![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
- [comm] lastvoyages,
- bond your life,
- do not ever follow this man's example,
- fuck talking,
- god he needs therapy,
- i just like shooting shit,
- in the 40s he smoked 70 a day,
- lets talk about how useless i feel,
- on second thought lets not,
- prepare for the healthiest coping,
- probably about to be trolled ty admiral,
- shooting sucks,
- thank god it's not the 40s,
- travel spots barge edition
♠ | 013 | Voice + Spam
[Spam]
[James has been out of the infirmary for a couple weeks now, and it hasn't been entirely pleasant. It's not that he objects to healing; it's that the Barge infirmary doesn't hold a candle to the facilities he's spent weeks and months healing in, and all things being equal, he's healed enough to prefer chewing aspirin in private comfort than a morphine drip with only a curtain for privacy.
It's not as if pain is new to him.
Nearly a month since being shot, James feels well enough to go moving about; not for as long as he'd like, but staying cooped up has steadily been driving him mad. So today, he's dressed in dark jeans, a gray tee-shirt and a black jacket, and walking slowly through the halls up to the deck. He takes the elevator, something he used to avoid, given the lack of regular exercise, here. Beneath the jacket sits his holstered Walther, comfortable and fully hidden under his left arm. There's no eagerness in his face or walk; this isn't something James is looking forward to. He can still feel the ache in his shoulder, even when he's relaxing, and there's been little relief from it. But he needs to know how bad it is.
Once inside the firing range, he makes certain he's alone before locking the door. This isn't something he wants an accidental audience for. Taking off his jacket and hanging it up, he finds a pair of sound cancellers and slides them on before drawing his pistol. The weight is still familiar, it's not like he's forgotten anything. The target swings back, back, far but a distance he's never had a problem with before. James has never been one for starting slow.
He has to be able to fire cold, and it only takes one shot to show him he can't. Then he aims, right arm outstretched, and he can feel the tremble run from his shoulder to his fingertips and back again. It's the weakest he's ever felt. He shoots, and shoots, empties one clip and lifts his left hand to steady his wrist and empty another clip. He barely lands any center mass, can't make a head shot worth a damn, and when the gun clicks empty in his hand, click, click, click, he lets out a frustrated yell and turns, throwing the weapon away from him.
For a long while, he stands there breathing hard, leaning against his counter and holding his arm against his chest. He's fucking useless. Maybe he's not finished healing - that's what he tells himself, but he certainly doesn't fucking believe it.
Eventually, he gets rid of the paper target, destroying the evidence he thinks with a little laugh, and retrieves his gun. A new clip goes in - not that it will do any bloody good - and it finds its home again in his holster. When he pulls on his jacket, it's as if he never fired a shot. Tossing the ear muffs back into their bin, he unlocks the door, and heads out, expression black enough to ward off small talk.]
[Some time later, he circles back to the deck, looking slightly less murderous. He's gotten his hands on a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches in the interim, and he lights one now, leaning over the rail. It's been years since he smoked, not since he left the Royal Navy, really, and the taste is acrid against his tongue. It doesn't stop him from inhaling deeply, like the hard taste of gin doesn't stop him from drinking deeply. At least he doesn't cough.
When the cigarette burns low, he pulls it away from his lips, watching the embers burn and flare, before flicking it away over the edge. He watches until it disappears, then reaches for another.]
[Public]
[Someone is feeling a bit like shit. Which means it's time to hide it away and raise an innocuous topic while lounging in a chair in his cabin.]
I imagine between the lot of us there's been quite a bit of traveling. What are your favorite places? Beach, hotel, casino, I don't care. Where have you been?
[Private to the Admiral]
Put the adjoining door back between Vesper's room and mine, won't you?
[James has been out of the infirmary for a couple weeks now, and it hasn't been entirely pleasant. It's not that he objects to healing; it's that the Barge infirmary doesn't hold a candle to the facilities he's spent weeks and months healing in, and all things being equal, he's healed enough to prefer chewing aspirin in private comfort than a morphine drip with only a curtain for privacy.
It's not as if pain is new to him.
Nearly a month since being shot, James feels well enough to go moving about; not for as long as he'd like, but staying cooped up has steadily been driving him mad. So today, he's dressed in dark jeans, a gray tee-shirt and a black jacket, and walking slowly through the halls up to the deck. He takes the elevator, something he used to avoid, given the lack of regular exercise, here. Beneath the jacket sits his holstered Walther, comfortable and fully hidden under his left arm. There's no eagerness in his face or walk; this isn't something James is looking forward to. He can still feel the ache in his shoulder, even when he's relaxing, and there's been little relief from it. But he needs to know how bad it is.
Once inside the firing range, he makes certain he's alone before locking the door. This isn't something he wants an accidental audience for. Taking off his jacket and hanging it up, he finds a pair of sound cancellers and slides them on before drawing his pistol. The weight is still familiar, it's not like he's forgotten anything. The target swings back, back, far but a distance he's never had a problem with before. James has never been one for starting slow.
He has to be able to fire cold, and it only takes one shot to show him he can't. Then he aims, right arm outstretched, and he can feel the tremble run from his shoulder to his fingertips and back again. It's the weakest he's ever felt. He shoots, and shoots, empties one clip and lifts his left hand to steady his wrist and empty another clip. He barely lands any center mass, can't make a head shot worth a damn, and when the gun clicks empty in his hand, click, click, click, he lets out a frustrated yell and turns, throwing the weapon away from him.
For a long while, he stands there breathing hard, leaning against his counter and holding his arm against his chest. He's fucking useless. Maybe he's not finished healing - that's what he tells himself, but he certainly doesn't fucking believe it.
Eventually, he gets rid of the paper target, destroying the evidence he thinks with a little laugh, and retrieves his gun. A new clip goes in - not that it will do any bloody good - and it finds its home again in his holster. When he pulls on his jacket, it's as if he never fired a shot. Tossing the ear muffs back into their bin, he unlocks the door, and heads out, expression black enough to ward off small talk.]
[Some time later, he circles back to the deck, looking slightly less murderous. He's gotten his hands on a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches in the interim, and he lights one now, leaning over the rail. It's been years since he smoked, not since he left the Royal Navy, really, and the taste is acrid against his tongue. It doesn't stop him from inhaling deeply, like the hard taste of gin doesn't stop him from drinking deeply. At least he doesn't cough.
When the cigarette burns low, he pulls it away from his lips, watching the embers burn and flare, before flicking it away over the edge. He watches until it disappears, then reaches for another.]
[Public]
[Someone is feeling a bit like shit. Which means it's time to hide it away and raise an innocuous topic while lounging in a chair in his cabin.]
I imagine between the lot of us there's been quite a bit of traveling. What are your favorite places? Beach, hotel, casino, I don't care. Where have you been?
[Private to the Admiral]
Put the adjoining door back between Vesper's room and mine, won't you?
Page 1 of 10