Disclaimer: I don't own them. Duh! Besides, Marlowe is doing just fine, I don't even want to.

"Mother?"

For a split second her stomach drops. She knows that tone. It's the tone her five year old used when he wanted to get out of bedtime for the umpteenth time in a night, the tone her sixteen year old used when wanting to borrow the car keys; the tone her now fully grown son uses when he wants to ask something that she might not necessarily want to answer.

"Hmm?" Martha answers, flipping the page in her magazine, thinking that if she pretends like she hasn't heard, maybe he will decide that it's not important.

She loves her son, loves him fiercely, but sometimes he's like a dog with a bone. He has picked up that book that came in the mail more times than she can count. He's opened it, flipped through its pages and thrown it down in annoyance. He's huffed and puffed, and sighed pointedly, until she thought she might like to just throw herself out of the nearest open window and save them all the trouble. Alexis has been sleeping on and off all day, curled up into a small ball on the couch. Kate had crashed along with her adrenaline, almost as soon as breakfast was over. Richard had sent her to his bedroom with a soft kiss to her forehead; the kind of gentle affection, unhurried love, that she'd always hoped that he would find.

So it's been just herself and Richard for the last six hours and he's been stalking around the apartment all afternoon, like a mastiff missing its master.

Like a son, missing his father.

"Mom?"

She sighs and puts the magazine down. She never could refuse him.

It had been excruciating for her as he'd gleefully told her about his meeting with her one-time paramour; forty years later and the pain of rejection had still stung.

She'd been happy for Richard, of course, and so very glad that the man she had once thought she loved could help them get Alexis back, but still, the fact remained that once upon a time she'd been left heartbroken, pregnant and alone, at a time when ladies simply didn't do such a thing.

"What is it darling?" she replies, patting the cushion next to her and motioning for him to join her on the sofa.

"You know the book that my fath… er, that Hunt, my.. that Hunt sent in the mail?"

She reaches over and clasps his hand, strokes her thumb over the broad expanse of the back of his palm, noticing with a tinge of melancholy how smooth his tanned skin is, and in contrast, how wrinkled and pale hers has become.

"It's okay, Richard," she says gently, swallowing the inane sense of jealousy that rises up within her. "He's your father, call him whatever you would like."

He looks to her with a hint of skepticism in his gaze; she smiles, encouraging him to get to the point of this awkward conversation.

"Really," Martha assures. "Now, what do you want to know?"

"Well as I was saying, do you remember that book? Casino Royale?"

She chuckles, gives him the 'look' and nods her head. How on earth could she forget? There hadn't been five minutes since he's gotten home that it hasn't made an appearance. She notes how the tense set of his shoulders drops as he relaxes at the sound of her laughter; somehow it gives her a renewed strength for what she's sure is to follow. An interrogation regarding the man that she knows next to nothing about.

Oh, how she wishes she could answer his questions; it has always made her feel like a failure to not be able to give him what he seeks.

"So I was flipping through it," he continues, "and I found a bunch of highlighted passages."

Oh. This wasn't the direction she had thought the conversation would go but it certainly sparks her interest.

Years ago, while Richard was still a toddler and as she was moving into a new apartment, she had found a book on one of her shelves; inside she had found pages upon pages of highlighted words, handwritten notes in the margins. At the time she had blown it off as some random book a friend had left at her place, tossed it aside, but now after everything she has learned from Richard about the man she had once thought she'd loved…

She wonders if she still has it. It was a Bond novel too, she remembers. Live and Let Die maybe? Had answers been sitting under her nose all this time?

She sits up straighter in her seat, takes a breath and measures her tone before replying.

"Really?"

She's proud of the way she masked the waver in her voice; doesn't think her son noted the slightly higher than normal tenor.

"Yeah, so I was wondering if you knew what any of it was about because I thought that maybe he had left a clue for me, maybe a hint to his whereabouts, but the things that are highlighted are of a more…"

She waits while he struggles to find the words; an oddity for this man she has raised. He clears his throat. "A more personal nature."

He gives her a look that implies more than a son should probably know about his mother and continues. "I'm inclined to think, no, scratch that, I'm hoping that they were meant for you."

He smiles, that little half-smirk, half-adoring grin that never fails to melt her a little inside, and hands over the book.

She flips through the hardcover, her heart catching as her eyes scan the pages and stumble upon phrases, places and names that have meaning to her. He might not have been around to participate, but it seems as though the man that had been a shadow over her heart for the later half of the last century had in actuality been lurking in the shadows and keeping tabs on her. It gives her an odd sense of peace rather than the searing anger that she would have expected of herself. She smiles, fondly stroking a finger over the pages and discreetly trying to wipe away a tear, as all that it could mean threatens to completely overwhelm her.

"I'll leave you to it," Rick says in a soft voice, rising and stroking his hand gently over her cheek to brush away the tear before retreating to his study.

Martha quickly pulls an afghan from the back of the sofa over her shoulders, wraps herself up in its warmth and settles into the cushions to read.

The next few hours fly by as she is immersed in the gripping tale that Flemming has spun. Her heart leaps, momentarily ripping her from the story every time she comes upon another highlighted passage or handwritten note in the margins. His surprisingly flowery script speaks to the gentle nature of the man that she remembers, and it is only from these short reprieves that she notes the passage of time. A cup of tea appears beside her at some point; the sky has turned inky and black, and the loft is bathed in a warm glow from the fire that Richard has lit. It's warm and not at all necessary but the simple gesture somehow makes her feel loved. She makes a note to thank him later.

As she reaches the end of the story, with only a few pages left to read, she comes to a section not only highlighted, but circled as well. This is important, it screams. The hero of the story is a spy, the most famous of spies, but as she has read the book she finds that it is him that she most identifies with and not the lover. As Bond's girlfriend takes her life to save his own, Martha begins to get the message. She re-reads one of the highlighted passages, an excerpt from the suicide note, over and over again, until she believes it.

There it is, my darling love. You can't stop me from calling you that or saying that I love you. I am taking that with me, and the memories of you.

The dam breaks.

Forty years of wondering, of doubting if what she had felt was real but never truly knowing is suddenly laid out before her in stark black and white.

Martha sits still on the sofa, the book falling from her hands as the tears roll down her cheeks.

He had loved her. It had been real. But he had left to save her.

She would have liked to have had a say in the matter, but surprisingly, she understands. Maybe even respects him a little for it. It had been tough, just her and Richard, but what might her life had been had he stayed?

All that she has seen and experienced in her full and rich life has been because of a decision that had been made for her while she had slept on; blissfully unaware of the new life forming inside of her, and of the fleeting love quietly slipping out the door.

As many times as she has wanted to kill the man who had loved her and then left over the years, all she can manage to think of right now is how much she wants to thank him.

For his love. For her life.

For her son.

"You're done?" His soft voice breaks her out of her reverie and she smiles as he sits down beside her.

"Yeah, I'm done," she agrees. She has a few pages left, but there's nothing more she needs to read.

"Good book?" His tone implies more than the casually asked question.

"Happy remembrances," she replies, thinking fondly of the words she had just committed to memory. The greater meaning of the story bleeds into the highlighted passages that Hunt has chosen and she finds herself feeling sorry for the man and all that he has missed out on.

"Do you think he ever wanted us?" Richard suddenly blurts out, looking shocked that he had let it slip past his lips. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that," he quickly says, ducking his eyes and lowering his head.

Oh, her sweet and innocent boy. His cavalier attitude sometimes makes her forget how much he has missed out on as well.

She cups his face between both of her palms and raises his head until he is looking her in the eyes. She waits until the stormy gray lifts and the brilliant blue that she loves returns. A single tear rolls slowly down his jawline and she tenderly brushes it away using the side of her thumb.

"Oh Richard, darling, of course he did."

He smiles, tentatively, hope shining across his features.

"You think?"

She laughs and pulls him into a hug before tugging him up and off the couch. She trots him in front of the hallway mirror and slings an arm around his shoulder.

"I mean, just look at us darling! What's not to love?"

So, that happened. Many thanks to Avi for the prompt of, "Martha feels! Martha and Hunt feels!" And also for the prods to add more when I thought this was done.

I could probably be persuaded to expand on this if anyone is interested. I dunno how much people want to explore the possibility of a Martha/Hunt reunion. Munt? Hartha? God, I'll 'ship anything.