lastrat | ♠ | 013 | Voice + Spam

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[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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He drops his arm, straightens and leans his hips against the rail. He'd lean on it, but it hurts too much to hold that position for long. At least his arm isn't shaking when he takes another drag.

He can see, hear, practically feel the judgment in her, and maybe it's not unnecessary, but that doesn't mean he much cares for it. Better to at least not see it.]

Sudden craving.

[It doesn't quite calm the nerves, Not like it used to when he was younger. For a moment, he's silent. Then he turns to lean back against the rail instead, so he can look at her. She's beautiful, and he's a mess. He knows that six years is practically nothing, but it doesn't feel that way, looking at her. He shakes his head eventually, raises the cigarette to his lips, then pitches the thing behind him, only half smoked. Waste has never been a particular concern of his.]

[She comes over to stand next to him, leaning on the railing with her usual seemingly effortless gracefulness. There's a little bit of distance between them, enough to make it clear that she's giving him room to breathe, but only because she's not sure if he wants her there, or if he just needs his space.

She'd meant what she'd said before, that he's still James, that he's still almost irritatingly attractive, that she still loves him, but it's still strange. He looks so worn down, and she wishes he could just talk to her, to let her in a little bit so that she can actually help, or do something, even though she knows he won't drop his guard.]

Do you want to talk about it?

[He exhales slowly, watching the smoke rush out of his nose. He wets his lips, scratches his jaw, and feels the beginnings of stubble there. When he drops his hand again, he can feel the twinge through his shoulder, and that makes the decision for him.

He reaches out with his left arm to pull her closer, to run his hand over her arm, shoulder, back. He wants her here, he wants her close, but he doesn't want to tell her about it.

His armor's back on.]

Did you come looking for me?

[She tries not to feel hurt, or frustrated, or wrinkle her nose too much when she smells the cigarette smoke masking his usual, familiar scent. It shouldn't be surprising, it shouldn't be something she resents, because she'd thought that she'd never have the amount of trust she'd been given, and then given again. Maybe it was too much to ever ask for a third time.

So she relaxes against him slowly, but it still doesn't feel like it used to, and she misses it with almost irrational strength.]

Maybe.

[He realizes, distantly, that this could drive a wedge between them. It's a frightening prospect, and he closes his eyes, presses his chin against the side of her head.]

Sorry. [For making her look, for not wanting to talk about it - he doesn't elaborate, just holds her and slips the pack of cigarettes into his back pocket.]

Come on. [He pushes off the railing, pulling her with him.]

It's alright. [She wishes she could say don't apologize, that she could be the bigger person and not be hurt by it, but she doesn't want to be the bigger person. She wants to know what's wrong, and she wants to be able to help fix it, but she can't if he won't let her.

But it is alright for now, and she'll do her best to ignore the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, or wrinkle her nose at the prospect of kissing him and tasting it. (Sorry, it's not a habit she likes. B( )

She slides an arm around his waist and follows him, still leaning against his side and trying to focus on that. Things might be different, but they still have this, and that's something.]

Where are we going?

[His mouth quirks in the corner, and he settles his arm around her shoulders as they go. Breathing has, ironically, gotten easier, and he's moving almost like normal again.]

Something tells me I'm going to have to brush my teeth before I kiss you.

A shower and a change of clothes might be in order, too, [She comments a little slyly, although how serious she's being is a little up in the air.

(Not really, she's being serious. B( She just might not enforce it.)]

That doesn't answer my question.

[He is taking that as slyness instead of seriousness and responding in kind, a smirk inching onto his face.]

To the shower, obviously. You can help me wash my back.

There are far less elaborate ways to convince me to take a shower with you, James. [She knows it's not that, but. It's definitely a pleasant distraction.]

Now where would the fun be without an elaborate ruse? [That was fully his intention. Though it's a pretty fantastic distraction in his book.]

[Pleasant, fabulous, same thing.]

I would think I wouldn't need to explain that to you.

[Showering with James Bond is fantastic, he knows this to be fact.]

Let's not dwell on it, then. [Because that would be a mood killer.]

Alright. [But she's still thinking about the things unsaid, and she wishes there was something more she could do. She doesn't like worrying, but it seems like it's impossible not to do here, like there's some force in her life that keeps her worrying instead of letting her have room to breathe.

Maybe it'll be a good distraction from that, too.]

♠ | 013 | Voice + Spam

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