lastrat | ♠ | 017 | Voice + Spam

[Private to Alice]

Still alive? [He is the most caring warden. Obviously.]

[Private to the Admiral]

I'm running low on painkillers.

[Open CES spam]

[He's wearing navy sweats, jogging along a path through the woods. Most of the run has been thick with trees, and he's had to hop over more roots to avoid turning an ankle than he cares to count. James has been at it long enough that his breathing is rough and sweat has soaked into the front and back of his sweatshirt, turning the dark blue fabric even darker. There's a chill in the air, and he knew where the CES brought him the moment he stepped inside. He's spent the entire jog running away from Skyfall.

The trees are thinning, though, and he slows and drops to a walk, stopping to lean against the last tree. Ahead is one of the moors, and beyond that, one of the mountains he grew up around. He tilts his head back, considering its peak and rotating his right arm, rubbing at his shoulder. He wouldn't mind a climb, but doubts he'd get very far. It turns his expression even more sour, and a scowl settles on his brow before he starts forward again, down into the moor.]

[Spam for Vesper]

[He's sweaty and he smells when he comes back to the room, and the door isn't quite closed before he starts pulling off his sweatshirt. It gets tossed in the vague direction of the hamper, pants following as he heads directly for the shower. His usual shower process has been a pain since he was shot; the hot water eases the tension in his shoulder, soothes, but the cold doesn't just wake him up, it tenses his muscles and starts the ache back up again. He steps out of the shower, smelling much better than he did ten minutes ago - and with a slowly throbbing arm.

When he's dry, he wraps a towel around his waist, and stares at himself in the mirror for a moment, prodding at his scruffy jaw and trying to ignore how gray that stubble is. When he reaches for his razor and holds his arm up, though, it trembles. And he doesn't fancy shaving over his throat like that.

Clenching his fist around the folded blade, he exhales, then steps out into the suite.]

Vesper?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[There's going to come a time where she's not going to be able to hold her tongue anymore about her concerns, but that day isn't quite here yet. So she sets up the chairs without complaint and waits for him to return from the bathroom.]

[He comes back with a brush and a canister of shaving cream; he's brushing it over his jaw as he comes over. She'll ask about this, if he keeps it up; he needs to sort out his shoulder.

But not today. Today he'll make like, make it cute, a gesture of trust. He sits, sets aside the brush and the cream, his jaw covered.]

I'm laying my life in your hands.

[That gets a small, genuine smile out of her, and she's willing to set her concerns aside as she takes the razor and gets ready to get to work.]

I appreciate that you're willing to trust me with something so valuable.

Flatterer, [he says, just a little dryly. He's cocky and arrogant and would never throw away what he has - but a man who values his life highly doesn't throw himself into enemy fire on a regular basis. Sitting forward, elbows on his legs, he tilts his jaw up for her, looking faintly smug without smiling. Wouldn't want her nicking him.]

Well, I think it's valuable, so whether or not you do doesn't really matter right now, does it?

[Although she wishes it did matter a little more to him. She can't help but think of how hard it would be to go home and spend some time together, only for him to go off on some mission to God knows where for God knows how long and never come home. She'd probably be contacted discretely, and there would be a quiet funeral, if they even allowed her to have one, and then she'd be expected to just move on with her life.

Or come back here, for who knows how long, to graduate another inmate. Probably alone.

The thought makes her kiss him gently on the forehead before carefully starting to get him cleaned up. She's slow and methodical, and there's a part of her that almost can't believe he still uses one of these to shave. It's very classic British Imperialist of you, James.]

[He lets her work, a quiet satisfaction resonating from him. It's simply not something he thinks about - but to consider that she does, well. It's pleasant. It feels like having a home, not just a flat he sleeps in.

And let's be real, he's pretty classic British Imperialist in his way. When she finishes, he pulls the towel from his shoulder, wiping excess cream from his face and leaning forward to kiss her soundly.]

Thank you.

[She sets the razor aside before kissing him back with unmistakeable fondness.]

You're very welcome. What do you want to do for dinner?

Take you out, ideally. [He smiles that small, sly smile of his, staying close enough.] Italian, perhaps, or good pub food. A night out with good wine, and back to my flat.

[Dream dates are...mostly healthy?]