Here’s a snippet from the prologue for my as-yet-unnamed sp00qy fic.
…Old hearts are patient and selective.
But when they fall, they are utterly lost.
Bond’s heart lashed out after Vesper’s betrayal. Hot with embarrassment and rage, it shredded itself with recriminations of folly until what was left was a calloused leathery thing, all but impossible to pierce. And so it stayed for years, with only a few shiny spots worn soft by colleagues and friends. Until Madeleine reminded it of older times, older connections, and found a way in.
I feel like I need to give a big shout out to the 00q fandom. We are small, but we are mighty and everyone that I have come across is just darling. Some times I write dumb things and the fact that people like them just makes me feel all warm and squishy. I’m not usually one to obsess over how many notes things get, but sometimes it’s enough to inspire confidence in me and push me to create more.
the look on q’s face after bond says ‘just one more thing’ takes ten years off my life every time i see it and at this rate y’all are invited to my funeral yesterday
Bond retires with Madeline and settles into a restless
domesticity. Years later, in the dead of night, he receives a phone call. It’s
a staticy call from an unknown number, a plea for help from his former
Quartermaster. – anon
—
I
love this idea… Jen.
(Please note that continuation requests need to be submitted in the ConsultingWriters inbox. Thank you! Jen)
—
The
phone was naturally at the opposite end of the room, beeping obnoxiously
loudly; it was so rarely in use that Bond generally tended to ignore its
existence. Every once in a while, Eve or Tanner would get in touch to check in,
on something dimly resembling a social basis which Bond was always quite
grateful for.
Bond
was mind-numbingly bored. Indescribably and inexpressibly bored.
Madeleine
ignored the phone, and so Bond dragged himself out of bed: not an alarm, but a
phone call. Unknown number.
Curiosity
and irritation both mildly piqued, he answered: “Bond speaking.”
“Bond?”
The
voice was rattling, the line distorted with hisses and pops of static. “Who is
this?”
“Who
is it?” Madeleine asked from the bed, a direct echo. “James?”
“Bond, I – nee- it’s Q – Q – I ne – help”
The
line was cracking all over the place, only words slipping through, piece by
piece, but the single letter was enough: “Q?”
“Yes.”
The
voice was right; whatever vowels sounds trickled through the static were round
and crisp, English, indisputably Q’s voice. Older, perhaps, but still
recognisable. Bond always remembered voices, names, faces. The life of a double-oh
was behind him, but old habits die hard, and it was all but reflexive. Bond
could never forget.
“What’s
happened? Where are you?”
“Plea- help – you can – trac- … tracers.”
Instantly,
Bond felt the rush. Unmistakeable and immediate.
“What’s
happened?”
“… hostage, I…”
“Q,
I’m losing you. Location?”
“you stole – … – them, you-”
“The
tracers?”
“Yes.”
“Injured?”
“I can’t – los –
Bond…”
“Q.
Status.”
“… not good.”
The
first truly clear sentence: Q’s voice was strained and tired, cracking as much
as the phone line itself was. Bond could hear the fragility, his old
Quartermaster, calling him for help
at an ungodly time of night, rather than MI6.
MI6
was unsafe. Bond was not affiliated. The only person Q could trust who would be
even slightly placed to help him.
Madeleine’s
voice: “James?”
“I’m
coming for you,” Bond promised, as the line crackled louder and hissed
violently at him, Q’s voice half-gone. “I promise you, Q, I will find you.”
Shadow In The Light 