lastrat | ♠ | 020 | Voice + Spam

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♠ | 020 | Voice + Spam

[Private to Elena]

Asked your warden for my gun back. [A beat, then he adds:] I didn't mention the rest.

[Which is his way of apologizing for being gross and trying really hard not to blame her for killing him. It's hard knowing he deserved it and still having memories of that fear.]

[Private to Cassel]

[He could play it light. Ask him to lunch, take him on a jog. But the idea of food makes him queasy, and he wouldn't last a minute jogging before falling flat on his face. He sounds - well he sounds like he's been drinking, and that at least covers the fact that he's been death tolling.]

Do you know your way around a gun?

[Good job, Bond, great topic.]

[Private to Chris]

You've been quiet. [It's unnatural. This is not James playing parent at all. Obviously.]

[Private to Selina & Natasha, separately]

If you need peace of mind, tell me. [That's it, that's the almost-apology.]

[Pub Spam]

[He really ought to be in the infirmary, but don't try to tell him that. Bond died an ugly, bloody death, and stayed that way for a day or two. It's an ugly knowledge, and it coils tight in the pit of his belly. Liquor doesn't soothe it, just eases it for a while. It sits a little looser, quieter. And the burn warms him, settles and spreads. It hurts his throat, though the burn has always been pleasant before.

He remembers Elena's teeth sinking into his skin, tearing, and fixes another martini.

He's far gone, drunker than he's ever been on the Barge, and he can't bring himself to care. He usually only gets this pissed on planes, or in the safety of his own flat at home: not when there are dangers around any given corner, not when there are vampires, werewolves, people who have every right to strip reparations for bad memories from his hide.

Not that he'd let them - not that he could do much, like this.

He sits at the bar, a martini in one hand, the other rubbing his aching eyes. Sleep would do him good, but he can't bring himself to leave yet. Not until the ache in the side of his neck fades, not until everything becomes a low buzz and nothing else.]

[Spam for Vesper]

[It's very late, and James is very drunk. He might be swaying on his feet, but for the moment, he's pressed his forehead against the smooth wood of Vesper's door. He doesn't touch his room: he went back in there to wash the blood from his neck and change his clothes once he woke up again. It doesn't help that their rooms are practically identical: he doesn't want to see the inside of the Montenegrin hotel again.

He's not even sure he wants to see Vesper, after what happened on that other Barge. He's drifting, tired and drunk and a sorry excuse for - everything. Wetting dry lips with a dry tongue, James keys into the room, pushing the door open and stepping in.

He looks a mess, between the booze and death; his mouth feels too dry, his head too packed. If he'd known where his cigarettes had disappeared to, he might have smoked half a carton by now. It's easy to fall back on old habits. He'll have an ugly hangover in the morning, with a pounding head and aching eyes, but for now he has enough clarity and courage to do this.

Closing the door quietly behind him, he walks inside, glancing down when Martin appears from whatever dark corner he was hiding in. He even pets the cat when he jumps up on the table near his hand, debating whether he should call for Vesper and risk waking her up or just - wait for her to come out. With the cat rubbing against his fingers, as if nothing happened, he exhales slowly.]

Vesper?

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I'm fine. Get off my back.

Fine.

[This is probably why he shouldn't procreate. Chris is still here, which means he's fine enough. And since the other Bond would have hassled him, James' first instinct is to back off.]