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Entry tags:
- [comm] lastvoyages,
- bond careshahahahahah,
- bond only cares sometimes,
- cut your losses,
- feelings????,
- god he needs therapy,
- healthiest lifestyle,
- i believe it's time to go,
- last rat standing,
- learn how to apologize you ass,
- leaving things unfinished,
- lets talk about how useless i feel,
- m : bitch,
- m would be really disappointed right now,
- professionals,
- yeah it's relief
♠ | 033 | Spam + Video
[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.]
[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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
That is a thing.
He glances at Peter as he steps in, concerned by the behavior right up until he sees why. He circles slowly, moving to stand right in front of it.
He doesn't point out that he's seen similar walls in the back rooms of megalomaniacal terrorists' hide outs. He sees the picture of Gwen near the center, the post it, do I have to lose you too? and breathes in and out very slowly. He doesn't let it seize in his veins right away. He lets it flow and ebb until he can take in the family photo, the trail of thoughts, without disappearing into his own.]
When did you do this?
no subject
And he's not. He's just... really messed up.]
Before I found out. [He risks a look over at Bond and his collage, and then decides looking at his unmade bed might be easier.]
I just- Didn't take it down, yet.
no subject
Failing, Bond thinks. But trying. He turns, facing Peter instead.]
I live in Chelsea, in London. We have a flat off King's Road.
no subject
Is this the offer he thinks you're making, or something else?]
Yeah?
no subject
You'll be visiting.
[Or else, you little prick. Tall prick. Whatever.]
no subject
Peter smiles a little, like he's trying to remember how to actually do. That. Which is kinda true, and tries to let out a small laugh.]
I guess I did miss Martin.
no subject
[Whatever that cat is going to sleep on his head and everyone knows it.
Bond reaches out, squeezing Peter's shoulder tightly.]
You'll get through this, Peter.
[This too shall pass, and all that bullshit. Bond doesn't bother with pretty words, he only deals in facts. And that Peter will come through the other side is a fact. He believes in Peter, and he doesn't believe in people easily.]
no subject
You're so stupid, you know?
[His grin's a little wobbly, but it's there, which is better than he's been in a long time, about just about anything.] Maybe you were never gonna need to use your Barge Oscar speech, but-
[You did good. You helped.
You helped me, he means.]
no subject
Yes, yes. You're very clever.
[He's glad he did.]
no subject
I'll come visit. And I'll start taking all this down. [Soon. It's definitely something he should have done weeks ago, really.]
no subject
Good.
[To both. Peter is a good man, and he really shouldn't be doing something this crazy. Bond doesn't even give the mess on the wall another look as he turns to head for the door.]
I'll see you soon, then.