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James still hadn’t been able to make sense of what had happened. Still, his body bore the damage. Jamaica was the destination of the mission, with the objective of establishing contact with the CIA. The refuge he chose to mourn the breakup with Madeline, a place he hadn’t seen in five years.
He still remembers the smell of the sea, the taste of alcohol, and Q's eloquent shouts accusing him of abandoning ship while everyone else cleaned up his mess. Again. He hadn’t taken in any of the accusations Q threw in his face that day, not with the constant thought that Q had flown for him for the second time. The rest, as they say, was history.
007 returned to service. James's stay in Jamaica was never meant to be permanent, even if everything with Madeline had worked out; somewhere deep in his mind, a whisper guided him toward controlled violence.
He was, like the other Double-O’s, married to the Queen and his country.
Yet, in all his years of espionage, he couldn’t recall a single instance where he’d been beaten so quickly. With the night covered in darkness, it became impossible to identify the intruder's identity. The only information he gathered was: a young man in a suit.
Not much to go on.
Tension exploded at home. Mallory, Moneypenny, and even Tanner, a man James could respect for his nerves of steel as the right-hand man of the now two Ms.
Q remained composed, almost serene.
That night, he was the marble statue that watched over James, his voice steady, calling an extraction team.
23 minutes.
James was unconscious for 23 minutes and 16 seconds. That was enough time for the CIA contact to die and an island in Japan to explode. There was still no evidence of how both were connected, but Bond had learned early on to trust his instincts.
"My living room isn't a veterinary clinic, Bond," Q said, pulling James from his wandering thoughts as he followed the winding paths of the cats. “Incidentally, I should remind you that I don’t, in fact, have a medical degree."
"I'm confident in your many talents."
Q arched his perfect eyebrow, pressing a Batman bandage against the agent's face. The quartermaster snorted at the grimace Bond made and went to the kitchen.
After a while the kettle whistled, and James wondered which tea Q would choose to indulge his addiction for the day. James was primarily responsible for that development. After all, he wasn’t ashamed of buying teas from every corner of the world as an excuse for every piece of technology that didn't return home.
The quartermaster never seemed too upset after a good cup of tea, and if he decided to share it with 007 once in a while, James counted it as a victory.
James waited for the first sip. Q smelled it, tasted it, and added milk and sugar to his liking.
“You turned off the radio.”
Q didn't stop drinking his tea, not that James expected him to. Q was elegant, a master of manners, the sort that spoke of old money from afar. Then he took a final sip with a sigh of pleasure that seemed definitive, clicking the cup on the counter. His fingers seemed delicate as they touched the rim of the fine china, but James had seen him disarming bombs and testing his weapons.
They were still delicate fingers.
James could snap them as easily as stepping on a baby bird.
Q nodded as he leaned against the counter. "That’s the truth."
“Why?”
His mind was elsewhere. Q hummed, tapping his finger repeatedly on the counter. Thoughtful, like a ticking clock. Pondering and steady, with a progression of thoughts behind those intelligent eyes.
A whisper in the back of the Double-O’s brain told him to shove Q's head under the sink with running water and demand answers.
Then the doorbell rang, snapping Q out of it. The quartermaster’s gaze wandered between the door and the agent before he sighed. "Perhaps you will have the answers you seek, Double-O Seven."
And Q turned his back to him.
Confident that leaving his back unprotected to the loser, in a game James hadn’t realised he was playing, wouldn’t be inconsequential, James resigned himself and sank into the couch, his sense of reality shifting since he realised what it meant to have Q chasing him across the globe.
Ever since he realised what it meant to follow one’s own free will.
“Nephew.” A warm voice filled the air. Its vowels were as clear as the letter Q, but carried a weight, ancient and familiar.
“Vivian.” A younger voice echoed.
And James knew. He knew at once.
"Uncle."
A bitterness filled his mouth. Q's voice, warm with hints of weariness and boredom layered beneath, was above all receptive. At this point, James Bond could taste betrayal on his tongue.
Vesper, Madeline, and Q.
He hadn't expected it from Q; he hadn’t expected it from Vesper or Madeline either.
"You have here a lovely house." The older man entered, with the younger one following a half-step behind him. The gentleman gazed fondly at the metal scraps and tools, letting the cats rub against the legs of his impeccably fitted suit. "The ladies seem as sweet as ever. They are a real treasure, nephew."
This time Q let the smile linger, watching the owner of a strange pair of glasses, who crouched down to rub behind the ears of the two cats. The blond man remained perfectly still, holding a suitcase in his hands while the old man held an umbrella in one hand.
"Please, have a seat." Q pointed to the sofas where James was, still dishevelled and with a glass of whisky in his hand. "I'll be right back with tea and some biscuits."
"That would be delightful," Uncle said, settling himself beside James with casual ease. The blond man side-eyed him. "Please, Galahad, we don't need to be so formal. My dear nephew wouldn't agree to the situation if he didn't trust Agent Double-O Seven. Feel free to act as you always do."
Like breaking a spell, the young man moved at once. "Yes, Arthur." He turned quickly towards the kitchen. "Vivian, bruv, let me help."
“Galahad, I believe that—”
“Luv.” Galahad interrupted, placing his hand on Q's shoulder. Or Vivian. Considering the Arthurian theme, James suspected it was another title. “Relax. Arthur said everything was fine, so everything is fine.” He quickly took everything from Q's hands. “Now, it looks like you haven't slept in days, and we can't afford that. Geniuses need rest, hydration, and a bit of sunshine.”
Q wrinkled his nose at that description. "I'm not a plant."
"Of course not." He came up behind the quartermaster, giving his arse a light pat to shoo him toward the room, where one of the men looked completely charmed and the other like a statue carved from ice. Q squealed, covering himself, and as he ran to sit down, behind him he heard Galahad laughing.
"Don't worry, Galahad knows how to make a superb tea," the Uncle said, calmly patting his nephew's knee.
"Oh, that's amazing!" Q glanced over his shoulder, seeing the blond man with a gun in his hand. "Vivian, your hiding spots are brilliant! You built this weapon? She's a total babe!"
James' skin prickled. Q sighed, and as he brought his hand to his forehead, 007 shifted his grip on the glass to meet the watchful gaze of the man sitting beside him. A polite, averted glance with little more to glean, yet that didn't stop the possibilities from swirling in his head. The authority oozed from Uncle and the man who had defeated him without breaking a sweat. James still couldn't discern who the greater threat was.
“Galahad,” Uncle called, and Galahad immediately straightened his relaxed posture, which earned him an affectionate smile. The shared genetics between the man and Q were becoming increasingly evident. “We're not going to antagonise Mister Bond more than necessary, are we? That's counterproductive, especially considering that you requested this visit.”
Galahad lowered his weapon, though he kept one eyebrow raised. "Arthur, I don't mean to be rude, but you are just here because you wanted an excuse to avoid the paperwork. Again."
"That sounds entirely plausible," Q agreed, taking a cup of tea after Galahad placed a tray with more tea and some biscuits on the coffee table.
Arthur sighed dramatically, looking at James. "Betrayed by my own family."
"That tends to hurt. At least he didn’t try to drill into your head," he said, showing his teeth.
But Uncle, or Arthur as the King of the legends, merely grimaced, as if the sirens blaring in James's brain were nothing. “That's simply impolite.”
Galahad shrugged. "Sounds like a viable alternative."
“Think about the ruined suits, dear boy. Perfectly good suits ruined. Not even dry cleaning would save them,” he said wisely, taking a small experimental sip of his tea, only to then let out the same appreciative sound as Q. “And it is rather impractical for drilling someone.”
Q strongly agreed with his uncle, finally taking a sip of his second cup of tea himself. “Galahad, your hands are a blessing from God.”
"Thanks, luv," Galahad said, winking at the quartermaster.
James frowned. "Hands that knocked me unconscious." 007's tone echoed like the sound of a knife hitting a wooden board. Galahad blushed, but James was focused on Q, watching how his face remained placid amid the splinters. "I should add that I was also electrocuted in the process. And you let it happen."
“As I confirmed before, yes. I did let it happen.” He smelled his drink. “Becoming hard of hearing?”
"I really didn't mean to electrocute you," Galahad lamented. "And that's why we're here. I wanted to formally apologise, Mister Bond." James sniffed, bringing his alcohol to his mouth. "It was an in-and-out job. Hit you with a dart, knock you out, eliminate the SPECTRE intruder embedded in the CIA, and BOOM. Done. But of course nothing is ever that simple. It was very unprofessional of me, especially since you are a special person to our precious Vivian—”
“Galahad!” Q tried to interrupt him, while Arthur took another large gulp of his tea.
"You know, it's because of things like this that they never give me the fun jobs. Lancelot managed to blow up an island and Percival destroyed a biological genocidal weapon," he lamented, as if James hadn't frozen in place and Q hadn't lost his colour.
"Well, that rather sums up why we're here," Arthur said with satisfaction.
Q muttered, "Oh, you're loving this."
“That’s why I keep him around,” Arthur stated, shrugging as Galahad puffed out his chest. “Don’t worry, Agent Double-O Seven. We were merely helping; after all, the current M had his fingers in pies that had no business existing. Which is of astronomical gravity, leading me to believe that MI6 requires urgent reform. I’ve heard excellent things about Moneypenny. She would make an exceptional M, I believe.” He sighed, touching his scarred temple. “I must warn you: if Mallory asks for your help to recover Project Heracles, refuse. It was something splendid, could have made incredible advances with the genetic studies they conducted. However, it is also a genocidal weapon, and we cannot allow that.”
And Q stayed there.
Accepting everything at face value, bound by blood.
His jaw clenched and his teeth gnashed before he drew blood.
"Besides, that little island contained some rather dangerous research on poisons being used in a petty revenge that could hurt many people dear to us. Madeline is quite a sweet young woman, far too much so to suffer at the hands of a madman, don't you think?"
He ignored the agent when the latter's neck snapped in his direction, choosing instead to focus on Q. "I apologise for being so indiscreet these past few days, nephew. I can only imagine the mountain of paperwork you have."
The two men shuddered.
"How is Madeline involved in this?" James asked. "How is Q involved in this?"
“James, I trust them.”
James closed his eyes.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to trust for a few seconds, so instinctively trusting the quartermaster's words that he opened them instantly, interrupting the vulnerability in that room of strangers who might want to destroy everything he knew. “I shouldn't be listening to this.”
That's what he says, and something clears in Q's expression.
“I trust you.”
"Well," Galahad, now holding a small, nibbled biscuit in his hand, spoke up. "That was quite an intense exchange for a man married to the Queen and the country." James and he exchanged brief glances before the latter gave him a playful, sideways smile. "We were engaged, but my mother wasn't in favour of the marriage."
Arthur scoffed. "What Galahad means is that he never finished his recruit training."
But Q looked at Arthur with disdain, who rolled his eyes while tapping the young agent's shoe against his, the latter responding with a tap of his own. "What Galahad really means is that he almost became an Olympic gymnast, and he was scouted by MI6 recruitment during his training, but he never managed to go further because of his family situation. He knows all about trying to represent the country." Q gestured to the young man. "Galahad could also be considered a genius by the average intelligence required in his agency; he's among the best drivers and shooters in the world on record."
"I also have light fingers," he said, showing Q's MI6 card, which the quartermaster quickly snatched from his fingers.
He snorted. "Yes, that too," he muttered through his teeth.
“... Olympic gymnast.”
"I can still do the splits." He winked at him.
James was beginning to notice the young man's bad habit.
"Right. What I got out of this conversation is that there's another organisation in the shadows, and Q is working for them," James stated, sounding as bitter as he felt.
"Speaking like that makes it sound worse than it is," Arthur commented.
“But that’s exactly what it is, isn’t it, Arthur?”
He waited, half-expecting, Galahad to draw a weapon and point it at his head for speaking to his boss in such a manner.
But Arthur shook his head, and Galahad occupied himself with his biscuits.
"True. We are Kingsman. A spy agency without government backing, with the goal of maintaining peace. During the Second World War, many wealthy men lost their sons; they united and created something to try to protect the world. Nowadays, we attempt to distance ourselves from our more elitist roots, but we still value stability and the greater good."
... It had to be a joke.
“You are terrorists.”
Q frowned. "No, James, they're not."
“How can you say such a thing after hearing their description of the organisation?”
“Valentine's Day, 2015. The world descended into chaos. Many of our agents killed dozens of people in those ten minutes, but it was only ten minutes. Imagine if they had never stopped? Kingsman was there.” James quickly shut his mouth. “September 20, 2017. The American government was prepared to let thousands die, but suddenly the cure appeared and everyone survived. Once again, Kingsman saved the world.” And Q took a deep breath, wetting his lips before saying slowly: “November 5, 2015. SPECTRE began to disappear at an unprecedented rate.”
His teeth gnashed. "And is that enough?"
“When politics stand in the way of doing the right thing, Kingsman is there. When money talks, Kingsman is there. When power goes to the head of some tyrant, Kingsman is there. They don't take power away from anyone. Bad things will happen because of collective choices, but when it threatens the lives of thousands, Kingsman can prevent it without triggering a global political crisis.” Q leaned towards him, clutching his hands in his lap. “Kingsman never fails to fly when the world has too many shackles to do so. They receive no credit, will never be recognised, and will ultimately give their lives. Kingsman Knights rarely live past the age of thirty-five, all to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”
"We only appear in the papers three times: birth, marriage, and death," Galahad said solemnly, exchanging a deep look with Arthur.
"And isn't that right..." the older man said, touching the covered side of his glasses. Finally, the man became imposing. He struck a posture reminiscent of his former M, a woman he respected, feared, and loved. Something so deeply ingrained within him responded automatically. "Now it's up to Agent Double-O Seven to believe us or not, but I imagine my nephew's plans remain the same."
And Q agreed immediately.
Without hesitation.
“I will stabilise MI6, bring it into a modern era, and then take my place alongside Merlin in Kingsman.”
James blinked slowly.
“What?”
“That was always the plan.”
“If you're going to disappear one day, why the hell are you telling me this?”
And Q, with a warm look that showed he truly was the nephew of the powerful man beside him, said, "Because I could never disappear without telling you why, James."
Suddenly, there were three things that James knew for certain:
-
MI6 was always too small for Q's great mind. He deserved more. Kingsman could give him that. Q would one day disappear without saying anything to anyone, and no one would be able to find him.
-
Q would disappear, but nobody would miss him. MI6 would thrive, the world would move on, and no one would look back.
-
James would look. One day he would no longer be an agent, and he would know that Q was still out there protecting the world, putting himself in danger far beyond anything MI6 had ever demanded.
These were three great truths that James held squarely in his hands, but he had a choice. A rare one. A chance to truly avoid being alone again, to stay with Q.
His hands finally unclenched, moving from the fists they had become, and he took those delicate fingers from Q's lap. He held them and thought he might as well be holding the world. "I believe in you."
Q's brown eyes gleamed, and James heard himself say, with a faint, crooked smile, "Do you accept interns?"
Q and Arthur exchanged matching smiles, while Galahad looked at him mischievously, a cup of tea balanced between his lips.
... Perhaps he was going to have a lot of fun after all.