lastrat

[Spam/Narration]

[He's been thinking about home a lot, lately.

That's an understatement: he's been thinking about it almost every minute of every day. He's been thinking of it every time he jogs in the gym, every time the CES shows him something like Regents Park or any of his other habitual running spots in London. Sometimes it shows him Skyfall, and even his reaction to that has changed.

He's been thinking a lot about his results for active duty, too. Not the false ones M gave him - not the ones she passed to him, knowing he would need to be buoyed for the coming mission. The true results, shown to him on a series of screens on an abandoned island while he was tied to a chair. It's always alarming when truth comes from your enemies, but recently Bond's found it more alarming when the truth comes from him.

He doesn't belong here. He hasn't belonged here since he graduated.

He knows that, and still he's stayed. For M, he told himself. He's been waiting six months for an inmate, six months hoping he'd have an inmate who didn't just vanish. Six months spent doing nothing but avoid floods or cope with the after effects at his liquor cabinet - he's even stopped going to the pub as of late. Elena was right, he's become a recluse. He hasn't bothered to meet any of the newcomers, really - he hasn't bothered to keep up well with any of the people he could still say he cares about. He hasn't been a presence in anyone's life - not even his own.

It doesn't help that he's sitting in his room now, with a glass of scotch in his hand. He's actually grown used to 50-year Macallan. That's disappointing all on its own, but of course, it makes him think of the psych eval. Substance and alcohol abuse indicated. He throws back the rest of the scotch and runs a hand over his jaw. He needs a shave.

Heading for the bathroom, he finds his razor and shakes his head quietly. Sometimes the old ways....well. Going back in time didn't help much, in the end. That's why he's here.

He thinks, as he drags the cut throat razor over his skin, that maybe that's just the excuse he's been using. Would M thank him for being here all this time, accomplishing nothing, turning into a hollow shell of himself? Silva asked him if there was anything left of the man he was - then, the answer was yes, unequivocally. Now, maybe it wouldn't be so clear.

After the shave, he shrugs off his clothes, kicks off khakis and tosses away his tee shirt. When he dresses again, it's in a tailored suit. Part of him thinks it's ridiculous: suits are for occasions, and there are none here. But as he adjusts his collar, he thinks that maybe it's time to make his own occasion.

He hates it here, he realizes. He really hates it here, where he is never on a mission, where he never has the ability to act. Where, left drifting, he acts badly.

In the end, he heads for the deck, for one last, long look at the stars. He's always enjoyed the view, though mostly because it makes him feel small. Now, it convinces him that this is the right decision. This is no place for a man like him.]

[Public]

[When he finally turns the video on, he's still freshly clean-shaven, still wearing a suit. He's leaning on the rail on deck, eyes on the stars before shifting down to the camera.]

I'm heading off.

[He's tempted to leave it there, even shifts his thumb toward the power button. But he pauses and straightens instead, looking around him.]

Never chose to leave, before. [Well, once, but he kept that a secret then and it still is. At least now he has the spine to say something, first.] To be honest, I never should have come back in the first place. Seems I'm not much for authority figures.

[Pathological rejection of authority based on unresolved childhood trauma. It hadn't really surprised him. He knows how he lives his life. He knows how he copes. And he is not built for making deals with unseen men. He's not built for trusting what he can't see.

Bond exhales through his nose.]

I haven't done any good here.

[James is not one to apologize easily, and he's certainly never apologized to his enemies. He doesn't start now, but the admittance is close, as close as he can come. He knows what he did, here, he knows who he hurt, and he knows he hurt people he never intended by failing to think things through. For that, he's sorry. But it's too general for him to put into words, requires more eloquence than he has to give.]

I'll be around, for a bit.

[A few hours at most, because there are only a handful he'll seek out, if they don't come to him first. He doesn't bother smiling, but he looks clearer than he has in a while. He's needed elsewhere.]

[No video, this time, because he's still fucking angry. He can control the edge in his voice just barely - he can't control the glower. And he has yet to clean up his shattered Item, the second time he's broken it against a wall of his flat.

When he clicks on the audio, he sounds angry, but you might believe that he's managing it just fine. Might.]

Ellie's vanished.

[And that's all. He's not one for elaboration.]

[Private to Natasha]

Busy?

[When the feed comes on, it's to Bond's back, moving away from the camera. It only takes a moment for him to get far enough away that it's clear where he is - an empty, Barge standard room - and that he is not alone. Esther is sitting in a chair facing the camera. Bond steps around her, pulling off his tie and tugging her hands up to bind them in front of her. When he looks up at the camera, it's brief, and only to assure himself that the recording light is on.

As Esther rouses, she focuses, and immediately begins to tear up.] What are you doing? Let me go!

Stop that. [Bond is short with her, his patience gone. He's been back less than an hour; of course Esther would be the first to run into him.

When Esther shows no intention of obeying, Bond steps in front of her - not to hide that he backhands her, because that much is clear even without direct line of sight. He starts speaking without looking at the camera, moving around behind Esther again. He ignores her tears, and more than that, her cries for help.]

Usually I don't mind a good lie. [He reaches for the ribbon around her neck, and grabs a fistful of her hair when she shrieks and tosses her head. When he tears it away, there's a scar around her collar. He has to raise his voice, because the moment he pulls it free, she starts screaming like a wild thing, not the prim little girl she's been pretending to be.] But I think this one's gone far enough.

[Her wrists are next, and Bond pulls her arms up. Esther struggles, half rising; Bond shoves her back into the chair, and rips away the ribbons on her wrists, revealing more scars.]

Most of you will remember a flood where the Admiral thought it would be a good laugh to send us back to our youth. [He throws her arms back down, glaring a warning, and pulls a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Bending over her shoulder, he drags the cloth over her face, holding up the makeup stained pocket square for the camera. He returns to the task, hand tight in her hair to keep her still, acting as though her shrieks don't phase him. The more makeup he wipes away, the less child-like she looks.] Esther tried to convince us that she'd been aged up instead of down. [Grabbing her by the jaw, he forces her mouth open so he can shove the handkerchief in as a temporary gag.]

She's a grown woman, responsible for the fire, my death and near death, and Ellie's attack. These scars are from a straitjacket - the one she wore when she was a teenager. She's been pretending to be eight for god knows how long - long before the Admiral decided she deserved a second chance. [He sneers.] I'd certainly disagree.

[Spam]

( Private spam in the firing range )

[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?

[Backdated to Saturday! James is looking p l e n t y pissed when he clicks on the camera, and for a moment there is just an incredibly pissed off face - and then he focuses the feed on his other hand, which is holding a book (naval war history). Except on closer inspection, he's not holding it at all. It's actually stuck to the palm of his hand.]

Parker, if you don't get in here and tell me how to turn this off, I swear I'm going to wring your neck.

[It was a lot funnier when he was just hearing about it happening to Peter, okay.]

( spam for vesper )