Chapter Text
The funeral was an uncomfortable affair. Having only been a part of MI6 for a dismally short amount of time, Q couldn't say that he had any real feelings for M beyond the respect afforded to her competent leadership. He could see, however, by the number of solemn faces in the crowd around him that she had had an effect on his co-workers, down to the lowliest Q-Division employees. If anything, that which he mourned the most was the fact that he hadn't gotten to know her all that well. The emotion that drove him to go to the funeral and to stay through the gathering afterward was guilt.
Out of the large percentage of the MI6 population in attendance, the last person he expected to see was Bond. He'd been practically inanimate since his return from Scotland and though he was another person Q only knew of via vast reputation and little personal interaction, Q felt a sort of kinship with him. It had been his own failing that made James' flight to Scotland with M necessary in the first place and his skills that set the trap for Silva that ultimately proved fatal for their leader.
So, seeing him alone on the edges of the gathering with a glass of something - scotch or cognac judging by its color - Q couldn't help but feel drawn to him. It was clear that Bond shared his feelings of guilt, judging by his stony silences and avoidance. Moneypenny had even commented earlier she was surprised he'd bothered to come; public shows of mourning weren't exactly his thing.
Perhaps he'd been emboldened by the drinks made available for the funeral-goers, or perhaps he just wanted someone to commiserate with; either way, Q found himself standing beside Bond, staring out at the city from the large window. It wasn't until the older man leveled him with a weary, uninviting look that Q realized he had nothing profound to say. It was clear Bond didn't want company, but Q held his ground and took a drink from his own glass to sort through an appropriate greeting. "What are you drinking?"
He nearly winced at the inadequacy of the question. Q was not an overly social person and without knowing the depths of Bond's attachment to M or even much about the man himself, it was difficult to know what to say in the first place. Part of him wanted to start by apologizing for his role in Silva's escape, but he knew enough about Bond to know that was not the right answer. His drink seemed the easiest starting point, assuming the man didn't abandon the conversation entirely due to the mundane topic. Q could only hope the fact that he was the only one bold enough to approach Bond in an attempt to show some measure of support would be his saving grace.
The decision to come hadn’t been one James made lightly. Responsible for her death, the question of whether or not he even had a right to attend was one he struggled with all together more than he would ever want to admit. In the end, it was a memory that had broken through to him one night in a drunken stupor, the sound of her voice resonant in his skull, “Do quit moping, 007, and get some real work done. I have no use for you if you intend to continue loafing around.”
So he’d gotten up and put down his drink for the first time in four days, coaxing some warmth back to his body with a shower and shave – if he was going, he needed to look presentable. That had been four days ago and kept him on his feet long enough to get him here. But of course it wasn’t enough to completely stop the drinking.
“Alcohol,” the agent responded acerbically once he realized his glare of discontent wasn’t going to scare the young boffin off. That bit of knowledge annoyed him – it was a rare human being who actually had the fortitude to withstand him at his surliest. Before M’s death there had only been three he knew of – he wasn’t on board with the idea of it being any more than two now.
Though it wasn't unexpected, Bond's biting tone actually helped ease him into a more natural response than the forced conversation he'd attempted to start. "Wonderful. I'd be worried if it was apple juice, but since it's your usual diet I see there's no real cause for alarm." Sarcasm suited him much better, and Q wondered if Bond would appreciate that he wasn't being treated delicately. Judging by the sympathetic gazes occasionally leveled his way, it was likely that anyone else would be too soft for the agent's liking.
The quip, when it came, was sharp but delivered with a tempered edge, “Glad that’s been cleared up, then.” Clearly in no mood for light conversation, James turned his attention back to the dreary London day playing out beyond the windowpane, the muscles of his throat the only thing moving with much fluidity as he steadily worked to drain his glass.
Losing M had been a blow both devastating and wholly overwhelming. Though the potential of his mission failing had been a nagging thought at the back of his mind through the entire journey to Scotland, James was able to shut it off entirely once the operation had actually begun, like usual. He had a plan, he was going to execute, and at the end of the day if it hadn’t been for the fact he was stupid enough to allow M to actually stay on the front lines it would have gone off without issue. There was no way to forgive himself for allowing a mistake so utterly novice.
Undeterred, Q remained at Bond's side and took in the overcast sky, eyes tracing trails of water droplets as they raced down the glass. Small talk had been his way into a sturdier conversation the first time they met, but the mood was too sour for that it appeared. Taking another route this time, he opted for starting at the core of his reason for approaching in the first place. "I'm sorry, Bond." He paused only long enough to ensure the other man's attention was on him, but not long enough to think he was offering his condolences. "I should have anticipated the laptop was a trap. The venture to Scotland would have been unnecessary had I taken all the precautions available to me."
It was clear his words were sincere by the guilt hanging heavy in his eyes. Q wasn't simply trying to ease the burden Bond so clearly carried by shouldering his own responsibility as some might do. He truly carried his own share of the blame, the lion's share in his mind. Perhaps no good would come from sharing his regrets but there was certainly no harm in trying.
The only immediate response that came was a deep sigh, the sound edging closer to despondency than frustration. As another sixty seconds passed, James finished his drink and yet held on to the empty glass as though it was a safety net, kept him from having to figure out something else to do with his hands.
When he finally spoke it was with a quiet restraint that seemed almost out of place, “You should have.” Though it was honest, the words contained no castigation, no lecture. Q should have taken more care, been more cautious, just as James should have been as well. He wasn’t going to throw stones from his own glass house.
"...that's it?" Q raised an eyebrow, wondering if Bond was really so keen on taking all the blame that he was blind to where it truly lay. "I appreciate the tepid response, but I expected somewhat more of a lecture." During their first meeting, he'd been haughty and cocksure; one had to be when dealing with double oh agents who were full to bursting with confidence. He expected to have his nose rubbed in it now, at the very least.
Q wasn't sure why he was fishing for Bond's anger; perhaps it would be soothing in a way. MI6 and the double oh program was under fire as it was and he'd come in and made it worse, getting their leader and strongest proponent of the program's continuation killed in the process. Until there was an outburst of anger, Q felt like he'd be walking on eggshells around the people to whom M had mattered. He'd rather get it over with.
The gaze that James cast Q’s way was silent and critical, as though every millimeter of the younger man was being scrutinized for something. In another place, at a different time, James would have been more than willing to engage in this conversation and bring Q to task for his youthful, reckless pride. But as it stood he didn’t have it in him. Not here, not now, with the closest person he’d had to a mother figure rotting in a casket not ten meters away. With an indifferent air, James let one shoulder rise and fall in an approximation of a shrug and turned his attention back to the windows.
Though he had known it already, it was now abundantly clear that Bond was not in any kind of talking mood, belittling or otherwise. It was selfish of him to push for more. "Well, then..." Q murmured softly, hovering awkwardly in place before slipping away into the crowd once more.
It didn't feel right, leaving the agent to stew by himself, even if that seemed to be what he wanted. Q was gone for several minutes, long enough that he was worried the other man would have left by the time he returned. This time as he approached Bond, he didn't say a word. He just held out another glass, full of scotch - it'd been his best guess about what he'd been drinking - to replace the empty one Bond still held.
Whatever James had expected to see, Q’s slender fingers offering him a glass of liquid numbness hadn’t been anywhere near the list. Though he knew for a fact it wasn’t true he had always pictured the boffin as a teetotaler – so the view in front of him rang dissonant. There was a split moment of hesitation but when James moved it was efficient and smooth as always.
He took the offering without a word, though he did tilt his head slightly in acknowledgement. The cool glass against his palm helped him maintain his calm detachment and for that he was grateful. Once again turning his gaze back toward the window, James lifted the glass to his lips. This time, though, regardless of his gaze his attention was focused on Q.
Q had given up hope of a conversation, instead opting to look out the window and nurse his own drink - gin instead of scotch. He couldn't say what it was that kept him there, exactly. Maybe he just wanted Bond to know he wasn't alone, even if his own morose feelings were vastly different than the other man's. There wasn't anyone else at the funeral he knew enough to hang around with anyway; Q hardly felt like he belonged, having just been appointed Quartermaster shortly before this whole mess had started.
Taking his time with this drink, James nursed the scotch over the course of fifteen or so minutes, all of them passing in silence. But there was something that felt different when he drained the last drop from his glass, something that felt… safe. Shifting focus from the dreary sights outside to the reflection in the glass, James studied Q once more, eyes discerning and deliberate as they moved. “No one can help you in your guilt,” his voice rang quiet in their little corner, words spoken without preamble.
Q nearly started at the sudden sound of Bond's voice breaking the silence with no warning. He hadn't caught the way the other man studied him in the reflection of the glass, his own focus having been on the people hurrying by on the street. When Bond spoke though, Q turned his head to face the other man directly. He ran his finger around the edge of his glass as he gathered his thoughts. "No, I suppose not," he agreed after a moment.
“Learn to live with it,” though the words were harsh, the tone they were delivered with was threaded with the weight of experience, “or it will cripple you.” M wasn’t the first person he’d lost, probably wouldn’t be the last. He’d learned to compartmentalize, deny, forget. It was a fragmented existence, but it got him through the night. There was still spark in Q, vibrant life, and for some reason James felt some small urge to protect that flame.
On their own, Bond's words were not kind but Q could feel the weight behind them and knew it was not a reprimand, but advice. He knew that the other man had more experience with this sort of thing and all he could do was nod. There wasn't much he could say in reply - thanking Bond certainly wouldn't be appropriate but it didn't feel right to say nothing. Fidgeting with the glass somewhat awkwardly, Q finally nodded again. "I will," he promised, hoping it was advice he would be able to take
James gave a curt nod in response, his eyes still lingering on Q’s soft reflection in the window. This young man wasn’t like the ones he was used to – most kids his age, at a place like this would be soldiers, agents in training, field operatives of some kind, brash and overconfident and rough around the edges. Though Q could be called overconfident regarding the Skyfall incident, James was absolutely certain he’d learned from it and would change how he comported himself going forward. That was another difference between him and his peers.
Q was soft, from his long hair to his suede shoes to the archaic style with which he dressed. In a fight James would be able to put him down instantaneously. But that wasn’t the point, was it? This young man wasn’t meant for the field – his mind and fingers were the sharpest things about him and that, along with an internet connection, was all he needed. If he was honest with himself, Q unsettled James somewhat. He could still hear M’s voice, clear as day one of the many times he’d pissed her off, telling him that he was a relic. Q was anything but.
But what that meant was that Q needed to humble himself, needed to understand that his skill perhaps outpaced his practical knowledge of espionage, at least for the time being. He needed to work with the agents, just as – begrudgingly – James had come to accept they needed to work with him. The Quartermaster was the last major player in MI6 that M had been able to install before her death. If the old woman saw fit to do that, James knew there was steel in Q somewhere. James refused to let her go quietly, under the smug satisfaction of haughty halfwits from parliament. To honor her legacy it was going to take work from both of them.
Q watched Bond uncertainly while the older man watched his reflection in the window, unaware of the depths of his thoughts. His blue eyes were steely and somewhat narrowed, as though deep in thought. Q couldn't help but wonder if he was reconsidering his earlier decision not to rake him over the coals. But as the minutes went by and Bond remained silent, Q relaxed and let his gaze wander back to the window.
Now that he was aware that he was being watched, every now and then he'd find himself meeting Bond's gaze in the window's reflection. The man was usually damnedably hard to read, but with the added layer of the window's reflection, it was impossible to tell what he was thinking now. He seemed faraway compared to how intense his stare had been earlier; Q wondered if it was the drink or just the grief rearing his head again. Either way, Q remained at his side, a silent sentinel giving him what little comfort a near stranger could.
The rest of the event passed much the same way, though the fact that James never tried to chase Q off hung obviously in the air. They’d lost her, the two of them, so perhaps it was fitting they spent the misery of this day together. James had done what he’d needed to, the unspoken words echoing loudly in his skull as he’d stood next to her casket. By the time it was polite to take his leave he was more than ready to do so – it was easier to drink heavily in private and he didn’t have to try so hard to keep himself together.
Q let Bond drift away once everything came to a close. He hadn't expected him to stick around for any length of time anyway, so he didn't bother following. He hadn't planned on staying long himself; he hadn't really known the woman after all, he had no right to stick around and infringe on the grief of others. Shortly after Bond made his exit, Q stepped out as well, heading to his office. Perhaps he could at least get some work done.