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♠ | 021 | Spam
[Spam for Vesper]
[The two survivors. This is what she made us.
Air turns to fire in his lungs, cold and sharp in a mouth so recently full of water. He runs, runs, sprints the short distance from lake to church and though he doesn't count the seconds, has no one to time he, he could break records in that moment. Silva has the head start. She could already be dead, Kincaid could already be dead. What ifs filter through his thoughts but don't affect the pumping of his legs: he can't know until he sees. She's not dead until there's a body. He won't play Schrodinger with this.
(She has to be alive. He can't fail, after all this.)
And somehow, she is. The door is still open, and he slows his mad dash at the front of the steps, holding his breath to keep from panting. He doesn't have a gun, didn't have time to look for one: all he has is Kincaid's old hunting knife. His hands are freezing from the dip under the ice, and as he slinks up the stairs, he flexes them, coaxing circulation. He'll need a steady hand and - he can hear them.
It's M's gasp that makes his spine go rigid, but it's Silva's words that make him go to that cold, quiet place inside himself, the internal steadiness he developed after his first kill. Everything is still while he listens, only you can end it, and his rage cools as his arm pulls back, do it, releases. He watches the knife bury itself halfway to the hilt in Silva's back, listens to the satisfying clatter of the gun hitting the floor.
The man turns, advances, and Bond knows he won't survive long enough to reach him. It's over.]
Last rat standing.
[He doesn't smirk, or smile, but his eyes do, satisfied with the quip: first conversation and last, a perfect reflection. He falls, finally, still and breathless and empty. Bond walks past him to answer M's chiding (007, what took you so long?), 'got into some deep water,' and he let's out a breathless laugh, because he's still soaked, and the chill is starting to properly set in now that his chest isn't on fire.
She starts to smile. He can see it on her face. But then it changes, smile to grimace of pain less than a heartbeat, and he darts forward as she falls, catching her, lowering her. Balanced on his knee, his lap, he finally sees the blood that Silva must have seen, finally sees the way it spreads over her side. Something deep. That isn't a flesh wound. It occurs to him, from a great distance, that she lied to him. Again.
When he looks up to Kincaid (he feels like a little boy again), sees the barely definable head shake, the resignation (you're lying), and he knows. He knew the moment she fell. He knew the moment he climbed out of the water that she could be, was, already dead. His arms tighten around her.
'Suppose it's too late to make a run for it.'
He stays steady, makes his mouth curve in a vague indication of a smile.]
Well, I'm game if you are.
[He doesn't often stay with people as they die. He held Mathis as the life went out of him: he watched it leave Vesper. He can feel a weakness in M now that he's never seenbefore in his entire career with her.
It's terrifying.
'At least I got one thing right.'
His throat burns, and he wonders if he ever caught his breath, between the lake and the run. Is he still drowning? There's a shudder, he can feel it through their coats, and there is something in him, something in the shape of the boy he was that screams at the unfairness of it. Not her. Not here. Not fair. She breathes out, her eyes drift from his face, and she's gone. Water drips from the end of his nose, or maybe his cheeks, he can't tell if it's from the lake or his eyes, as he reaches up to shut hers.
He would do anything to have her back.
That's when he returns, lap suddenly cold, arms empty. He's kneeling in a room he almost doesn't recognize (almost, this is the one hotel he'll never forget), soaked through, and he knows he needs to get up, get to work, but he leans forward instead, holding himself up with one hand against the floor. She lied. She died. At least Silva didn't get the satisfaction.
He punches the floor, hard. He needs to stop crying, get up, and see how long it's been. The rational thought is there: the follow through is out of reach.]
[Open Spam]
[Later, much later, he cleans up. He showers, finds clean clothes. He pulls himself together the way he always does: he buries what he feels. There was grief, and now he needs to put it aside. Now, he needs to do his job, - or at least cope until he can do his job.
He wanders the Barge, rather than announce his return. He knows there are people he ought to tell, but he's in no mood to field questions or deal with much of anything. He visits the CES, lingers on the deck, and hits the gym to eat a punching bag until his already exhausted muscles can take no more. Eventually, he makes himself visit the mess hall to have a bite, even though his appetite is gone. Some things you get used to in life: eating while grieving is not something Bond is used to, only something he knows he has to do.]
[The two survivors. This is what she made us.
Air turns to fire in his lungs, cold and sharp in a mouth so recently full of water. He runs, runs, sprints the short distance from lake to church and though he doesn't count the seconds, has no one to time he, he could break records in that moment. Silva has the head start. She could already be dead, Kincaid could already be dead. What ifs filter through his thoughts but don't affect the pumping of his legs: he can't know until he sees. She's not dead until there's a body. He won't play Schrodinger with this.
(She has to be alive. He can't fail, after all this.)
And somehow, she is. The door is still open, and he slows his mad dash at the front of the steps, holding his breath to keep from panting. He doesn't have a gun, didn't have time to look for one: all he has is Kincaid's old hunting knife. His hands are freezing from the dip under the ice, and as he slinks up the stairs, he flexes them, coaxing circulation. He'll need a steady hand and - he can hear them.
It's M's gasp that makes his spine go rigid, but it's Silva's words that make him go to that cold, quiet place inside himself, the internal steadiness he developed after his first kill. Everything is still while he listens, only you can end it, and his rage cools as his arm pulls back, do it, releases. He watches the knife bury itself halfway to the hilt in Silva's back, listens to the satisfying clatter of the gun hitting the floor.
The man turns, advances, and Bond knows he won't survive long enough to reach him. It's over.]
Last rat standing.
[He doesn't smirk, or smile, but his eyes do, satisfied with the quip: first conversation and last, a perfect reflection. He falls, finally, still and breathless and empty. Bond walks past him to answer M's chiding (007, what took you so long?), 'got into some deep water,' and he let's out a breathless laugh, because he's still soaked, and the chill is starting to properly set in now that his chest isn't on fire.
She starts to smile. He can see it on her face. But then it changes, smile to grimace of pain less than a heartbeat, and he darts forward as she falls, catching her, lowering her. Balanced on his knee, his lap, he finally sees the blood that Silva must have seen, finally sees the way it spreads over her side. Something deep. That isn't a flesh wound. It occurs to him, from a great distance, that she lied to him. Again.
When he looks up to Kincaid (he feels like a little boy again), sees the barely definable head shake, the resignation (you're lying), and he knows. He knew the moment she fell. He knew the moment he climbed out of the water that she could be, was, already dead. His arms tighten around her.
'Suppose it's too late to make a run for it.'
He stays steady, makes his mouth curve in a vague indication of a smile.]
Well, I'm game if you are.
[He doesn't often stay with people as they die. He held Mathis as the life went out of him: he watched it leave Vesper. He can feel a weakness in M now that he's never seenbefore in his entire career with her.
It's terrifying.
'At least I got one thing right.'
His throat burns, and he wonders if he ever caught his breath, between the lake and the run. Is he still drowning? There's a shudder, he can feel it through their coats, and there is something in him, something in the shape of the boy he was that screams at the unfairness of it. Not her. Not here. Not fair. She breathes out, her eyes drift from his face, and she's gone. Water drips from the end of his nose, or maybe his cheeks, he can't tell if it's from the lake or his eyes, as he reaches up to shut hers.
He would do anything to have her back.
That's when he returns, lap suddenly cold, arms empty. He's kneeling in a room he almost doesn't recognize (almost, this is the one hotel he'll never forget), soaked through, and he knows he needs to get up, get to work, but he leans forward instead, holding himself up with one hand against the floor. She lied. She died. At least Silva didn't get the satisfaction.
He punches the floor, hard. He needs to stop crying, get up, and see how long it's been. The rational thought is there: the follow through is out of reach.]
[Open Spam]
[Later, much later, he cleans up. He showers, finds clean clothes. He pulls himself together the way he always does: he buries what he feels. There was grief, and now he needs to put it aside. Now, he needs to do his job, - or at least cope until he can do his job.
He wanders the Barge, rather than announce his return. He knows there are people he ought to tell, but he's in no mood to field questions or deal with much of anything. He visits the CES, lingers on the deck, and hits the gym to eat a punching bag until his already exhausted muscles can take no more. Eventually, he makes himself visit the mess hall to have a bite, even though his appetite is gone. Some things you get used to in life: eating while grieving is not something Bond is used to, only something he knows he has to do.]