fajrdrako_fic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fajrdrako_fic) wrote2012-12-09 10:18 pm
fajrdrako_fic) wrote2012-12-09 10:18 pm
Entry tags:
- james bond,
- m,
- q
FIC: James Bond - "Black Stone:
Title: Black Stone
Author:fajrdrako
Fandom: James Bond, "Skyfall"
Characters: James Bond, Q, M
Rating: G
Length: 638 words
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims.
Notes: Post-Skyfall. Cross-posted to my Dreamwidth account, my Livejournal account, my fanfic journal, and Archive of Our Own.
Black Stone
Last night's snow had not quite melted. Q hunched a little inside his anorak, wandering the graveyard until he found the stone he was looking for. M's grave. It had seemed wrong to bring flowers – it wasn't as if he had ever been her friend. Flowers would imply he was some sort of equal, pretending a relationship they never had. So he had simply come himself, under cold grey skies.
The gravestone left off her honours. There was no religious phrase, no Latin formality, no decoration. Just black marble, a name, two dates. The stark anonymity seemed appropriate. No hint she was MI6's formidable M. It was as if the name family and friends knew her by was the pseudonym; M was the real persona.
Or perhaps it was because Q had only known her at work. She had worked long, hard hours – they said she had worked less obsessively when her husband was alive, but he had died before MI6 had hired Q. He had not known M until she was a widow. Did she have friends? The woman Q knew had no time for friendship. He had known her only as a boss.
As a boss, she had been brusque but fair. Not a person for idle chatter – or any other kind. Yet he knew she'd have been in his corner had he needed her support. She respected his work. That was more important than respecting him.
If he hadn't let Silva escape, she'd be his boss still. She'd be M, not this strange name engraved on black stone. He owed her so much, and he had let her down.
He said softly, “Forgive me, ma'am.”
The black stone was silent, but a voice behind him said, “It's your own forgiveness you need, Q.”
He refused to show he was startled. Without turning, he said, “007. You came to pay your respects on her birthday?”
“You know it was her birthday? She kept that secret.”
“You knew.” Q looked at him: the long tailored coat, dark glasses, military bearing, ears reddened by the cold.
His eyes hidden, Bond looked even more enigmatic than usual. He nodded, point granted. They were spies. They had their ways. He said, “She didn't blame you. Forgiveness is beside the point.”
“Is there a way to atone?”
“Don't wallow. Get on with things.”
He wondered how many deaths 007 was responsible for, one way or another. More than most. It was hard to imagine this keeping him awake at night. He'd made himself hard, like M was. They had to be. They had work to do. Anything else was unprofessional.
She'd liked that word.
He said aloud, “Am I being unprofessional?”
“Not my call,” said 007.
Q thought about the woman. They said she had died in Bond's arms. Q had some trouble imagining this, or imagining how Bond had felt about her. He'd known her better and longer than Q – her agent, hers from the beginning in ways other agents were not. Her protegé, her most loyal and trusted man. And now, at her tomb, he showed no sort of feeling whatsoever.
Yet he was here, because of the birthday she had tried to keep hidden. If that wasn't sentiment, what was it?
“She rebuilt MI6,” said Q. “She inspired us all. She was amazing.”
“She was strong,” said Bond. And something in the way he said it, something in the tilt of his head or the line of his lips, made it sound like the greatest accolade of all.
In other circumstances, Q would not have had the nerve to suggest such a thing, but in the bleak damp cemetery it was as if the distances between them had shifted and shrunk to irrelevance. “Let's go to the pub,” he said. “Let's go and drink to her.”
“And her principles,” said 007.
- - -
Author:
fajrdrakoFandom: James Bond, "Skyfall"
Characters: James Bond, Q, M
Rating: G
Length: 638 words
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims.
Notes: Post-Skyfall. Cross-posted to my Dreamwidth account, my Livejournal account, my fanfic journal, and Archive of Our Own.
Black Stone
Last night's snow had not quite melted. Q hunched a little inside his anorak, wandering the graveyard until he found the stone he was looking for. M's grave. It had seemed wrong to bring flowers – it wasn't as if he had ever been her friend. Flowers would imply he was some sort of equal, pretending a relationship they never had. So he had simply come himself, under cold grey skies.
The gravestone left off her honours. There was no religious phrase, no Latin formality, no decoration. Just black marble, a name, two dates. The stark anonymity seemed appropriate. No hint she was MI6's formidable M. It was as if the name family and friends knew her by was the pseudonym; M was the real persona.
Or perhaps it was because Q had only known her at work. She had worked long, hard hours – they said she had worked less obsessively when her husband was alive, but he had died before MI6 had hired Q. He had not known M until she was a widow. Did she have friends? The woman Q knew had no time for friendship. He had known her only as a boss.
As a boss, she had been brusque but fair. Not a person for idle chatter – or any other kind. Yet he knew she'd have been in his corner had he needed her support. She respected his work. That was more important than respecting him.
If he hadn't let Silva escape, she'd be his boss still. She'd be M, not this strange name engraved on black stone. He owed her so much, and he had let her down.
He said softly, “Forgive me, ma'am.”
The black stone was silent, but a voice behind him said, “It's your own forgiveness you need, Q.”
He refused to show he was startled. Without turning, he said, “007. You came to pay your respects on her birthday?”
“You know it was her birthday? She kept that secret.”
“You knew.” Q looked at him: the long tailored coat, dark glasses, military bearing, ears reddened by the cold.
His eyes hidden, Bond looked even more enigmatic than usual. He nodded, point granted. They were spies. They had their ways. He said, “She didn't blame you. Forgiveness is beside the point.”
“Is there a way to atone?”
“Don't wallow. Get on with things.”
He wondered how many deaths 007 was responsible for, one way or another. More than most. It was hard to imagine this keeping him awake at night. He'd made himself hard, like M was. They had to be. They had work to do. Anything else was unprofessional.
She'd liked that word.
He said aloud, “Am I being unprofessional?”
“Not my call,” said 007.
Q thought about the woman. They said she had died in Bond's arms. Q had some trouble imagining this, or imagining how Bond had felt about her. He'd known her better and longer than Q – her agent, hers from the beginning in ways other agents were not. Her protegé, her most loyal and trusted man. And now, at her tomb, he showed no sort of feeling whatsoever.
Yet he was here, because of the birthday she had tried to keep hidden. If that wasn't sentiment, what was it?
“She rebuilt MI6,” said Q. “She inspired us all. She was amazing.”
“She was strong,” said Bond. And something in the way he said it, something in the tilt of his head or the line of his lips, made it sound like the greatest accolade of all.
In other circumstances, Q would not have had the nerve to suggest such a thing, but in the bleak damp cemetery it was as if the distances between them had shifted and shrunk to irrelevance. “Let's go to the pub,” he said. “Let's go and drink to her.”
“And her principles,” said 007.
- - -