Chapter Text
It is a bleak, miserable day in a bleak, miserable week and James Bond’s only comfort is that M would have been irate at such a maudlin display by mother nature.
The small crowd of officially sanctioned mourners are gathered under the pewter grey London sky as Olivia Mansfield is laid to rest. Technically, he is not supposed to be here, going damp in the obnoxious drizzle. None of the Double-Os are, nor any of the executive staff beyond Tanner. As one of the more public faces of MI6, the Chief of Staff was left to represent the agency at times such as this. High profile deaths were bad enough, but given the circumstances—killed by a terrorist during an investigation and hearing where government officials claimed fear of terrorism was overblown—had made this into an Event, with a capital E.
But, Bond knows for a fact that 004 and 009 are both lingering somewhere far enough away to remain unacknowledged, if not unseen. They will meet up later for the real send off, to raise a toast in her memory. Tanner would certainly need a stiff drink. Unlike some of the other people now standing around watching the casket be lowered into the cold embrace of the grave, Tanner was likely as grief stricken as he appeared. And in addition to his official role, Bond knows the man had a number of more personal duties in this depressing mess. He had also been appointed by Mansfield as a registered grave owner, given the dubious honour of managing the finer details of the burial itself. A fraught task for one of the very few people whom M had allowed herself to have any demonstrable affection for.
Bond’s dark musings are interrupted by the flash of a dark head of curls moving between two large mausoleums to his left. While it was expected that the notoriously oppositional Double-Os would disregard their orders to stay away, he is surprised to see Q here. Not that Q hasn't just proven his willingness to disregard protocol… but it makes Bond consider, for the first time, what the enigmatic Quartermaster’s relationship to M had been.
Time to go, Bond thinks, and follows quietly after the nearly spectral Q. But he loses him before he reaches the exit and his car. Bond shrugs, and starts the ignition.
The pub they chose was of no particular note. Located about 20 minutes away, somewhat central between Kensal Green Cemetery and Vauxhall, it was the type of establishment with the ceiling covered in a layer of paper bills from around the world—U.S. dollars and Japanese Yen, British Pounds and Nigerian Naira—with dark wood panelling and seats upholstered in forest green vinyl. So stereotypical kitsch as to be utterly unremarkable, other than an extensive selection of scotch, catering to the more eccentric tourists and mostly empty given the season and weather. In other words, the perfect gathering place for a group of spies to meet and mourn in peace.
Bond is already on his second glass when Q drops onto the stool next to him. Bond doesn't turn, but takes in his appearance in via his peripheral, finding the young man somewhat worse for wear in his damp off-the-rack suit that manages to look both trendy and thoughtless. Flagging down the bartender, Q asks politely for a double whisky, neat. He gives Bond a quick but obvious once over as he waits for his drink.
"Freddie Mercury was cremated at Kensal Green," Q says, apropos of absolutely nothing. "And Marigold Francis Churchill is buried there. Though I think there are plans to have her remains exhumed and reburied at the family plot."
It is, from Bond's admittedly limited experience with Q, extremely on brand for the young man. Off putting, yet in an oddly endearing sort of way.
"You must be a nightmare at pub trivia," Bond says after a slight delay. Q huffs softly then murmurs a quiet thank you when his glass is set before him. Pulling a pen from his blazer, Q scribbles something on the napkin and casually pushes it towards Bond across the bar top.
Bond cocks an eyebrow as he turns to take Q in fully. In the brief time they had come to know each other, Q has always been what he probably thought came across as controlled. Bond thought of it more as too tightly wound. But tonight, he could see the tell tale signs of stress–the way Q's fingers tapped on his glass with a twitchy motion, the clench of his jaw. They would only be obvious up close, however, and the rest of his demeanour is oddly relaxed. Bond is startled to realise that Q is without his Clubmaster glasses. Have his eyes always been so shockingly green?
Bond looks down at the napkin, which simply reads "my place?" in scrawling letters. Momentarily surprised, Bond quickly recovers. It is not as if Q is the only one who chooses to bury his complex emotions inside a warm body, and Bond can't say he is opposed. He's always liked the mouthy ones. Bond's gaze snaps back up to Q, and he gives a smouldering smile, watching the way Q’s eyes widen. Q drains his glass and stands abruptly, heading for the door, and what can Bond do by follow?
〜💧〜
Thankfully the rain has stopped, but the air is heavy as Q steps out the door of the pub with Bond on his heels. In other circumstances, Q might be willing to indulge Bond's assumption of where this is headed. There is a single moment—looking up at the dismal sky, feeling the warmth of Bond's hand on his lower back and the earthy warmth of whisky on his tongue—that Q can imagine this is any other night when he has found a rough handed older man to take home from the pub. That he isn't on the precipice of potentially throwing everything away.
Q stops beside Bond's car, and turns to take in the man.
"Leave your phone and watch here, please," Q says in a thankfully steady voice. Bond raises one eyebrow, then quickly complies. After all, it isn't a surprise the man who frequently leverages electronics for surveillance might not want his… dalliances monitored. His electronics left on the passenger seat, Bond once again takes his position following Q close enough that no one can mistake his intent.
They walk in silence, Q leading them to an unassuming small square, insulated from the street by a perimeter of hedges. Bond huffs a small laugh and says, "I didn't picture you as one for a quick tumble in a bush."
Q lets out a bitter laugh before he can stop himself. The truth is, Q picked this spot because he'd like to ensure his body isn't just dumped in a canal if he does not survive this encounter. Bond stills, and Q can feel him recalculating.
"I have been… compromised," Q says with all the emotion of a gutted fish. Bond goes completely still, giving Q time for one single breath before he finds himself pinned to the tree. Bond's hands are around his neck, not completely cutting off his air, yet. Despite anticipating this reaction, Q finds himself scrambling, his hands seeking purchase on Bond's wrists as the rough bark digs into his scalp and the sliver of skin between his trousers and bunched up blazer and shirt.
"I did not—BOND—I had noth—nothing to do with that man and his psychotic vendetta!" Q chokes out. "I did not betray M! If I had been working with Silva, would I come to you now? Silva—I was trying to prove myself, to impress you, to make you trust me!"
Bond's hands slacken just enough for Q to take in a ragged breath, just this side of a sob, before he continues, "It was a mistake, entirely real and entirely my own. I underestimated him…"
"So did you even plug his damn computer into a sandbox, Q, or right into the network?" Bond snarls. "Just how negligent was Q Branch, exactly?"
"No—I mean YES, it was a sandbox, a—a virtual machine, standalone. But it wasn't physically isolated, on—on a segmented network via VLAN like—like I wanted. From a cybersecurity standpoint, it met the basic parameters, but it was not good enough. I do not believe anyone else could have broken through, but Silva had, he had inside knowledge. Not just from his time at MI6, he had some backdoors into this system, I am still—still investigating." Q has been desperate to make Bond listen, but this is the first time he is truly afraid. He had managed to shoulder the blame for this fiasco, offering a shield to those on his team even peripherally involved in the catastrophic failure. It wasn't really the fault of anyone below him that they'd been having a power struggle with MI5 over the contracts and purchasing involved, and Q felt a bitter sort of remorse that he hadn't prioritized this one weakness over the others.
Hindsight, as they say.
Because Q know, knows beyond the shadow of a doubt, that no one in Q Branch is a traitor.
Except maybe himself.