♠ | 033 | Spam + Video

[lastrat]

[Spam/Narration]

[He's been thinking about home a lot, lately.

That's an understatement: he's been thinking about it almost every minute of every day. He's been thinking of it every time he jogs in the gym, every time the CES shows him something like Regents Park or any of his other habitual running spots in London. Sometimes it shows him Skyfall, and even his reaction to that has changed.

He's been thinking a lot about his results for active duty, too. Not the false ones M gave him - not the ones she passed to him, knowing he would need to be buoyed for the coming mission. The true results, shown to him on a series of screens on an abandoned island while he was tied to a chair. It's always alarming when truth comes from your enemies, but recently Bond's found it more alarming when the truth comes from him.

He doesn't belong here. He hasn't belonged here since he graduated.

He knows that, and still he's stayed. For M, he told himself. He's been waiting six months for an inmate, six months hoping he'd have an inmate who didn't just vanish. Six months spent doing nothing but avoid floods or cope with the after effects at his liquor cabinet - he's even stopped going to the pub as of late. Elena was right, he's become a recluse. He hasn't bothered to meet any of the newcomers, really - he hasn't bothered to keep up well with any of the people he could still say he cares about. He hasn't been a presence in anyone's life - not even his own.

It doesn't help that he's sitting in his room now, with a glass of scotch in his hand. He's actually grown used to 50-year Macallan. That's disappointing all on its own, but of course, it makes him think of the psych eval. Substance and alcohol abuse indicated. He throws back the rest of the scotch and runs a hand over his jaw. He needs a shave.

Heading for the bathroom, he finds his razor and shakes his head quietly. Sometimes the old ways....well. Going back in time didn't help much, in the end. That's why he's here.

He thinks, as he drags the cut throat razor over his skin, that maybe that's just the excuse he's been using. Would M thank him for being here all this time, accomplishing nothing, turning into a hollow shell of himself? Silva asked him if there was anything left of the man he was - then, the answer was yes, unequivocally. Now, maybe it wouldn't be so clear.

After the shave, he shrugs off his clothes, kicks off khakis and tosses away his tee shirt. When he dresses again, it's in a tailored suit. Part of him thinks it's ridiculous: suits are for occasions, and there are none here. But as he adjusts his collar, he thinks that maybe it's time to make his own occasion.

He hates it here, he realizes. He really hates it here, where he is never on a mission, where he never has the ability to act. Where, left drifting, he acts badly.

In the end, he heads for the deck, for one last, long look at the stars. He's always enjoyed the view, though mostly because it makes him feel small. Now, it convinces him that this is the right decision. This is no place for a man like him.]

[Public]

[When he finally turns the video on, he's still freshly clean-shaven, still wearing a suit. He's leaning on the rail on deck, eyes on the stars before shifting down to the camera.]

I'm heading off.

[He's tempted to leave it there, even shifts his thumb toward the power button. But he pauses and straightens instead, looking around him.]

Never chose to leave, before. [Well, once, but he kept that a secret then and it still is. At least now he has the spine to say something, first.] To be honest, I never should have come back in the first place. Seems I'm not much for authority figures.

[Pathological rejection of authority based on unresolved childhood trauma. It hadn't really surprised him. He knows how he lives his life. He knows how he copes. And he is not built for making deals with unseen men. He's not built for trusting what he can't see.

Bond exhales through his nose.]

I haven't done any good here.

[James is not one to apologize easily, and he's certainly never apologized to his enemies. He doesn't start now, but the admittance is close, as close as he can come. He knows what he did, here, he knows who he hurt, and he knows he hurt people he never intended by failing to think things through. For that, he's sorry. But it's too general for him to put into words, requires more eloquence than he has to give.]

I'll be around, for a bit.

[A few hours at most, because there are only a handful he'll seek out, if they don't come to him first. He doesn't bother smiling, but he looks clearer than he has in a while. He's needed elsewhere.]

Comments

Spam

[robinwishes]

[ She's probably not what he expects to find him. Not one of his people. She told him boundaries, though, and he oddly respected them in his way. That, or he simply didn't care to test them. Mindy paints the situation in the light that makes her the most badass, without question, even though she knows that may not be true. ]

[ She's got better bandages now, wrist to elbow, and she's calmer. Chris helped. Allison and Stephanie helped. Bond helped in his odd way. She could look at see where he tried, even if... even if he didn't know how to deal with her. ]

[ When she finds him on deck, she just perches on the railing. Makes himself comfortable. ]

Hey.

[ A beat. ]

You weren't a total shitbag.

[ Cue rimshot, laugh track. Ha ha ha, it's last minute bonding. ]

[ Ha ha ha, made a pun. ]

Spam

[lastrat]

[A smile cracks along his face as he looks sidelong at her. He's had higher praise. Lower, too. She isn't who he expected to see, but when she does show, he wonders why he didn't think of her. He wouldn't have expected it, at the start, but she reminds him of himself in certain ways.

Young, angry, and no idea how to interact with the world in a remotely positive way. But she's learned a lot faster than he has. James wonders if that's what parents think when they look at their children: pleasure that they will do things better and faster.

Of course, he doesn't feel remotely paternal toward her, and he's not entirely pleased - but it's a brush of something like that.]

You weren't an utter pain in my ass.

[He smiles that half smile a moment, then holds out his hand to her to shake.]

Spam

[robinwishes]

[ She doesn't shy from the grip -- reaches out, hand ready, strong and tight. Not a little girl's grip. ]

I was off my A Game.

But it could have been worse.

[ Without Chris and Cassel, without the burst of violence, things might've been different. But they weren't, and she doesn't grieve. She doesn't have hope or faith here, and she doesn't particularly want to try. ]

[ In truth, she's jealous. He gets to leave, with most of his sharp, jagged edges intact. She should be so lucky to leave like he does. ]

[private]

[sickjoke]

Good luck and Godspeed, Mr. Bond.

Can you pass on an apology to Vesper for me? I wasn't really to follow through on something.

[ She'll know, if she remembers. ]

[private]

[lastrat]

[He considers quietly, a natural over protective instinct taking root and telling him to look through the comm, see what he can find, determine if it's something she needs to deal with--

But he knows even as he considers it that it's the wrong reaction. Instead, he nods once, slowly.]

I will.

[private]

[sickjoke]

Thanks.

Take care of yourself, alright?

[beingdifferent]

No, you haven't, but at least you enjoyed yourself.

Now, go beat women back in your own home.

CW: talk of abuse

[lastrat]

[He doesn't quite grimace, but there is a flicker through his eyes, a downward twitch at his mouth.]

Enjoyed is a strong word.

CW: talk of abuse

[beingdifferent]

Then what was the point? [Is there something beyond futile hope and enmity? She smiles, big enough not to ask aloud.]

Good luck at home, James.

spam

[patheticvillain]

[Cassel doesn't come see him.]

[In fact, Cassel doesn't acknowledge that the post was made. Not even to himself. He listens to it, thinks about it for a minute, and then . . . shuts off his communicator and goes to do something else.]

[Kon told him that anger is a cover for all the other emotions you might be feeling and don't want to admit to. But the thing is, he doesn't even think he's angry. It would be stupid anger, anyway - this is the right decision, he knows. Bond doesn't belong here. He has people at home, he has home at home, and staying here without getting your deal - well, for some people, this isn't the right place. It isn't safe.]

[He doesn't feel angry, though. He feels nothing.]

[He goes to the places he normally goes - gym, dining hall, his room to check on Ilia - and then goes to the pub. This isn't too unusual, except it's early, and he's got drinks in his room, but, well. He doesn't have 50-year Macallan in his room.]

[The whole time it's burning his throat he's thinking about the accident, his dad's, and thinking, too, not for the first time, that maybe it wasn't an accident, that maybe his mom did it, or somebody else, somebody worse. Weird, how if it stays in the family it doesn't hurt as bad. He wonders how much family he's going to find and lose in this place. He wonders if he should get up, go, find him, tell him he's not mad.]

[Is he mad?]

[There's a mirror over the bar. He ignores it. He doesn't want to see what mask he's wearing right now.]

spam

[lastrat]

[When it's clear he's not coming, Bond goes looking. If he's honest with himself, he expected it. This, or anger: maybe both. He takes his time: now that the decision is made, he's in no rush. Today, tonight, tomorrow morning - as long as it takes to see who he needs to, say what has to be said.

After checking his room and the gym, probably just missing him, Bond winds up in the pub. His eyes find the mirror and the mask reflected in it as he approaches. Is he mad? He's not sure.

Stopping behind him, Bond waits. He can wait it out, but maybe, for once, he ought to be the one to reach out first.]

I have something for you.

spam

[patheticvillain]

[He looks into the bottom of his glass when he sees Bond approaching in the mirror. Doesn't look up, doesn't look back.]

Oh yeah?

[His voice is free of inflection, covered in its own sort of mask. It'll sound familiar to Bond, the kind of bitter brittleness so common when they first met, spiced with resignation.]

[spam]

[routemistress]

[Iris is busy as hell lately, but she shows up on deck in her ratty labcoat for a Bond break, dogs and all.]

Come 'ere, you.

[He's going to get hugged till his ribs creak.]

[spam]

[lastrat]

[This is another one he really ought to have expected. He grunts when she hugs him, because her approach gave him the chance to prepare for a brief hug, but that is not remotely what he gets.

He pats her back with one hand, shaking his head a little ruefully.]

I'll be cross if you break a rib.

[spam]

[routemistress]

You're such a wuss, James. I almost never break ribs by accident.

[He's not really on her mental wavelength, and she's not trying to read him: she knows him well enough to know how he'd take it. But her own affection for him shines in her touch like a soundtrack of swelling violins.]

I want to be sorry you're going, but I respect you too much to bullshit. Wardening never suited you and it's best. But I will miss you. And don't think you did no good. Peter, Cassel, Chris, Elena?

[myresponsibility]

[Peter is not good at goodbyes.

First of all, he just doesn't feel like he actually gets to do them often enough. His last memory of his Uncle is of the look on his face when Peter basically accused him of being a shitty parent, not an adequate substitute for the people he'd lost. He hadn't said goodbye to his mom and dad, his dad had just said "be good", and it's only recently that he realized yeah, they did actually love him. They didn't want to leave.

And Gwen-

Anyway. He's not good at them.

So he sees Bond's post, and his throat goes tight. He knows he should say something, ask if he can come find him, but he just kind of forgets how to speak for a good fifteen minutes, and instead just stares at his communicator.

Bond's been a lot of things for him. A pain in the ass, a responsibility, an annoying, super old baby to sit, but also a friend, maybe even a mentor, and it's not fair to think this, but he doesn't want to let go of that. Not again.

At least he's not dead. He'll be going home, and hopefully, he'll stay alive. After all, he's James Bond.

When the knock comes, he knows who it is before he answers the door, and he tries to open it in a way so Bond doesn't have to see the mess he's made of his bedroom walls. He still hasn't taken the collage of notes and pictures and clues. He's not sure why. (To torture himself? Probably.)]

Hey. [He tries - tries - to look something close to normal, but he still looks too hollow eyed to really make it work.] I saw- I was going to come find you.

[That's true, at least.]

[lastrat]

[Bond glances at what he can see of the room behind Peter, mostly alerted by the fact that he's, well, hiding something. It becomes a bullet point in the back of his mind, and he shifts his eyes back up to Peter, nodding quietly.]

Beat you to it.

[He pauses for a moment, waits. Like maybe the space will make Peter better at goodbyes. Like maybe it will make him better. But it's only a few seconds, and there's no changing things that fast.]

Are you going to let me in?

[myresponsibility]

[Peter's mouth twists uncertainly, like he wants to say no, but decides against it. That's just going to make him more suspicious, right?

He takes a step back and holds the door open, looking at the floor of the hallway instead of at Bond, or his room.

So uh. Have fun looking at what probably looks like Peter lost his mind at some point.]

Spam

[mistconduct]

[Chris gets the message loud and clear, and immediately heads up for the deck, to hunt down Bond. He wants to say goodbye to the asshole.

He brings the dog]

Spam

[lastrat]

[When Bond sees them, he doesn't bother stopping the smirk that stretches across his mouth. The Pomeranian is probably one of his favorite little pranks, here.]

You know, I was half certain you'd be begging for someone to take that thing a month in.

Spam

[mistconduct]

Are you kidding? Bowie and me are inseparable.

[Chris sets the dog down, who immediately bolts for Bond. His owner follows a few steps later]

So I heard you're heading out.

spam

[advocacy]

[It seems like a lot of people are moving on these days. Daneca doesn't think it's such a bad thing, however. The people on the Barge in their own dysfunctional way are a family, one she isn't always sure she really belongs with or to all the time. But the Barge itself isn't a home. It's a prison. Some seem to confuse the two all the same.]

[She thinks of just shooting a quick message to say goodbye and letting that be that. It's not liked she was ever all that close to him. Not as close as say Cassel is at any rate. But in the end, she thinks that's a little too cold and distant. They may not have had a close relationship, but they did talk. He sometimes listened. She mostly just tried to figure out how he managed to keep standing with all the death and inevitable loss that has made up the hand he's been dealt by life.]

[Daneca ventures to the deck, arms lightly folded in front of her.]

Who would have thought you'd be leaving before me?

spam

[lastrat]

Almost a shame there's no proper betting pool here.

[He's glad she came, though he's not sure if he'd have sought her out if she hadn't. He might have, and he knows it's a strong might: not because they they talked often, but because she talked to him when he was very drunk, and reminded him that there's a life style outside his own that he appreciates. He lives the way he does so that people like her can live the way they do.

So he smiles a little when he sees her, and shrugs.]

Think you'll be heading off soon?

[imfollowinghim]

I'd say stay outta trouble, but that's kinda not in the cards, is it?

[lastrat]

God, I hope not.

[He's so bored Bucky!!!]