A Trifling Dispute Over the Inheritance

“She gave you the paperweight.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You let a madman into the heart of MI6, got her killed, blew up Skyfall, and she gave you the paperweight?”

“Thought you hated the place as much as the rest of us did.”

“I certainly prefer going there over ever attending another one of those banal ‘reunions’ at wots’-his-faces private island.”

“Yeah, you can’t use tending to the old estate as an excuse any more, can you? I suppose I should apologize for that.”

“I’m not the one you should be making amends with.”

“Of course not, but I don’t think I’d ever meet dearest ‘mum’ again, not even in the afterlife.”

“Ever the optimist, I see.”

“You know me, always the most chipper bloke in the room.”

“Certainly never lacking in something cheeky to say.”

“I was trained by the best.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“It wasn’t for my good looks.”

“You’re still not my type.”

“And I’m still married to the job.”

“As well you should be.”

“–look, if you really want the bloody thing, just take it.”

“–no, you keep it.  You’re the one with the license to kill, after all.”

“The Queen’s official bulldog, as it were.”

“Exactly.”

“Going so soon?”

“Supposed to meet the new M and all that.  Just stopped by to see how you were holding up.”

“–and whinge about a ceramic paperweight.”

“–and that.  But I’m good now.  So I’ll be seeing you later.”

“That doesn’t sound very reassuring.”

“Wasn’t intended to be.  But do try to stick around longer than I did.  I’d hate to come back and find some other fellow at this desk.”

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