lastrat | ♠ | 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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[He's seen that look in the mirror. He doesn't comment on it.]

Carry on. Reverse the process: ask if you don't remember.

[He reverses the process, slowly and carefully. There are moments when he pauses, taking a moment to remember what James told him; but he doesn't ask. He wouldn't unless he absolutely had to.]

[And he does it right, in the end, sliding the last piece into place with a quiet click. Safety on, of course.]

[He looks to James for - something. Approval, disapproval, general acknowledgment. To make sure he's still there.]

[Bond lets him sort it out: he hates unsolicited assistance himself, and so he offers none. Cassel does it right, and he watches each step, neither nodding nor shaking his head, but there is quiet approval in his eyes. And when Cassel looks, James gives him one single nod.

He's still here. Watching Cassel is keeping him focused, suspending the place they returned from. ]

Good. Keep the safety on. Do you know how to hold it?

[The approval is sharp. It puts a metallic taste in the back of his mouth, like the moment he thought Lila was going to shoot him and then she didn't after all. He's alive suddenly, a touch reckless, and he has to squeeze his free hand shut until his nails bite into his palms.]

[Then he nods, demonstrates briefly, not long enough to strain his arm. His grip is almost right, but not quite.]

[James reaches out before Cassel can fully drop his arms, fixing the positions of his hands just slightly, with the surety that experience has given him.]

This will help you with muzzle rise. Keep this arm bent down here, [he shifts Cassel's non-dominant elbow,] and this one only slightly.

[He looks down, then, and there is still a sluggishness that scotch has lent him, but he still knows what he's doing. He nudges the back of Cassel's right foot with his own, gently kicking it forward.] Turn out at forty-five degrees. Like you're walking. Shoulder width apart. Lean forward a little: your shoulders should be just over your foot. Back leg grounds you against recoil.

[He lets himself be manhandled, somewhat unhappily. He doesn't want anyone touching him right now. But then, he also doesn't want to shoot anyone, even though there's nobody here right now but James, who's probably (probably) smart enough not to get in the way. Maybe what he means is he wants to be extra careful.]

[So why, exactly, he's letting himself get shooting lessons from a drunk, he won't think about.]

[Once he's adjusted his stance to the proper specifications, he leans forward. Back leg grounding him against recoil. Still wordless, he shoots.]

[Bond nods at the stance, gets his ear muffs in place before the shot, and turns to watch the target. He nods again, speaks loudly over the muffs.]

Good. Again. Aim down the sights. Cluster in the chest. Most will teach you to fire two, center mass. [He pounds his fist against his chest as illustration of exactly where he means.

Not wanting to shoot someone is fine. Cassel never has to touch a gun again. But if he does, he'll know how to use it properly. James will see to that.]

[Again. He aims down the sights. Two, center mass, exactly where James indicates. No matter how hard it is to keep himself from imagining the man bleeding out, he manages to push it away, replacing it with an image of Sam. Make that not happen again. Make that never happen again.]

[He misses Sam, he realizes with tears starting at the corners of his eyes. He blinks them away. Gonna mess up his aim.]

[It could be worse, he thinks, when he lowers the gun. It could be way worse. He actually did pretty well. Zacharov would be proud of him. His dad would be proud. But his dad's dead, and he's never gonna see Zacharov again.]

[Instead, he turns to James for approval.]

[James nods. It's not softeness for Cassel that makes him reach out and settle a hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight, maybe too tight. It's rough affection, easier to allow himself to show. He's drunk: just very good at hiding it.]

Good, [he says gruffly.] You're a good shot. You going to remember how to strip it?

[Something in him relaxes utterly. He sighs in relief, very quietly, and nods.]

I'll remember.

[Another nod, good, and he holds out his hand for the gun, let's Cassel set it on his palm instead of grabbing it away.]

You may never have a gun in your hand again. But you should know what to do with it in case you do.

♠ | 020 | Voice + Spam

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