bond
'Why did you tell M that I am in dire need of a vacation? You know I'm far too busy to take time off for frivolities.'
..
New text message from Q
13 January 2019 10:46 GMT
To: Bond
'Bond, answer me, damn it. I know you've seen my messages.'
..
. . .
New text message from Madeleine
13 January 2019 12:03 CET (11:03 GMT)
To: James
'Q sent me flowers at the office. Did you tell him?'
Attachment: Picture of an immense bouquet of flowers in pastel colors, but subtle enough to hide the reason.
..
New text message from James
13 January 2019 12:03 CET (11:03 GMT)
To: Madeleine
'He's Q. He knows everything.'
..
New text message from Madeleine
13 January 2019 12:04 CET (11:04 GMT)
To: James
'He knows my favorite flowers are foxgloves?'
..
New text message from James
13 January 2019 12:04 CET (11:04 GMT)
To: Madeleine
'Everything, Madeleine. Everything.'
. . . . .
Notes:
That show with the dragons: Game of Thrones, obviously. It started in 2011 and this story takes place in 2016, so Bond has a few seasons to catch up on.
Madeleine is in this fic, not because I particularly like her (I really don't), but because I like the idea of Mathilde and the Bond-Q thing coming full circle (not just from their first conversation but also Q being the son of an ex-007 and Bond becoming a father).
Also: Happy Mother's Day!