James Bond wasn’t much one for writing. In his time as an agent of MI6, he had been notorious for never completing his mission reports on time (if at all), and M had constantly hounded him to submit things. And Moneypenny. And Q. Even Alec had gotten on his case once (mostly because Bond had been off the grid at the time, and Q knew that Alec was the only one who could reach him).
So not only was he astounded that he had reached retirement, but he was also amazed that he wanted to recount his time as a spy.
It started small, mostly keeping a journal of specific missions and memories as he sat by the fire in the evenings, keeping company with his long time partner and new husband. He would write, the dogs (Walther and Penny) by his feet, Q in the other armchair working on some inscrutable formula or design. It didn’t matter to Bond that he knew Q’s true name; the man would always be his Q.
Sometimes the memories would come so fast that Bond could barely keep up, scribbling details in the order they surfaced. Occasionally, he’d ask Q for his perspective, and his husband would offer what he knew from MI6’s side of missions where he had worked as Bond’s handler. Sometimes the memories were so painful that writing them felt like new wounds, scars long healed opened anew and bleeding freely. Those times would see Q bring him a mug of tea, resting a knowing hand on his shoulder and comforting him silently.
Of everyone still in his life, Q knew best how much his old wounds could hurt.
Two years into his retirement, Bond finally wrote about Vesper, about playing Baccarat, about Italy. He was taciturn for several days, and Q allowed him the space to just exist while he finally grappled with the old memories. While at Six, Psych had long despaired of getting Bond to ever open up or talk about his past, but it was the simple gift of a leather bound journal and a beautiful new pen (“It won’t explode if that’s what you’re hoping,” Q had said sardonically) that led Bond to finally, finally begin to address his history. And trauma.
Agents knew that trauma came with the job. They had to learn to harden their hearts to it, and far too many of them died to missions gone wrong or alcohol related diseases before they had time to enjoy any life outside that of espionage. Bond would have followed in those same footsteps had he not found Q. While unexpected and certainly unplanned, falling in love with his Quartermaster ended up saving his life.
It was raining outside, a steady, Welsh rain pattering on the roof of their cottage. The tea was fresh, steam still trailing up from the mug as Bond wrote. He poured out his soul, spilling details of the love and pain of his first real mission as a double-oh, of his mistakes and ego, of losing the woman he thought he would love for the rest of his life. He wasn’t sure how long he had been writing, though he knew Q had stoked the fire a few times, but when he put his pen down and took off his glasses to rub at his eyes, he saw Q watching him, pensively.
Neither one of them spoke; they didn’t need to. One thing Bond would always love about Q was that he understood how difficult it was to voice the pain. His eyes held no trace of judgement- only love and understanding. He gave Bond a small, sad smile and set his laptop down.
They both moved to the sofa, facing the fire directly now, and Bond pulled Q close, holding him tightly as if for reassurance. Q rested his head on Bond’s chest, right over his heart, and as the fire burned low and the rain continued outside, they comforted each other in their own little piece of eternity.
