Apologies for the delay with this! I know there really aren't any excuses for making you all wait so long, but a lot of life things piled up. I applied for some great jobs, jumped through all the interview hoops, and got nowhere. Then, for about two weeks, I thought my university was not going to grant me my degree because of a paperwork error, and spent the majority of that time trying to fix things with administration and my practicum site. And during all of this, my grandmother got sick and was diagnosed with stage three lung cancer, so we had doctor appointments, had to schedule the man to come to the house to get her on the oxygen machine, and now we've got chemo/radiation treatments to look forward to these next few months...
TL;DR life is hard and I was very busy and too upset to write. Also, a bit lazy at some points because all I wanted to do with my few free moments in between all of these traumas was to sleep. So, again, apologies! And I hope that this chapter makes up for the wait.
When Bond woke, it was to the sterile scent of hospital.
The edges of his vision were dark and unfocussed; it took some time before his eyes could adjust to the dim light overhead. It took even longer for the memories to return, the images distorted and fuzzy from the confusion and pain. Bond tried to take stock of himself, wiggling his fingers and toes to make sure that he still had them. They complied, but the actions felt removed from him somehow, as if his limbs were separate from his body. It occurred to him that the sensation was undoubtedly the result of strong medication.
"Bond."
Someone said his name from somewhere to his right, but it was too dark to see. That's when Bond realised that at some point, he had closed his eyes again.
"James."
The voice came softer now, as soft as the touch of fingers on the back of his hand. Even through that feeling of remoteness from his own body, Bond felt the warm brush of skin against his.
And he knew that touch anywhere.
"Q," he said, or tried to say. His throat was too dry.
A moment later, something plastic pressed against his lips. A straw, he realised, and took it gratefully, sighing as the cool water soothed his raw esophagus. Once he drank his fill, Bond felt tired and sated. The urge to sleep again pulled at every bone and muscle, every cell, and Bond could not fight it.
He slept.
The next time Bond woke, things were a little clearer, the smells a bit sharper.
He felt the tubes and tape adhesive pulling at his skin uncomfortably; his veins ached where the IV needle had been inserted in the back of his hand. The rest of him still felt separate, but a little closer than before, with only the dull recognition of his limbs' weight and slight discomfort to let Bond know he was still all there.
"James."
Bond turned his head.
Q sat in the chair beside his bed. He looked ten years older, drawn and aged in a way that Bond knew was entirely his fault.
"How long have I been out?" Bond asked, his voice gravelly with sleep and thirst. Q filled a cup with ice water from a pitcher on the bedside, then helped him drink as he had the last time Bond had been conscious.
"Over two weeks," Q answered, as he set the empty cup back on the side table.
"Two weeks?" Bond repeated.
Q's cold fingers wrapped around his. They trembled slightly.
"They performed surgery on you at Station T. Once you were stable, both you and 004 were sent home. That was about five days ago. You've been sleeping ever since."
"Surgery," Bond repeated, feeling a numbness creeping through his blood that had nothing to do with the medication and everything to do with dread.
"Two surgeries, actually. Reconstructive. You were clipped in the knee with a .22LR," Q said, rather pale. "You were lucky. They said if it had been a few millimetres closer to center , they would have been forced to remove your leg."
Bond stared at the ceiling. If he believed in God, he might have said a prayer of thanks that he still had both his legs. But the cold rush in his veins persisted, and Bond felt something acidic in his throat when he realised that he might have both legs, but that didn't mean that they necessarily had to be functional.
"Am I going to be able to walk again?" he asked.
"They say that in time, yes," Q replied.
There was something about the way he said it that Bond didn't like.
"But?" Bond prompted, bracing himself for the worst. Next to him, Q looked conflicted, as if debating on whether or not he should answer. Bond squeezed at his fingers as much as he was able. "But what, Q?"
"But the injuries were... extensive. You won't... be returning to active service…"
Bond closed his eyes.
And this time, he willed the world to slip away again.
When consciousness returned, it came with agony.
There were fiery splinters in his leg, radiating a sharp pain to the rest of his body with every heartbeat, every breath. Bond could feel everything now, all of his limbs present in his mind and hurting in ways that Bond hadn't hurt in a long time.
A hand squeezed his. Cold fingers, a slight tremor.
Q.
"-slowly be decreasing the medication over the next few days," came the fragment of conversation, of a voice that Bond did not recognise. "He will be in some discomfort during that time."
"And after?"
It was Q that time, his voice calm and level, but his hand still shook. His nails pressed into Bond's palm, but the slight pinpricks of pressure were nothing in comparison to the pain in the rest of his body.
"He'll need bedrest until the wound is completely healed. After that, intensive physical therapy. With this level of damage, it will be at least a few months until he regains general mobility."
Bond wished he could go back to sleep. Instead, he let the voices wash over him in a hum, focussing his attention on the pain. It was easier than listening to someone clinically speak about his injuries, his long recovery; better than listening to Q asking questions that just reinforced the fact that Bond would be a burden on him.
The voices soon quieted and Q's fingers unclenched around Bond's after some time passed.
"You can stop pretending you're asleep. He's gone," Q said.
When Bond opened his eyes, he saw Q sitting where he had been last. He looked exhausted, as if he had been sitting vigil ever since Bond arrived. Maybe he had, Bond thought, taking in Q's wrinkled clothes and slightly unshaven appearance. At the sight of him, all of his thoughts to refute Q's statement vanished and the only words that made it to his tongue were:
"I'm sorry."
Q's expression crumpled just a bit, the relief and tiredness breaking through momentarily, before he forced it back with a small smile.
"Don't apologise," Q said, and brought Bond's hand to his lips, where he placed a kiss to the crescent of skin not covered in tape. "I'm just happy you're alive."
Bond grunted in pain, and Q gingerly put his hand back down on the bed.
"You're going to be okay," Q told him.
"And how long will that take?"
"A while, but you'll be okay."
With the pain in his leg, Bond doubted him. He saw a long road of quasi-recovery ahead, a shameful retirement as a cripple. And then he imagined Q beside him during all of it, tired and worn and trying so hard to smile, weary with the obligation of having to care for Bond. Quartermaster of MI6 and his caretaker? Q would kill himself trying, Bond knew he would. He was so young. It just wasn't fair.
"We can't," Bond said, looking at the sheets on the bed, the tubes in his arms, everything but Q.
"What?"
Q held onto his hand, and as much as Bond wanted to keep it there, he knew he couldn't. Physically, he didn't have the strength to move away, so Bond had to use his words instead.
"We can't. This. Us...We can't."
Q's brow furrowed slightly as he tried to make sense of Bond's words. Once realisation flirted at the edge of his expression, Q replied:
"It's just the meds."
"It's not the meds."
"The pain, then."
"It's not the pain."
Q looked down at their joined hands.
"You don't get to do this, James," Q said quietly. "You can't just keep saying things and taking them back. You can't just almost die and then do this."
"It won't work," Bond said again, and looked down at himself, all bandages and needles and wires. "This is why."
"This is part of it," Q said, smoothing his thumb over the back of Bond's hand.
"It shouldn't be. I won't be a burden on you."
"You'd never be a burden to me."
"I can't even get up to take a piss."
"It's only temporary."
"And what if it isn't?"
"We'll figure it out."
Q did not let go of his hand, even when Bond tried to extricate his fingers
"Go," Bond said, but Q did not leave. Instead, he leant forward until he had his head tucked under Bond's chin. He kissed the hinge of Bond's jaw tenderly, with so much adoration that Bond felt his heart clench. Even the heart monitor caught it, an odd number of seconds between rhythmic beats.
"No," Q said, and Bond loved him so much that it hurt.
That is why he summed up all his strength to put his hand to Q's chest.
To push him away.
"Go," he said again.
"James-"
"I said go. And don't come back."
The pain of rejection showed so clearly in Q's expression that Bond nearly broke
Q stood and took up his coat. But when he was at the door, he didn't walk through it, just paused and looked back at Bond. Bond held his gaze as long as he dared, but Q turned away suddenly and rubbed at his eyes, and Bond did not have to see him to know that he was trying not to cry. His shoulders formed that rigid, tense line, as he hardened himself the best he could manage. He had one hand on the doorknob and as he turned it, he simply said:
"I'll be back tomorrow."
And then he was gone.
Later that day, when the nurse came in to give him a small dosage of pain medication, Bond asked her to not allow any visitors.
"None at all?" she asked.
"None," Bond said.
"Even the Quartermaster?"
"Especially the Quartermaster."
She frowned as she prepared a syringe.
"He's been so worried about you. In fact, I think this is the first time I've not seen him here since they brought you in."
"No visitors," Bond said again.
"I'll make a note of it."
The next time Bond woke, he was alone.
Over the next few weeks, Bond was always by himself.
Bond would wake up and there would be no one by his bedside, no one holding his hand, and he felt selfish in his first waking moments, wanting that comfort that Q had given him. Yes, he missed Q terribly, but Bond cared for Q too much to condemn him to a life less than what he deserved.
With Bond's request for no visitors, Q did not come round. But every few days the nurse brought fresh flowers for his bedside table and new books that Bond had never read. He didn't have to ask to know that they were from Q. Q who still cared despite Bond's harshness, who Bond knew would keep forgiving him over and over again. It was something Bond did not warrant, an abuse that Q shouldn't be forced to endure.
So Bond didn't ask to see him, even if every part of him wanted to.
Soon, the nurses began encouraging Bond to move about, but he couldn't do much on his own. It was shameful to have to call on someone every time he needed the restroom or to bathe. The Navy had long since squashed any embarrassment that came with bodily functions or nudity, but it was an entirely different matter to have someone bear witness to these things in this situation. Bond was no longer 007, no longer one of the most feared agents in the world. He was a crippled man who couldn't stand upright on his own two feet long enough to have a shower, who needed the support of a stranger to achieve his basic needs.
It was the most hateful thing Bond could imagine, being so dependent-in so much pain-and his moods were often dark and antagonistic. The nurses began hating him after a while and left him alone for longer stretches of time without checking on him. After endless days of this treatment, the solitude was nothing short of suffocating, and not even the novels could transport Bond away from his empty, monochromatic room.
He had to get out, but had no means of doing so, until one of the doctors recommended he start using a wheelchair. Despite the degrading fact that he had to rely on a chair to get from one place to another, it was better than sitting in bed, and the staff let him wheel round Medical all day so long as he didn't get into anything important or cause a ruckus. It was dull and Bond felt restless, trapped in the muted lavender hallways, but every time he considered cruising the halls of MI6, he stopped himself, not wanting to face the humiliation of being seen like this, not wanting to be filled with regret if he inadvertently ran into Q.
And Bond knew he wouldn't have the strength to push him away again.
To keep his mind from going down that route over and over again, Bond began visiting with 004 in his recovery room. He and Will hadn't seen much of each other in the past few years, but there was a deep seated bond of camaraderie between them after their time in training for the Double-Oh programme and the few missions they ran together in the old days. When Bond first saw him, he barely recognised the other man. Barely thirty, Will already looked close to fifty. The lines on his face were still handsome, but just like Bond's, they were from stress and strain rather than laughter and natural age. The most concerning was how ashen Will looked, his dark skin looking as if it had been covered in a layer of dust.
"You look like shit, Will," was the first thing Bond said.
"You look like fucking shit, James," was his reply.
And soon, it was as if they were back at the start of things, too young and carefree agents with their whole careers ahead of them. But then a nurse arrived to give Will medication, to check his stitches and bandages, his catheter and IV bags. Once she left, the spark of youth died from their conversation, returning them to the present, where they were nothing but two old men with nothing to look forward to but the monotonous days of retirement.
"I think they're waiting to tell me they're going to upgrade me for a new model," Will admitted, adjusting his injured shoulder with a groan. "004 2.0 or some such stuff."
"You're not the only one," Bond said. "Got the word a few weeks ago. They're putting me out to pasture."
Will was the first one to give him an empathetic look rather than a pitying one.
"Knee?"
"Yeah."
"Well you won't be the only one," Will replied, and held up his bandaged hand, "there's not much a Double-Oh can do with only three fingers on his right hand."
"Between us, we're one functional human being," Bond said and Will laughed.
"You said it."
They lapsed into a companionable silence.
"So what're you going to do?" Will asked. "You know. For retirement?"
"No idea. Never thought I'd live this long," Bond admitted.
"Same for me. It's sort of bleak, isn't it?"
"You've got Sharon and the kids."
"Haven't seen them in years, you know that."
The bitterness in Will's tone made Bond look down at his bandaged knee. He didn't know much about Will's past aside from what leaked through their few drunken conversations at seedy pubs after bad assignments. All Bond remembered was that Will loved a woman named Sharon, who had already had a young daughter at the time. During a dry spell with no missions, Will had gotten involved, had gotten her pregnant. He thought about leaving at the time and moving to some place north of Liverpool to raise the family with her. But then duty called and he answered, without telling her why or what he honestly did for a living. Bond knew he took care of them financially and visited when he could, but aside from that, he kept that information close to his chest, wanting to protect them from his dangerous life.
"Well, maybe it's time," Bond said.
"Maybe it is…" Will sighed.
The next time Bond came to visit, Will told him he had called Sharon.
"I'm going to tell her everything," Will said, "and if I'm lucky, she'll take me back. But she's a good woman...and smart...she might not."
"You never know," Bond replied.
"If she does, I'm going to buy her a ring. A real one. And a house with more rooms than we need. Put the kids in private school, make sure that they get a good education," Will continued, and there was something alive in his face when he spoke about the future. About his future with the family he always wanted.
"What about you, James?" Will asked.
"What about me?"
"Don't you have someone?"
Bond looked toward the door instead of at Will, because he had come here to forget, not remember.
"I had someone."
Will regarded him carefully for a moment.
"You fucked it up, didn't you?"
"I did," Bond replied with a nod. "I really did."
"Well, if there's one thing I've learnt from all this, it's that if you fuck up, at least be man enough to admit it," Will said. "So what happened?"
"I ended it because I didn't think it was fair...to have to deal with this," Bond answered, indicating the wheelchair.
"Sounds like someone's being a martyr."
"You should talk to a friend of mine. I think you two would get along."
"Seriously, James."
The silence that overtook them hedged on uncomfortable, until Will broke it.
"So who was it?"
"You'll never believe it."
"Try me."
"Q."
Will's brows rose, probably less at the fact that Bond had been involved with a man and more to do with the pact that all the Double-Ohs had made about no upper management.
"You always did like to break the rules," Will said.
"Of course. It's part of our job description."
That had them both grinning, until Will sobered a bit.
"He's something, that Q," Will said. "Thought he was too young, but he's done alright. Mission success rates are the highest they've been in years. Well, not counting ours, anyway."
Bond made a thoughtful noise, mostly just to keep the conversation going, all the while trying not to remember how Q had looked that day when there had been nothing between them but all the time they could never have.
"They were going to leave me, weren't they?" Will asked, and when Bond looked at him, he continued: "When the mission went bad."
"Yeah."
"But Q didn't give up on me, did he?"
Bond shook his head.
"You picked a good one."
"I ruined it, Will. I told you that. It's over."
Will leant back against his pillow.
"I owe that kid my life, you know."
"Yeah," Bond replied. "Me, too."
After Will and Sharon came to terms with things, Bond didn't see the other man. He found out later that Will had put in a request to be transferred to a local medical facility closer to his family. He had gone without saying goodbye, but Bond knew better than to take offence; Double-Ohs were notorious for hating farewells.
As much as Bond was happy for him to be moving on, it left him with no distractions from his condition. He remained confined to Medical, bothering the staff until they finally transitioned him to crutches. After over a month in a bed and confined to a chair, his arms were weak, and crutching up and then down the hallway back to his room took more energy than he had, consuming his days with frustration and exhaustion.
But slowly, he built up his strength, and when he was capable, Medical released him with a bag of medications and a thick file folder of instructions. They informed him that they would be sending someone round every day to check on him, to help clean and prepare meals. Bond hated it but could not decline, and was sent back to his flat with a medical escort, a constant reminder of his handicap.
His escort's name was Lynda, and she was a sweet, middle-aged woman who had the touch of a mother and the patience of a saint. She immediately made it her mission to clean Bond's kitchen and bathroom, then grocery shop to fill his empty cabinets. It was dark by the time she bid him goodnight, with a firm promise that she would be back the following day.
And so, Bond's new life began.
Lynda would come once a day and prepare meals, do a bit of cleaning, help Bond up and down to the shower if he needed it. She didn't stay long, for which Bond was grateful, but the moment she was gone, he felt the loneliness acutely.
He often stared at his phone. He thought about calling Moneypenny, but then he knew what she would say when she found out what he did. So Bond wrote the thought off and spent his days watching crap telly and trying to read the few books that he never finished. But the restlessness buzzed under his skin, growing stronger with each passing day.
He hated it.
Almost a year had passed and already he was back to where he had been the day he had moved into the flat. Everything seemed grey-washed and abysmal. During the days that stretched on far too long, Bond sometimes found himself entertaining fleeting thoughts about ending it all. But the shame that came with suicide outweighed the shame of a half-life. Instead, Bond filled his days with monotonous routines and pointless exercises, trying desperately to think of anything but Q.
Two weeks passed, during which Bond had nothing better to do than to listen to the heavy footsteps of his neighbours coming and going. Honestly, Bond was only listening for one set: the quiet tread of 507 that he hadn't heard since he arrived back at the flat two weeks ago.
One Wednesday, only a few hours after Lynda had come and left, Bond finally heard life from above. For the first time in a long while, Bond felt something other than self-loathing and pain; there was a happy anticipation as he listened to 507 move about, an eagerness to have this person sit at the piano and play. 507 always had a way of helping him come to conclusions, and Bond needed that more than ever.
507 did not disappoint.
After forty-five minutes or so, the piano started upstairs. The notes that night were not necessarily sad, but something more pensive than usual. The song sounded like the sun attempting to peak through clouds on an overcast day, like someone waiting patiently, optimistically for something close by, but still far away.
Bond tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. As always, he tried not to think of Q.
But long after the song ended, he still was.
It might have been a bad idea, but Bond had worked up to it and wasn't about to back down.
He waited until he heard 507 leave the following morning, then slowly got up out of bed and manoeuvred unsteadily on his crutches. He hadn't left the apartment since Medical sent him home, and Bond had all but forgotten just how long the hallway felt from his door to the lift. By the time he reached the fifth floor, he was panting and slightly damp from the exertion.
It took him a while, but Bond managed to crutch his way to 507, where he slipped a folded piece of paper under the door. It read:
It's been a long time since I heard you play.
After everything that's happened to me and everything I've ruined, it's the only thing I have left to look forward to now.
I hope it won't be too much to ask you
to play again soon.
-407
Bond left before he could regret it, much like he always seemed to do, and spent the next twenty minutes pushing himself to get back to his own flat on shaking arms.
Surprisingly, the exercise did him a world of good. Although tiring, it was the most Bond had gotten his blood pumping in a long while, and he wanted to ride it out as long as he could remain upright. Which led to Lynda becoming irate when she arrived later that afternoon and found Bond already showered and halfway through a load of laundry.
"You're supposed to be resting," she reminded him.
"If I rest anymore, I'll die from boredom," Bond replied.
"It's better than falling down and breaking a hip."
"It's the only thing I haven't broken yet."
Lynda pointed at the sofa with a no-nonsense glare.
"No wonder the nurses wanted you gone," she said.
"They just don't know what to do with an attractive man, do they?" Bond asked, as he hobbled over to the couch.
"Oh, no, they know exactly what to do with an attractive man. You don't think that catheter went in on its own, do you?"
Bond made a face at her and Lynda laughed at him outright before tackling the rest of his laundry.
"If you're getting on alright, I can come by every few days if you'd like," she said, after she had put Bond's dinner in the oven.
"I'll be alright," Bond replied. "You ought to be home anyway. Two young ones waiting for you, aren't they?"
"Yes, and a husband," Lynda answered. "So a total of three children."
"You go on. I'm alright," Bond said again.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
It was only after she left that Bond wondered if he truly was.
After the day's excitement and some painkillers for the ache that accompanied it, Bond dozed off on the couch after dinner. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he jerked awake when he heard the fwip of something sliding beneath his door. Slowly, Bond pulled himself up onto his crutches and went into the foyer, where found a small slip of paper on his doormat.
It took a fair bit of coordination for Bond to lean down and pick it up. Unlike his note, this one was fairly short, but somehow just as heartfelt. It read:
Remember that you're not alone in this.
Always,
-507
P.S.
My offer still stands.
Just tap three times.
Hobbling back to the couch, Bond sat back down with a sigh, reading and then rereading the words over and over again. You're not alone in this 507 wrote, as if a friend offering comfort. Bond leant back against the arm of the sofa and put his arm over his eyes, feeling defeated with the realisation of just how alone he was. Q had been his friend, then more than a friend, but Bond had pushed him away. He had lost Q and, by doing so, alienated Eve. Tanner was an alright mate for drinks every now and then, but everyone else Bond might consider more-than-an acquaintance had either left his life like Will had or was dead.
Bond sighed, crinkling the paper in his fist as he tried to will away the thoughts of Q that inundated his mind. He could still taste Q on his lips, feel the warmth of his skin against his fingertips, remember the exact count of his eyelashes. The regret came tenfold, even as Bond reminded himself that he had done it for the right reasons. He rubbed at his leg, trying to believe that Q would be better off without him.
But Bond wanted him back more than anything.
Shakily, he got up and leant on one crutch, using the other to bump at the ceiling three times. It was better than reaching for his mobile and doing something stupid and irreparable again.
Above him, the quiet creak of a floorboard as 507 moved toward the corner of the room, to the piano. Almost as if his thoughts had been broadcast, 507 began to play, the notes earnest, as if trying to convey something more than just hope, something like courage. There was an undercurrent of hardship, but the tempo delivered encouragement, as if everything could be overcome.
And Bond wanted to believe it.
Over the next few weeks, Bond started a slow, but steady pace back to normalcy.
He began physical therapy, which hurt more than he wanted to let on, but it soon allowed him to move about without having to rely on crutches. With some of his mobility back, Bond felt his old confidence returning, though it came back at a trickle instead of a rush. He still felt ashamed of his condition, his slow walk, his bulky cane. But it was better than being in a bed, better than a chair, better than the crutches, so Bond kept on as best as he could.
Physical therapy days were the hardest, because that was when Lynda came to fetch him from the flat and bring him to Six. Bond kept thinking he might run into Q, and the thought of facing him was almost too much to bear. But he never saw the other man, even when he started walking straighter and thought he might want to. The contrasting surge of relief and plummet of disappointment were always draining after the fact, and Bond usually fell into bed exhausted.
When he was not at Six, Bond stayed home and tried to not focus on his new reality, not when he had been attempting to think positively. But the fact of the matter was that he was retired now. They would probably force him through some sort of official ceremony and everything once he could walk, then pay him off in large increments every month for the rest of his life. But Bond didn't want things, he wanted his life back, and if money could buy him that, he would give it up in a heartbeat.
But he tried not to dwell on that. He tried reading, even a bit of writing, but nothing got rid of that restlessness. He wanted things the way they had been.
Most of all, he wanted Q.
Bond felt that compulsion growing as the days dragged by and resorted to keeping his mobile far out of his reach to prevent himself from doing something he might regret.
The only suitable distraction was the music. Sometimes, when the pain was too much or his thoughts too dark, Bond would lay in bed and listen to the discs in his player on repeat. The songs transported him away from himself, into a place where there was nothing but melody and rhythm to match his heartbeats.
And it was then that Bond knew what he had to do.
He scribbled a note and limped to the lift. On the fifth floor, Bond slipped the folded paper under 507's door.
This may sound strange, but would it be possible to meet with you?
I've made a lot of mistakes and don't have anyone resembling a friend right now.
It would be nice to have someone to talk to.
-407
He waited awkwardly for a moment, but when he did not hear movement from the other side of the door, Bond took that as his cue to leave.
The next morning, there was a note on his doormat.
I understand what that feels like, but we can't meet.
You'd just be disappointed.
Believe me, I know.
Always,
-507
Bond scribbled a reply and slipped it under 507's door before he left for physical therapy.
Won't you let me decide that for myself?
-407
He pushed himself through the exercises that day, eager to return back to the flat. But when he arrived three hours later, sore and sweating, there was no response.
For two days, Bond waited, anxious with nerves as he listened for any sounds from upstairs. The silence told him 507 was away, and with each passing hour, Bond felt a crushing regret for what he'd asked. 507 wasn't his friend and it was unfair to assume he was. Although they had known each other for a while now, their meetings had always been through the music, from the sideways glimpses out of lift doors and stairwell corridors. It was wrong of him to assume that 507 wanted any part of Bond in his life, and the fact that Bond had expected him to agree so readily to a meeting was pure selfishness on his part.
He agonised for another twenty-four hours until relief came in the form of a purple Post-It resting on his doormat one morning. It read:
Come to mine
Tomorrow
8pm
Always,
-507
Which is how Bond ended up standing outside of 507 the following evening, dressed sharper than he had in a long time, having abandoned his track bottoms for proper slacks and his athletic shirt for a pressed button down. Despite donning his old attire, Bond felt none of the confidence he used to have, acutely aware of his limp and his cane. He had aspired to impress, but now Bond worried he would not be able to. What would 507 expect when they opened the door? Certainly not an old, broken agent with a bad leg and a drinking habit he couldn't quite shake.
He pushed these thoughts to the back of his head, raised his fist, and knocked. There were footsteps on the other side, but they stopped at the threshold. Bond saw the shadow at the bottom of the door. A small Post-It note slid from the interior into the hallway. It landed next to Bond's shoe, words facing up.
I don't think this is a good idea.
"Why not?" Bond asked softly, resting his hand on the door, imagining that another person stood on the other side with similar feelings, doing the exact same thing. A door, a note, another boundary between them and the things that mattered.
Everything will change.
"Is that a bad thing?"
He heard 507 slump against the door and slide down to sit on the ground. Slowly, Bond did the same, stretching his leg out on the carpeted floor. Another note slid under the door, coming to rest next to his right hand.
It could be.
"It doesn't have to be," Bond said.
When no note responded, Bond continued on:
"I know it's strange, but... I don't know how to describe it… The music. The way you play. It's like you understood me without ever having met me...like I've known you all my life."
It was cliche and Bond knew it, but he couldn't think of any other way to convey his feelings. And it was much easier to say those words to one side of a door than to someone's face, even more so when no reply came immediately.
After a moment, another note appeared, this one with only a single word upon it.
Mélomanie.
Another followed.
It's a love for music that transcends all logical understanding.
"I think it's just your music, though," Bond said, and leant his head back against the door frame. When there was no reply, Bond sighed. "It's helped me, you know. The music, I mean. Even after all the stupid mistakes I've made recently." Bond closed his eyes and thumped his head against the door in frustration. "There's a lot of things I wish I could take back."
A momentary hesitation before another piece of paper appeared next to Bond.
What happened?
"I hurt someone I care about. And now and I think it's too late to make it right."
The rapid scratching of a pen on the other side of the door. Then:
It's never really too late.
"Maybe," Bond agreed, taking the note into his hand to hold it, wanting to believe it, "but I don't think I could ask his forgiveness. Not again."
Do you love him?
"Yes," Bond said, "very much."
A long silence passed between them, until a note slipped under the door with a single word:
Tea?
Bond laughed.
"I'd like that."
It took Bond a moment to get up, using the cane and the door frame to pull himself to a stand. 507 seemed aware of his plight, patiently waiting until Bond was upright before unlocking the latch and slowly opening the door.
Bond didn't know what to expect. Even after all this time, he still didn't know if 507 was young or old, male or female. But that still didn't prepare him.
Nothing could prepare him to see Q standing on the other side of that door.
He wore a t-shirt and jeans, but no shoes or socks. He looked softer somehow in informal clothes, almost as soft as the day Bond had spend in bed with him, counting breaths and eyelashes and individual strands of hair. That day felt a lifetime ago in Bond's memory, yet its images came back with striking clarity at the sight of him standing there; the weight of his feelings came with them, a sledgehammer of force against his rib cage that made breathing difficult.
Q must have noticed, because he smiled on one half side of hopeful and said:
"Hi."
"Q," Bond said, and he couldn't help it if he sounded a bit betrayed.
"Yes," Q replied, expression a bit sad.
Bond looked down the hallway, because he couldn't look at Q, who had been so close and yet, so far from him this whole time. His gaze eventually fell to the floor, where purple Post-Its were strewn across the carpet at his feet.
"You knew this whole time?" Bond asked.
"Almost the whole time. I like to know who my neighbours are," Q admitted.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"You told me not to come round anymore," Q reminded him.
"Before that."
Q sighed.
"I didn't know how…"
Bond felt offended even though he had not necessarily been lied to. All those conversations and lunches and touches and Q hadn't said a word to him about this.
"All those months…" Bond said, a bit accusatory, "and you didn't think I would eventually find out?"
"I didn't think…" Q replied, breaths even and measured as if they hurt, "that you would ever reciprocate anything more than just friendship."
"You didn't think-" Bond began, but stopped himself.
Bond looked at Q-the tired slump to his shoulders, the dark bruises under his eyes-and felt his anger recede. He could see clearly that Q hadn't intended any deceit, that he had only cared too much. Bond realised then that Q had been with him through everything, both seen and unseen, the only consistent presence in his life for the past year.
The only person who honestly, truly cared.
The only person who, after everything, could still look at Bond like he loved him.
And Bond felt a weakness-a glorious, beautiful weakness-to love him back.
"I'm sorry," Bond said.
"I'm sorry, too."
Bond wanted to take Q into his arms right then, to kiss him like he hadn't in so long, but there was still distance between them. An ocean had been crossed, but a gulf still remained, and he couldn't jump in without caution.
Q opened the door a little wider in invitation, looking somewhat hesitant himself.
"Tea?"
"Please."
Bond stepped inside, mindful of his cane in the narrow space. This was all new territory for him-for them-and Bond feared overstepping. He had already done enough damage in this relationship; it was up to Q to lead them from here.
"Have a seat, er...anywhere. Sorry about the mess," Q said from behind him, as he stooped low to gather their discarded notes still on the ground.
There was one stuck to the bottom of Bond's shoe; he felt his left foot slide with each step. Stopping at the threshold to the living room, Bond bowed over to remove it. There was only one word upon it:
Mélomanie.
Bond slid it into the pocket of his jacket just as Q closed the door.
"It's not always this disorganised," Q said, sounding a bit nervous, most likely at the fact that Bond hadn't moved yet. But Bond did not even take in the room until Q said that. The flat was identical to his in terms of floor plan, but it was patently obvious that this was a home and not just a place to live. Bond had to admit that he didn't take Q for someone who would have such rich colours in his home, always believing that his space would reflect the stylistic choices of TSS, with streamlined furniture and minimalist colour palettes. But there were reds and oranges and greens in the sofa and table, the carpet, the curtains. The furniture was all wood, almost antique, and even though there there was a fair bit of clutter on those available surfaces, Bond felt welcomed by all of it.
"I got called in two days ago and," Q continued, as he went to the nearest table and began gathering up the files and books into his arms, "and haven't been back since, so-"
"Q."
"-just try to ignore it and feel free to move anything you need-"
"Q," Bond said again, and the other man stopped, his arms laden with all the things he had most likely brought home from work. He seemed two steps away from panicked, and while Bond thought his unnecessary stress somewhat adorable, he didn't think the situation would benefit from it. "It's fine. Don't worry, really."
"I'm, okay. I'm going to take this over, er, into the other room, and, yes," Q stammered, taking his armload down the hall to the other bedroom. Bond took that time to look round the flat a little closer.
The first place his eyes gravitated to was the corner of the room, next to the overcrowded bookshelves and wall unit against the far wall. A Yamaha upright piano stood against it, close enough that it wedged between the furniture and the window. Next to it, a small tray table had been rigged to accommodate a laptop and speakers, which were plugged into the piano, most likely for recording.
His gaze moved along the corner wall, where were three mounted instruments: a viola and two handsome violins. An open violin case rested on the coffee table; upon further investigation, Bond found an electric violin nestled inside. Beside the table, there sat a propped up cello on a rigid stand. There were several bows in the vicinity of these instruments, obviously well-used, but cared for. When Bond picked one up, he was surprised at the lightness of it, but even more so by the smell. It was that same scent that Bond would know anywhere, the one that reminded him of pines trees in the middle of winter. It seemed to come from the bow strings themselves and when Bond looked closer, he saw them covered in some sort of wax. Rosin he realised, setting the bow back down where he had found it.
"Um."
Bond turned round and saw Q standing there, looking uncertain again; he wondered how long Q had been watching him.
"How do you take your tea? Or would you rather have coffee?"
In all honesty, Bond didn't drink tea, but he didn't want to put Q through the trouble for anything else.
"How you take it is fine," Bond replied.
"Are you sure? I like it sweet…" Q said.
"Cream and two sugars, I know," Bond said, and Q flushed before he disappeared into the kitchen.
When Bond turned his attention to the piano again, Bond took in the mess surrounding the instrument. There were pages of sheet music on the rest, on the seat and floor. Bond picked one up and noted that it was handwritten in pencil in the same left-handed scrawl with which he had become familiar over the past year.
The title read 407.
He picked up another, which also had the numbers 407 at the top. The rest were unmarked or had titles crossed out so many times with ink that Bond could not read them properly. But one particular sheet caught his eye. It rested on the open keyboard of the laptop and only had a few bars of music, but the title had been written clearly:
James.
Bond felt something hard stick in his throat as he set the music down where he had found it.
In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle, and Bond heard the sound of Q taking mugs out of a cabinet, opening and closing the refrigerator door to fetch the milk. Bond stopped his snooping and went to sit on one end of the sofa, hoping that Q would join him instead of taking the solitary chair.
Instead of watching Q through the small doorway in the kitchen, Bond stared at the handsome cello near him, then at the other stringed instruments above the piano. He had heard Q play, but seeing them all still amazed him. He never knew someone could have such talent.
"You play all of these?"
"Yes," Q said, as he came into the room, two cups of tea in his hands, one of which he handed to Bond, "I've always had an ear for music."
"I've don't think I've heard the cello," Bond said.
"I'm a bit out of practice," Q admitted, as he sat down on the sofa. They weren't overly close, but they weren't as far away, and Bond thought that an improvement. "I put a short cello piece on one of the discs I gave you, but it was quiet. You probably couldn't even hear it..."
"I think you play well."
"Thank you," Q said, and Bond noticed that he pointedly looked at his cup instead of at him, as if embarrassed by the praise.
They fell into a strange sort of quiet that felt more pensive than anything else.
"I really am sorry," Q said, "about everything. But to be fair, I didn't know what to do. You're not the easiest person to read."
"Pot, kettle."
"Yes, well it is the business, isn't it?"
Bond tapped his finger at the edge of his mug.
"Why did you?"
"Hmm?"
"You know, all of this," Bond gestured round the room. "Why did you do it?"
"You were so lonely...hurting, I could tell," Q replied, guilt flooding his expression as he continued, "and you weren't the only one. After...everything that happened."
"Why not just talk to me?"
"Really?" Q asked, looking up at Bond through his fringe. "Don't you think that would have been awkward?"
"Somewhat."
"Somewhat?"
"A lot."
"Yes. And even if I had approached and asked you about something as personal as your feelings, would you have answered me honestly?" Q asked.
"Probably not."
"Probably not?"
"Definitely not."
"And then after I asked and you didn't answer, would you have ever spoken to me again?"
Bond looked down, trying to put himself back his position from a year ago. He hadn't known Q all that long, and with M's death still raw, he would have found it invasive, borderline offensive.
"No," he admitted.
"So that's why," Q said, and leant forward to put his untouched mug on the coffee table. "You needed someone you didn't know...a stranger who you didn't fear passing judgment on you. So I spoke to you the only way I knew how. And then...with everything between us, I didn't know how to tell you or if I should...not when it seemed like you were finally starting to feel happy again. It felt like a betrayal of trust...and I'm sorry for that."
Bond regarded Q, who looked back at him with a level gaze. This was Q admitting to his oversight, to his lies by omission, and now, the ball was in Bond's court.
"I'm sorry, too," Bond said, wondering if he could ever say it enough. The rest of the words he wanted to say weren't so easy. He put his tea down on the coffee table next to Q's untouched mug as he searched for the appropriate starting point. "I put you through a lot. More than just a lot, actually...But I thought I was protecting you. I wanted to protect you in case something happened...I didn't want to hurt you like that. It happened to me and I...couldn't let you go through it. I just couldn't."
"I know you did," Q replied, scooting a bit closer, "but I also knew those risks going in. It's hard not to, with what I do."
"Of course," Bond said, unable to help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"But even with the probability of an unfavourable outcome, I was willing to take the risk, the consequences be damned," Q continued, closing the space between them with the touch of his fingers to the back of Bond's hand. He had forgotten, in the space of so many months, what that warmth felt like. "There are some things-some people-that you're willing to take that chance for."
Bond swallowed, turning his hand so that Q's fingers fell into his palm.
"And are you still willing to take that chance?"
Q's smile lit his entire face, and Bond knew the answer.
The last boundary fell, the wall crumbled, and Bond only had to lean forward to close the final gap between them. Bond kissed Q and Q kissed him back like a drowning man seeking air. His arms came round Bond's shoulders, pulling him closer as Bond's hands slid up underneath Q's shirt, fingers skipping along the warm expanse of his back.
"Bed?" Q breathed.
"Marvellous plan," Bond said against his lips, before claiming them once again.
There was some awkwardness as they stood from the couch, knees bumping, hands fumbling. Q managed to get Bond's jacket off, which he unceremoniously discarded on the living room floor. Stepping around it, Bond stumbled slightly, and Q pulled back momentarily, eyes half-lidded, lips already a delightful red from kissing.
"Your leg-"
"It's fine," Bond answered, and resumed kissing him.
Navigating round his clothes and abandoned cane, Bond walked Q backwards to the bedroom, where the two of them fell into a mess of blankets and sheets. The unmade bed felt intimate, Bond privy to the private place where Q had slept alone, and now would share with him.
"You didn't make your bed," Bond commented, as he kissed from Q's mouth to his jawline.
"I didn't expect you," Q replied, as he worked at Bond's belt buckle.
"You invited me."
"I thought you'd be angry and leave."
"You couldn't pay me to go," Bond said, leaving a love bite on Q's throat in retaliation for the comment, "not after all this time."
"And whose fault was that?"
Another bite, and that one had Q keening and raising his hips against Bond's.
"Now you're stuck with me. I'm never letting you go again," Bond said.
Q's hands came into his hair, then down to his cheeks.
"Is that a promise?" he asked, as he turned Bond's head to look at him. Q gazed down at him, his glasses slightly askew, but his gaze as steady and unwavering as his voice. "Because I can't go through it again, James. I can't have you go and take back something like that."
Bond hesitated only momentarily, remembering what had happened last time he had made a promise and how it still remained unfulfilled. But this was a new life, a new start, and it might be a chance for him to start keeping the promises that truly mattered. Bond leant forward and kissed Q, delighting in the happy sigh that escaped the other man at the gesture. They kissed until Bond felt dizzy, and when he pulled away for breath, Bond whispered Q's real name against his lips, like Q had done that one night in confidence.
"It's a promise," Bond said.
"I'm holding you to that," Q murmured, and kissed him again.