Contents: James in a graveyard.
Warnings: Angst, canon MCD references
There’s a sweet perfume to the air that speaks of spring and green, growing things. James, for once in his life, wishes for rain. It would fit his mood. Six months - he’d waited six months to come here.
He supposed if he put it off long enough it wouldn’t be true - that she’d come striding back into the office ordering everyone about with that no-nonsense tone and arse-kicking attitude.
He’d come back from the dead, after all.
But after six months, it’s time to face facts: she’s cold in the ground, and he’d better pay his last respects. She expected nothing less, and he knows she’d haul herself out of the afterlife to kick his arse if he didn’t. And that would make her a bit more cross than usual.
The headstone is tasteful; grey marble, not ostentatious but clearly quality. Her husband’s name and dates settled comfortably next to hers in a serif font (oh and wouldn’t Q be pleased that James knows that?).
He sets the flowers on top of the stone, then uncaps the Glenlivet and pours out a shot over her side of the grave before leaning back against the stone and taking a long pull from the bottle.
“He’s not as sharp as you are,” he begins. “His edges are smoother. I’m not sure I like that.” He chuckles and takes another pull. “He pulled us through, though, I’ll say that for him. And I’ll work for him, just like you knew I would. You knew me better than I did, and I always sort of hated you for it.”
James watches the sky for a bit, counting clouds. He isn’t quite sure what he wants to say next, but he isn’t done and he isn’t ready to leave. This might be the only time he got around to actually doing this.
“I skipped the funeral,” he says finally. “I didn’t want other people’s memories of you. I’m sure you understand.” He takes another long pull from the bottle. It had been more than that, if he wants to be honest. He’d done quite enough crying in front of other people, thank you very much, and he didn’t fancy swallowing his tears. He’d spent the day drunk and watching bad telly - which he supposed was a step up from ‘drunk and gambling’ but he wasn’t sure by how much.
“You were right about Q, too. Because you’re always right about people. It probably wouldn’t even surprise you to know that he’s helped the most, after. He reminds me of you, in a way.”
And he hadn’t realized it until he said it, but Q’s no-nonsense attitude and snark did remind him of some of her best qualities. Not as polished, of course, but give him time…
But none of this is what he needs to say. Not really. He shifts his feet, rearranging his arse on the edge of the stone, and leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees. He clasps the bottle in folded hands between his knees. To an outside observer it would appear that he’s praying, and the idea strikes him as hilarious.
“I haven’t prayed for years,” he mutters. “It doesn’t change a damn thing. But I’d start right now if it could. That puts you on a very short list, you know.”
It’s a very exclusive list.
“I wish there’d been another way. Taking you out there was the only thing I could think of. You put up a damn good fight, though. The lightbulb thing was ingenious. But I should have known better. I know you offered yourself as bait - who the hell does that at your age? - but I shouldn’t have let you. And for that…” he pauses, swallows, takes several deep breaths. “For that I’m truly sorry. It is what it is, I know. Regret is unprofessional - god how many times have I heard you say that?” He chuckles wetly, unshed tears barely held back. “But it doesn’t quite smooth it all away.”
“I think you knew that, too. But it was all you had to give.” He pats the stone beneath him and levers himself up.
“Thank you,” he says, facing the stone. “For everything. M.”
