castillon02:

“Haven’t seen Bond in a while,” Q mentioned, fiddling with a tricky bit of wiring in the new engine he was building, the one that definitely wasn’t exactly the right shape to fit into an Aston’s chassis. Ordinarily, Bond would have sneaked into the garage to get a peek by now. 

“Yeah,” Tanner said, setting a box of take-away on Q’s desk. “He retired, remember?” 

Wait. What? Yes, Q had seen him off with the old Aston (he’d literally swanned off with Ms. Swann), but— 

Q frowned and looked up. “You mean that actually took?” 

Tanner got his phone out, and a few taps later, he was holding it in front of Q’s nose. 

First, a selfie of Bond on the beach, wearing some tiny blue swim trunks and drinking a beverage with four different tropical fruits in it. All right, maybe not Bond’s usual drink of choice, but alcohol and sand was typical enough for post-mission Bond. 

Next, a picture of Bond on horseback, lean and tan, crossing a finish line in a desert. There were only two other horses in front of him. Bond was grinning fiercely. 

Another selfie, this time of Bond in a wet-suit, giving a thumbs-up on a pebble-strewn beach. “The English Channel,” Tanner said helpfully, flicking to another photo. 

Bond holding up a series of less-and-less-misshapen ceramic mugs, his hands still sometimes stained with clay. The last mug was white with a black J painted on it, with a little number 8 subscript. 

Bond in a kitchen, wearing a flour-stained apron, holding his hands up in a ‘Now what?’ gesture as he looked at the three-tier buttercream-frosted cake in front of him. The piping was impeccable. Fuck. “He ended up giving it to Moneypenny, who brought it to work,” Tanner said. “You had some.” 

The surprise cake. Q remembered. It had been Earl Grey-flavored. Q made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and reached out to flick to the next picture himself.

Bond in a complicated-looking yoga pose. 

Bond and a Japanese man both smiling into the camera, both of them wearing a gi, a hot tub in the background. 

Bond playing blackjack, Felix on his left while a woman in an incongruous cowboy outfit dealt the cards. 

Bond at a circus, wobbling on top of a large ball while a clown next to him, much less wobbly, sprayed him with a water pistol. 

Bond at the same circus, throwing knives at a target, sticking a sword down his throat while waggling his eyebrows at the camera, wobbling on a tightrope while a woman in a leotard next to him laughed. 

Bond playing tennis with someone of Indian descent. 

Bond standing next to a perfect tray full of red macarons. Q remembered those, too. They’d been peppermint flavored. He loved peppermint. Apparently Bond liked it too. 

And Bond was doing fine. Just fine. Enjoying his retirement. Which was good. Really. Of course Bond was an independent man. Of course he didn’t need Q watching his back while he was having fun with people in other countries. Bond had only needed Q for business, and he’d given the business up. 

“Ms. Swann taking the pictures?” he asked, passing the phone back to Tanner without checking to see if there were any Bond photos he’d missed. 

“At first,” Tanner said. “I think she did some psychology mojo on him to keep him from drinking himself to death. You know.” He gave Q a meaningful look that Q had no idea how to interpret. “But she’s been back in Austria for several months, and he’s been…well, entertaining himself. As you see.” 

“Right. Swimming and such,” Q said. He looked down at the engine in his hands and swallowed, feeling a lump like a sword in his own throat. What kind of car was he supposed to put this in now? He certainly wasn’t going to give an Aston to 009. 

Moreover, who was he supposed to design for now that 007 had really called it quits? 008 had no ingenuity. 009 had no style. 005 had those in spades, but he’d probably be dead in two months because he also had a death wish. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

Everyone knew that MI6 agents needed their quartermaster. They thought considerably less about the fact that quartermasters also needed their agents. 

Tanner was frowning at him. “All right?” he asked. 

“Perfectly,” Q said, rummaging around in the engine nonsensically.   

He didn’t need to be the kind of shitstain who got disappointed when their coworker didn’t crawl back into the office in order to possibly die by taking one more mission. But all Q could think was that he hadn’t gotten to say goodbye. Hadn’t gotten to outfit Bond for his last mission—real life—and of course he would have given him something more useful than a car for that. He would have given him…well, his number, in case Bond ever needed help. His address, in case Bond ever needed a listening ear. His fucking grease-stained hand, to help Bond up if he fell. 

But Bond didn’t need any of that. Like a good agent, he could help himself up. 

Q swallowed around the blade in his throat and told himself he was happy.