Record I, Side B
Bond never asked about helping out with R&D, and after their treatment of Q, he didn't want to. But he was also bored and had nothing to do and couldn't stay in bed past six in the morning if he wasn't 1) injured; 2) with a partner or; 3) hungover. That left Bond with no option but to rise early and put coffee on. One of the few things he had purchased immediately was the percolator and coffee grounds. There were many things he could live without and coffee was one of them, but he most certainly preferred having it. Hence, the reason for his preparation.
That morning, it was raining, but Bond could still hear all of his neighbors waking and rising to the day. It was strange to have so many. Bond was used to living on the top floor of a building and having the entire space all to himself. Being between people felt strange, claustrophobic, somehow, and Bond didn't like it. He considered using his down time to look for a new flat, MI6's ire be damned.
As the coffee dripped, Bond went searching for a clean mug in a few of the nearby boxes. Just as he located one, he heard the neighbor upstairs tumble out of bed in a rush and hurry to the shower. The pipes rattled and groaned in Bond's flat as the hot water moved from the basement to the top floor. The light flickered above his stove.
With all his free time, Bond decided he would definitely be looking for a new flat.
Bond did not end up looking for a new flat.
There were too many paper adverts and zines as it was and the Internet just made things overwhelming. He thought about contacting an agent, but decided against it. He didn't want to deal with one right now; they always asked when a handsome bachelor like himself was going to settle down and that question irked Bond more than anything. So instead of doing what he thought he would do, Bond went to Six and worked out in the gym until the late afternoon. His shoulder hurt terribly, even so many months after being shot. But what alarmed Bond was that his knees and feet hurt too; his legs felt weak after an exercise routine that would have been a cakewalk a year ago.
Bond took a scalding shower and tried desperately not to think about it.
That was difficult when he went to the shooting range afterward and completely did a fuck up job of hitting the targets. His hand shook, his shoulder ached, and Bond wanted to punch something bloody because he was worthless.
He picked up liquor on his way home and once he arrived, Bond didn't bother to turn on the lights. He wasn't hungry. He didn't want to sleep. All he wanted to do was drink until he couldn't anymore, until this feeling of inadequacy left him. Because he couldn't find a tumbler, Bond drank from a juice glass he had the luck of finding in the box nearest the couch.
The person upstairs came home at quarter to seven; he heard the door close above him. Bond was heady with drink by that point. His head was swimming. He hated it, but he couldn't stop. He hated himself, he hated the flat, he hated how everyone else could keep on going like everything was fine, like M wasn't dead. Bond looked at the bulldog on the coffee table and thought of her, felt her weight and the last bit of warmth leaving her. He scrubbed at his hands and at the back of his neck. Her blood was there, he could feel it. It would never wash away, because he killed her.
Bond picked up the glass and tried to drink, but his hand shook as he thought of M and targets and Scotland and being useless and he couldn't.
He hurled the glass at the wall.
The sound of shattering glass somehow made him feel better. He picked up one of the empty bottles near him and threw that. Then another and another. Then he threw the half-empty bottle. The liquor splashed on the wall; the glass splintered onto the floor.
But it wasn't enough.
Bond kicked over boxes and threw their contents. He tipped over the chairs and lamps and end tables. In his fit, he overturned the coffee table and smashed the glass top. It went everywhere, along with M's bulldog.
The sight of it made him stop: that ugly porcelain bulldog broken into big red, blue, and white chunks on the carpet. But it wasn't just any old figurine; it had been M's. It had been M's and that was all he had left of her and he had ruined it just like he'd ruined her, ruined her faith in him.
Bond didn't realise he was kneeling in the mess of glass until he felt a few pieces piercing his knees. He didn't realise he was frantically saying no, no, no over and over again as he tried to collect the broken pieces among the glass. His hands were torn up with cuts by the time he had finished. Blood had soaked into the carpet, into his trousers. There were flecks of it in the glass, on the bulldog.
He brought it carefully into the kitchen, where he put down all the pieces on the countertop. With luck, he might be able to put it back together. He might be able to salvage something of this mess he'd made. He wondered if he could.
He wondered if he deserved to.
Upstairs, it was silent.
Bond spent the next day hungover and cleaning up his flat with stinging, bandaged hands. He didn't go to Six or call in or even answer his phone when it rang a few times throughout the day. Instead, he dumped all the remaining alcohol down the drain and binned all the rubbish. Then he went to the corner store and picked up real food and some adhesive glue. When he returned, Bond put all the food in the fridge and sat at the kitchen counter to put M's bulldog back together. It was hard work and it didn't quite look the same, but it didn't look bad either. When it had dried, Bond put it up on the mantle where he would not break it again.
At three in the afternoon, his neighbor moved around a bit upstairs. Bond heard the sound of the vacuum, then the soft murmur of the telly. After some time, the telly went off and was replaced by the sound of the piano.
Bond went and opened the window to let in the afternoon breeze and wondered about the person above him. Was it a man? A woman? What did they do at MI6? Did they want something different for themselves? Is that why the music always sounded sad? Bond went and sat on the couch, directly beneath where he believed the piano to be on the floor above, where he could hear better. Whoever they were, they were very good, probably someone who had learnt at a young age and actually kept up with it, unlike Bond's brief flirtations with music. He leant back and closed his eyes. His head was clearer today. There were clouds on the horizon, yes, but the music held the storm at bay.
He felt at peace.
He wondered if M did, too.
He made it two days without drinking, trying for a more healthy lifestyle, and then Bond woke himself in the middle of the night shouting and falling out of bed.
He lay on the floor in the dark, panting and sweating and shaking. Bond rarely had dreams, but he had dreamt that night. He had dreamt about Scotland and fire and drowning. He had dreamt about blood and M. He had dreamt that Silva was still alive, that the last wretched rat had somehow made it off the island. There was bile in the back of his throat, but Bond kept himself from vomiting by sheer force of will.
Eventually, the panic subsided. Bond could breathe again. He smelled like sweat and fear and his feet were cold. Weakly, he crawled back into bed. The clock on the bedside said it was near two in the morning.
Above him, he heard the quiet movement of feet, then, they returned to the space just above Bond's head. A soft note played out, the long sweep of a bow over strings. It transitioned into a slow, soothing song that Bond had never heard before. His heart rate returned to normal, as did his breathing, and he felt the adrenaline leaving him, allowing exhaustion to seep in through his bones and sinews. Bond stared at the ceiling, at the place where the person played so beautifully directly above him, until his eyes closed.
The notes caressed him to sleep.
Bond didn't know what possessed him.
The next morning, after the upstairs neighbor departed for work, Bond went up to the fifth floor and left a note on their door.
Thank you
-407
He decided to give up on looking for a flat and focussed more on his physical training. He would have to pass the exam to be allowed back in the field, after all, and he didn't have M behind him this time to look the other way if the scores were not up to par. Begrudgingly, Bond had to admit that he needed some help with his shoulder, but instead of going to Medical, he used the Internet to look up exercises, which he did in the privacy of his own flat using a tennis ball and an old belt. At Six, he did cardio as often as he could and strength in between, but his numbers were nothing like they used to be. It was only after he weighed himself that he realised it might be because he had dropped almost an entire weight class. He resolved to try to gain back a bit of weight, which meant eating more, even if he didn't feel like it half the time. But he hated eating in the canteen, because everyone stared, so Bond grabbed a to-go meal and went in search of a place to eat.
That is how he found himself in Q-Branch.
Bond bypassed the R&D section and went straight for TSS. It was relatively quiet. The big screen on the wall had multiple code sequences running, none of which made any sense to Bond. There were few people at their workstations but Q was not among them. Bond crept along the back wall and ducked down the narrow corridor to Q's office. The door was open. Q sat behind his desk, slouched over as if in some sort of agony. He had a headset on and was pinching at the bridge of his nose, as if strained by whatever conversation was happening in his ear.
When he caught sight of Bond, he straightened up a bit with a sort of thank god expression.
"You know, that all sounds like something to bring up to the budgetary committee. Why don't you draft a proposal and bring it to the Tuesday meeting?" Q suggested, and then, quickly added: "And you know what, something has just come up that I've got to handle, so I'm going to have to let you go. Uh-huh. Yes. Bye."
Q barely said his farewell before he had ripped off the headset and tossed it aside with a groan.
"Long day, dear?" Bond asked; Q shot him the middle finger. Bond laughed and pulled up a chair. It was piled with important looking documents, which the agent decided would look better on the floor. Q didn't seem to care. He had his head on the desk.
"I didn't sign up for this," he grumbled.
"What did you sign up for?" Bond asked curiously. Q sat up, his hair a riotous mess, glasses slightly askew.
"To do the things I'm good at," Q replied, dumping a pile of folders into a stack on the floor, "not this administrative bullshit."
"You seem good at it," Bond said, pulling his lunch out of the bag.
"I fake it until I make it," Q replied.
"I thought Quartermaster was making it?" Bond asked.
"I didn't ask for this position, you know. I would have been perfectly happy taking over as someone a few levels down in the hierarchy. Could have probably done a lot more work with all the time I would have had on my hands…" Q groused, then looked at Bond's takeaway container. "Are you eating in my office?"
"Yes," Bond replied.
"Did you at least have the decency to bring me anything?" Q asked. Bond rummaged around inside his bag.
"Crisps?" Bond offered.
"Get out," Q said, pointing at the open door.
"I'll give you half my sandwich," Bond said. Q looked a little more reasonable.
"What kind of sandwich?" he asked.
"Does it matter? Beggars can't be choosers."
"You drive a hard bargain, but I'll accept."
Bond ripped the container in half and slid over the offering. Q's expression made Bond think of someone who had just been offered gold and gems on a diamond platter.
"They don't let you out much, do they?" Bond asked.
"No. Even if they did, I've got too much work to do," Q sighed, picking the crust off his sandwich. "I got some time off recently, though. It was nice. I slept almost all day."
"Why are you murdering that?" Bond asked, pointing to the bits of bread on the makeshift plate.
"I don't like sesame seeds," Q replied with a shrug, before biting into his sandwich. He made a face as he chewed, then set the sandwich down to begin dissecting it.
"Now what are you doing?" Bond asked.
"Tomatoes are gross," Q said.
"They're good for you."
"Gross."
"You're odd."
"You have no right to talk," Q told him, as he put his now tomato-less sandwich back together.
"Why's that?"
"You're really opening a can of worms with that one."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
Bond grinned round a mouthful of tomato and turkey.
"So what's your story?" Bond asked.
"No story," Q answered.
"Why?" Bond asked.
"I'm not the story type."
"Why's that?"
"Stories are for children and people who have too much time on their hands," Q replied, disinterestedly.
"You must be great at parties," Bond said, with emphasis on his heavy sarcasm.
"I am always the life of the party," Q answered.
"Really."
"Of course. If I ever went to parties."
"Oh?"
"Can't you tell? I don't like people," Q said.
"Nope, couldn't tell," Bond replied. "Do you not like me?"
"I especially don't like you," Q replied.
They were both grinning at this point. It was the easiest conversation Bond had had in a long time. Q pointedly ignored his ringing phone for the duration of their meal. At the end, they split the small package of crisps.
"Thanks," Q said.
"For what?" Bond asked, pausing only momentarily from gathering up the rubbish.
"The sandwich," Q replied.
"It was well worth the tradeoff," Bond said.
"For what?" Q asked.
"Good company," Bond answered.
Q went a bit pink at the compliment and promptly shooed Bond out of the chair and toward the door. Bond was not even half out the corridor when he heard Q's voice call out to him.
"Prawn sandwiches. With pickle."
"Is that a hint?" Bond asked, turning to poke his head back into the office. Q was already typing away at his computer with one hand and reaching for his headset with the other. He didn't even spare Bond a glance as he replied:
"That's my price. Now get out of here. Some of us have work to do."
It was only later, when Bond was on his way back to the flat, that he realised he hadn't stopped smiling.
When Bond returned home that night, there was no message on his door, but the following morning, when he was going out for a quick jog, he found one clinging to the place just beside the peephole.
You're welcome.
Always,
-507
The writing was slanted and the letters sat close together, like the person wrote with their left hand. It was distinctly masculine, but the word always seemed romantic in a way that was quite feminine, so Bond did not want to assume. He went inside and found a takeaway menu in one of his kitchen drawers. He wrote a message on it, then went upstairs and shoved it into the space between 507's door jam and frame.
Will you play for me again sometime?
-407
Bond forgot about it after a particularly hard workout, followed by a hot shower in the MI6 locker room. It definitely slipped his mind around midday, because he was too focussed on remembering to get a prawn sandwich with pickle and with no sesame seeds to bring to Q.
"Careful, I could get used to this," Q warned him, when Bond arrived with two to-go bags instead of one.
"What's wrong with that?" Bond asked, setting the bag next to Q's keyboard, careful to avoid his Scrabble mug in the process.
"What will happen when you're gone? I'll have to fend for myself," Q said.
"Can't you get one of your minions to do it?" Bond asked.
"Minions oh, that's brilliant," Q breathed.
"Now I've started something," Bond said, pulling out his sandwich from the bag.
"Something dreadful. They'll hate it," Q replied, unwrapping his lunch.
Bond leaned back in his chair and watched as Q evaluated the sandwich, as if making sure it was up to his standards.
"Do you like them?" Bond asked.
"Who?" Q asked, before taking a bite.
"The minions," Bond clarified, taking up his own sandwich as Q chewed thoughtfully.
"Of course. It would be hard to work with them if I didn't," Q replied.
"Do they like you?" Bond asked.
"That's a question for them, not me."
"What do you think?"
"Probably not."
"Why?"
"Office politics. I'm their boss. Probability says that they most likely don't like me," Q replied with a shrug. "In fact, I'm technically your superior, too. So you probably won't like me either."
"I like you," Bond said. "When you're not telling me to get on a train thirty seconds too late. Or telling me to put my back into it."
"Yes, well, I like you, too," Q replied. "When you're not being a complete arse. Or giving me some excuse about a komodo dragon eating my equipment."
"That is legitimate. Moneypenny saw the whole thing."
"The point is that you'll be back in the field soon," Q said. "You'll probably yell and scream at me and I'll probably do the same to you. Office politics. Almost everyone hates their boss."
Bond leant back in his chair.
"Mallory's your boss," Bond said.
"Yes," Q replied, taking another bite of his sandwich.
"Do you hate him?" Bond asked.
Q chewed for a bit, then swallowed. He didn't answer right away, instead fiddling with his bag of crisps.
"I don't hate him, but I don't particularly like him either. He's not terrible, I mean," Q said carefully, then sighed, "but he's not her."
"No one will ever be her," Bond said.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up," Q said, pointedly not looking at him.
"You can talk about her," Bond told him, even though the thought of doing so hurt him. He thought about the bulldog on his mantle at home, how he had cut up his hands trying to salvage whatever was left of its splintered remains. Then he saw Q looking at him, but trying not to look at him at the same time, like it was painful. It took Bond a moment to understand why, but then he saw it, clear as day: Q felt guilty. He felt responsible for M's death, like Bond felt responsible, like he failed her. Q was trying not to show it, but Bond could see it, because that is what he saw in the mirror every morning and every night. He was familiar with the signs of guilt and mourning and self-loathing. It seemed wrong somehow on Q, who really was too young to look so sad. Bond wanted to console him, but did not know how. So he said: "Really. You can if you want to."
"I'd rather not," Q said, and cleared his throat. The silence edged on uncomfortable. "Maybe, though, that's why no one particularly likes me, either. I'm a replacement myself."
Bond looked at Q, who tried to smile, but it was a half-thing that didn't look right on his face. He was much too pretty to be looking so broken.
"You're not awful," Bond said, and Q's lip quirked, fighting a smile. "But your fashion sense is. Are you colourblind?"
Q threw a crisp at him.
"You don't know the meaning of awful. You'll see soon enough," Q promised.
"Oh?" Bond replied, interested.
"Didn't you hear?" Q asked, raising a brow.
"Hear what?"
"You're slated for physical examinations next week. Tuesday morning."
Bond did very well not to let any emotion show on his face. It was news, that was for sure. Bond had thought that it would be at the beginning of next month, at the end of his leave. It was about six days too early. As much as he wanted to go back in the field, his stamina had yet to return, and he was still not back to his appropriate weight despite his best efforts. Bond wondered if Mallory was behind it. He had a feeling the new "M" was just looking for an excuse to retire him, and poor physical scores were just the thing.
"No one said anything," Bond said.
"Ah, well, that's...you didn't hear it from me, then…" Q replied, leaning back in his chair.
"Well, thanks for the warning," Bond said, a bit absentmindedly.
He was already thinking about what he could possibly do between now and the exam. There was only so far Bond could push himself before he did more harm than good. Unlike the old regime, Bond knew there would be no room for second chances. He either passed or retired. That was the new way of things. Without saying another word, Bond cleaned up his mess and prepared to leave. Q stopped him at the door.
"Bond," he said.
Bond turned to regard him. Q had stood up from behind his desk and he looked a little awkward, like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the words.
"Good luck," Q said.
"I don't need luck," Bond replied.
"Please, you make luck your business," Q said, and Bond couldn't help but laugh at that, because it was true, but he wasn't about to admit that.
The next morning, Bond woke with some anxiety. He did one hundred pushups and situps on the hardwood floor between the living room and kitchen and tried not to think about the upcoming exam. But even reps could not stop him from worrying, just like the morning jog round the neighborhood did not stop him, and he was just thinking he might become overwhelmed with all of it when he saw it clinging to his front door. Another Post-It note that read:
Of course.
Just tap three times and I'll play you a lullaby.
Always,
-507
Bond felt some of the tension drain away.
And he smiled.
After a hard day of training, Bond lay in bed that evening, sore in every bone and muscle and absolutely unable to sleep. He thought about the Post-It notes he put in the drawer in the kitchen. Tap three times the neighbor had said, like Bond's request hadn't been odd. They did not even know one another and here Bond was, asking for favours; here this person was, giving them. Bond thought maybe he shouldn't take them up on the offer, but it was approaching midnight and he didn't want to sleep or try to find a pill to help him sleep. So instead, Bond sat up in bed, then stood up on the mattress and knocked three times on the ceiling.
Above him, nothing but silence for the longest time. Then Bond heard the gentle creak of a bed, the flick of a lamp turning on, followed by the shuffle of feet moving into the living room. Bond strained his ears for the longest time. He heard the clock ticking in the kitchen and the hum of hot water in the pipes and the gentle patter of rain on the side of the building.
But there was no violin tonight. No piano, either. Bond thought that perhaps the stranger hadn't meant it after all. Maybe they were just trying to be polite and Bond had woken them up for no reason. He lay back down and stared at the ceiling, feeling guilty for rousing the nameless person above him at such an hour, wondering how on earth he could apologise...
And then he heard it.
The notes were so soft that Bond almost missed them entirely. They meshed with the rain, something indescribably beautiful and sad. But as the song progressed, there was something born of that pain, something a bit more hopeful, though still somehow very fragile. Bond couldn't attribute the feeling to any single word in the English language or any image. It was something that transcended all knowledge and experience while at the same time encompassing all of it.
It was heartbreaking.
And then the music quieted, until it was just as it had started, a soft and lonely murmur against his skin. The last notes seemed to reverberate long after the player had stopped and returned to bed. Bond stared at the ceiling in the dark and wished he understood how this person he never met could play music that touched him so deeply, so intimately.
He wondered, just for a moment, if it was impossible to fall in love without ever having met.
Before he left for Six the next morning, Bond wrote out a note and taped it to 507's door:
The song you played last night
is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard
Could I trouble you for a recording?
-407
Bond walked down the hallway and then went back to the door. He considered tearing it down and not leaving it, but, in the end, he let it remain. Two days passed with no contact from upstairs, and Bond nearly ran himself into the ground working in the training rooms to give it much thought. It was on the morning of the third day, when Bond was sipping at his morning coffee, that he heard the gentle sound of something sliding beneath his door. Bond immediately went to investigate and found a white paper envelope on his doormat. Inside was a thin jewel case with a writable CD inside. The disc depicted the numbers 407 in black permanent marker, and yesterday's date. There was no note included in the case, but when Bond looked at the envelope, he found a line inside the flap:
No trouble at all.
Always,
-507
He hurried to open the front door and glanced down the corridor towards the lift, then the stairs, but the hallway was empty.
Full Music Version on my AO3 Account
First song: Twilight by Roy Todd
Second song: The Song of the Caged Bird by Lindsey Stirling
Third Song: Cloud Atlas Sextet composed by Tom Tykwer
Next chapter up by Monday, May 26, 2014.
Cheers,
D