lastrat | ♠ | 006

[When the video clicks on, Bond moves away from the screen to sit forward on his bed, scooping something off the comforter in the process. The communicator is propped up on a chair in front of him; the cushion is just barely visible at the bottom of the screen. Both his hands are full - in his right is a glass, with two fingers of a dark, orange-gold liquid; scotch, a gift from Pepper for Christmas. He doesn't have much more left.

And in his left hand is a necklace - specifically, an Algerian love knot. His thumb keeps running over it, his attention settled on the necklace like it's the only thing that matters. He isn't drunk, but he might be heading in that direction.]

Before I came here, I was in a bar, in Bolivia. The man I was meeting was CIA, and I suppose as close to a friend as I have. I don't make friends, generally. I have colleagues, and acquaintances, and enemies. Felix is a good man, though. The CIA had a capture or kill order on me, but he gave me the intel I needed. Greene was meeting Medrano at the Perla de las Lunas. That was my chance. That was our chance.

There was a girl, Camille. Former Bolivian secret service. When she was a child, Medrano killed her father, raped her sister and mother and killed them, too, all in front of her. He set fire to the house, and left her to die with her family. [This isn't just rote information; he sounds in control, but there's anger, under the surface.] Orphans make the best agents. She escaped, obviously. I don't know how long she's waited for this opportunity. [Because he doesn't know exactly how old she is or was, but.]

I wanted her to have her revenge. Because I don't think I'll have mine.

[He takes a long drink, glances down at the necklace, and stands to pocket it. On his way back down, he grabs the communicator, holding it up to eye level now. He holds up the glass - there's less than a finger left now - contemplating it.]

I think I've started drinking too much. That's part of being a double-oh, you know - drinking. So many covers require blending into high stakes environments. But it's different, here. Everything's sedentary. I feel it more.

[He knocks back the rest of the glass with a vague shrug.] But it's better than grieving.

Let's lighten the mood some, shall we? Ivy told me, on my first day here, that I'm featured in a series of books, and movies. Tell me about them. I think they might be absurd fiction, but I'm concerned there will be a degree of accuracy that I'm extremely uncomfortable with.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He'd seen the pile of sheets and comforter when he'd slipped in, and there had been a moment when he'd considered waking her, asking her to stop this, to talk to someone, because he hated seeing her like this. It took a supreme effort not to, but through the shower it ate at him.

She was dead. She was depressed. Because of him?

That was the worst of it. Toweling off and pulling on slacks, he left the bathroom as he pulled in the white button down shirt, ignoring the buttons and hesitating at the side of her bed.]

Vesper.

[The temptation to just lie there and pretend she hadn't heard anything was strong, but she still sat up and swept her hair back, looking up at him reluctantly.]

Yes? [It was almost tempting to just ask if he needed something, because that seemed to be the only reason they talked anymore. Not that she blamed him for it, because it was her own fault.]

[He doesn't know how to say what he wants to say - normally, he'd have said nothing. But the flood helps, and soon enough, he's just talking.]

I hate seeing you sleep all the time. This isn't you, this is so unlike you that I actually find it alarming. I want you to talk to someone.

[She just stares at him for a long moment before looking away, drawing her knees up to her chest defensively.]

I didn't think you'd care. Like who?

I don't want to care. I've been telling myself I don't, I shouldn't. But that's not true.

[He sits down, angled so he's facing her.]

I care about you very much. I hate that you lied to me - I really hate that you were able to lie to me - but I understand it. Even if I wish I didn't. But the more I think about you, the angrier I get.

That doesn't mean I want you spending your days miserable.

[Her eyes flood with tears at that point, and she still can't look at him.] I'm miserable because I can't stand the way you look at me, and I know I deserve it. I hate myself and what I did, and sometimes I wish I'd never taken the Admiral up on his offer, because I don't want to live with any of this. I want to be dead.

[She glances over at him finally, still fighting to keep her voice from wobbling and only half succeeding.]

I want to ask you to leave, but I'd really rather you stay. I miss you, even though I know I don't deserve you, and I know you'd rather leave and go back to pretending as though we don't know each other. I hate myself for still hurting you just because I'm here, and I might leave if you asked me to. I'd like to pretend that I wouldn't, but I might.

Don't leave.

[It's immediate, and he shifts to reach out for her, pull her towards him with his hands on her arms.]

You made me watch you die, Vesper, don't ask me to do it again. Don't leave. Don't die, Christ. [He pauses, swallows, because it's so hard to hear that. She still just wants to be dead, and all he can see is blue water and a red dress for a moment.]

I can't stand that you died, and I hate you, I hate you for not letting me save you. [His hands tighten on her arms, in case she tries to pull away.]

But I love the woman I met in Montenegro. I would have left everything for her, because I didn't want her to spend her days worrying about me. I want her back. Even if the uptight pants suits return with her.

[She doesn't try to pull away, and actually has to fight the urge to lean into him and cry into his shoulder as the tears finally spill over. She trembles, because it's not what she expected to hear, and she doesn't know what she wants to say.

When she does manage to find something, it's choked and quiet, and again she almost just wants to curl against him and cry.]

I hate myself too. I'm so sorry, James.

[He makes it easier, at least: pulling her against him, he holds tight, one hand on her back, the other at the back of her head.

Whatever I am, he'd told her. Forgive her, Mathis had said. He closes his eyes, and swallows hard. She can cry, if she needs to, but he won't. Forgive yourself. He should have saved her. He shouldn't have trusted her. There was too much to swallow just now.]

There are people on board you could talk to. I think there are at least two psychologists.

[She curls into him, crying quietly except for the occasional hitched breath, trying to appreciate it because she doesn't know how long this will last, if after the flood's over, he'll just push her away like he always does.]

I don't want to talk to anyone about it.

[He pushes her away to protect himself, and it's so difficult to decipher whether he's doing that, or just hurting them both.]

You can't keep staying in bed all day.

[She doesn't say anything for a long moment, and instead just tries to focus on him, and the way it feels to be held, and feel loved and cared for. It's so much better than being looked at and knowing just from that that he hates her.

She manages a sort of throaty chuckle.]

I hate what you both turned me into. I'm the idiot woman everyone hates.

You're far from an idiot, [he says carefully, and settles for just holding her. He can stay here, he can do this as long as he needs to, as long as she needs. He's been strong for her before, and he'll do it again, even if part of him still doesn't want to. Part of him is closing off.

He presses his mouth against the crown of her head.]

If you start shrieking at every little thing, though, I may have to rethink that.

[That gets a more honestly amused laugh, although it's short and quiet.] I won't.

[She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, still curled up close to him, her hand flattened over his heart, trying just to breathe and relax, and not worry about when the flood was over, and what was going to happen afterward. She didn't know how many times she could do this, especially when she really only had herself to blame for the entire thing.]

I'm sorry.

I know. [He says it softly, like speaking too loudly would ruin the moment. And frankly, he doesn't want to think much about afterward, either.]

So am I.

[She's quiet again, knowing what she wants to ask, but almost afraid to do it, because she still expects rejection, and she can't honestly be upset with him if he does push away.]

Will you stay? I don't- [She swallows, trying to keep her voice steady.] I don't want to be alone and I miss you. It doesn't have to be long, and I won't be upset with you if you say no.

[He doesn't answer; when he pulls away, it's only to shift and turn, bringing his legs up onto the bed, arms around her again, and he lays them both down in the bed, holding her against him. He wants to stay, he wants to go, he wants to don his armor and forgive her. Forgiving a memory is easier; it can't hurt you again. But she is here, alive and breathing, and he can't withhold what will keep her from hurting any longer.

So he doesn't answer aloud, not sure what will come out - but he stays.]

♠ | 006 | Video

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