Running.

Up the steps. Lambeth Bridge. Not alone. Slowing down. Man in distress. Collecting pieces of mobile.

"Are you okay?"

Watching.

"Me? I'm fine. You don't know me, but if you did, you'd know that I'm always fine."

Watching. Sweat? A tear. Touch. Why? Give bottle. Touching. Need to get up, run.

"What about your drink?"

Run.

"You can keep it."

Running.

White noise.

Running.

Up the steps. Lambeth Bridge. Not alone. Slowing down. Man in distress. Collecting pieces of mobile.

"Are you okay?"

Watching.

"Me? I'm fine. You don't know me, but if you did, you'd know that I'm always fine."

Watching. Sweat? A tear. Touch. Why? Give bottle. Touching. Need to get up, run.

"What about your drink?"

Run.

"You can keep it."

Running.

White noise.

Running.

Up the steps. Lambeth Bridge…

"She would have wanted you to find a new partner," Marc Ange said quietly.

They had been sitting in silence since Bond's return from the graveyard.

"You know that, don't you?"

Bond watched the dancing shadows on the floor. The bright fire from the fireplace had almost chased away the chill, so deeply imbedded in his bones whenever he visited Tracy's grave. Marc Ange knew him well. He had waited for him in the small sitting room. Some bread and cold cuts together with a bottle of red wine had been served as soon as Bond had settled in the arm chair across from Marc Ange's.

"I know. It's just," Bond began, but his voice petered out.

Marc Ange took a small sip from his glass. They had all the time in the world, and Bond knew that his father-in-law would let him be if he refused to talk. But Bond wanted to talk. He always wanted to talk when he was back in Corsica. Back, where he felt strangely protected and out of harm's way. He had returned here, when he needed to get away from Six, needed to stay 'dead', needed to heal. It had been his refuge, a secret place far away from the Service and M's prying eyes. It had been safe heaven from the very first time he had met Tracy and ever since.

"I loved her."

It was said with an unusual sincerity.

"But more than that, I," Bond searched for the right words. "I trusted her. I trusted her to trust me. And in turn," he took a drink from his wine glass. "She was loyal. You know, Tracy would be there, anticipate what I needed to do. But never give herself up as a person."

Marc Ange cleared his throat.

"She had learned that the hard way. To be herself, despite loving someone."

After all these years, Marc Ange still hated Vicenzo. Having him killed in a car accident all those years ago had not really satisfied his need for revenge.

"She was happy. You know, those last months with you."

Bond smiled, leaning back he closed his eyes. Yes, he remembered. Tracy's smile, tentative almost shy in the beginning, turning into a brightness that would have his own anxiousness melt away like snow on a sunny day. Her mocking smile, when she once again had to rescue him from one of his cock-ups. Her joy, when skiing downhill or driving like a madman, escaping their pursuers. Sometimes he wondered why it felt like they had experienced a lifetime in the short span of time they had together. Nothing had come close ever since. Not Vesper and most certainly not Madeleine.

He frowned in sudden realisation. His eyes opened and locked with Marc Ange's. Surprised by unbidden memories, surfacing, and clicking into place. A cocky reply, an awkward joke, light-hearted banter in tense situations. A quiet, steady voice in his ear; a careful, hesitant touch when another deadly gadget was given to him.

"That is why I had to leave."

Marc Ange looked inquiringly at him. Bond's mind drifted back in time. Spectre, Skyfall, the National Gallery.

"MI6. Why I went with Madeleine."

"You don't make much sense, James. You went with Madeleine because you trusted Teresa?"

"What? No, sorry." Bond shook his head. "No, I had to leave MI6."

Comprehension was followed by dread. It would never have worked out. That was why he had to leave.

"I couldn't risk it. It wasn't safe, not for–"

Before Bond could finish the sentence, he was interrupted by a commotion from the hall outside the sitting room.

Muffled shouts and scuffling could be heard through the solid door. Bond briefly considered his Walther, but decided against it. Marc Ange's people would deal with whoever had been foolish enough to intrude unbidden into the territory of the Union Corse.

A few seconds later, a knock on the door was followed by an abrupt opening, with two people stumbling in. One trying to hold the other back.

"Sorry to disturb you, Draco."

Roccu, Marc Ange's second in command, tried to hold on to the intruder, but he was able to wrestle himself free of the grip. Both Bond and Marc Ange had risen from their chairs and looked at the invader, who now stood in the middle of the room.

"Q?"

The black mop of unruly hair, a pair of well-known glasses, and a glare that would have killed lesser men; Q was straightening up, brushing his rumpled cardigan as if that could absolve this eyesore piece of clothing, and finished with rightening his glasses.

"The Corsican mob, Bond? Really?"

Despite the snide remark and put on arrogance, neither Bond nor Marc Ange failed to notice the dishevelled clothes, the dark rings under Q's eyes, visible despite the frames of his glasses, or the stubbles of a beginning beard in his face. A knowing glance passed between them, and with a small nod at Q, Marc Ange walked out of the room, taking Roccu with him.

"You look like shite."

It was a statement of fact and Q took a few uncertain steps forward before collapsing into the abandoned arm chair across from Bond. Q's computer bag had slipped off his shoulder and lay abandoned on the floor. When no retort was coming, curiosity turned into concern. Bond knew that Q was able to stay awake and on a mission for more than twenty-four hours without any signs of fatigue.

"When was the last time you had something to eat?"

"Hm?"

Q was barely keeping his eyes open. Bond stood in front of the chair, looking at the slumped form, now almost covered in the too large cardigan. Q's hands trembled when he tried to sit up and get his clothes back in order again. With a confused look around, Q seemed to try and figure out where he was. Recognising Bond, his face lit up with a small smile.

"Bond, good," he said, and continued with utmost concentration, "I need your help. You."

Q seemed to forget what he had been about to say. A few moments later, the frown on his face vanished and with a lifted finger, pointing at Bond, Q slurred:

"You have to help me find myself."

With that, he leaned back and was sound asleep before Bond had time to process the words.

Running.

Up the steps. Lambeth Bridge. Not alone. Slowing down. Man in distress. Collecting pieces of mobile.

"Are you okay?"

Watching.

"Me? I'm fine. You don't know me, but if you did, you'd know that I'm always fine."

Watching. Sweat? A tear. Touch. Why? Give bottle. Touching. Need to get up, run.

"What about your drink?"

Run.

"You can keep it."

Running.

White noise.

Running.

Up the steps. Lambeth Bridge. Not alone. Slowing down. Man in distress. Collecting pieces of mobile.

"Are you okay?"

Watching.

"Me? I'm fine. You don't know me, but if you did, you'd know that I'm always fine."

Watching. Sweat? A tear. Touch. Why? Give bottle. Touching. Need to get up, run.

"What about your drink?"

Run.

"You can keep it."

Running.

White noise.

Running.

Up the steps. Lambeth Bridge…