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.]

[The video comes on, and there's a flash of Bond's face - contorted in exertion and annoyance - before the device clatters to the floor. There's what looks like a giant boulder, rolling slowly, and eventually one of Bond's feet. His voice comes at the distance.]

I - have had - enough - bloody floods - to last - shit!

[The boulder comes back into view, rolling quickly - then the feed dies.]

[Open Spam]

[James Bond is not one to look for signs in his daily life. He believes in clues, contingencies, solid, physical aspects of the real world. He believes in what he can see and touch; he doesn't believe in signs that are more likely than not, coincidence and nothing more.

That said, he has spent the morning wondering if this flood is a sign. It's been six months since Ellie vanished and his job was left undone. He doesn't like leaving things unfinished, likes it less when he has no control over finishing them. Four months since he was even assigned a temporary inmate, though he's not particularly bothered by that: he still doesn't see the point. It doesn't earn him his deal. He's no closer to it than he was when he first came back with her blood on his clothes.

And there is no denying how similar this week's flood is in that regard. He's bloody Sisyphus, and his muscles are already exhausted with the constant pushing, rolling, of a boulder nearly his own height. He can't leave it, he can only rest for a few moments, and every time he nears the deck, he loses his grip and it goes rolling, tumbling back down to Zero. He can be found at varying levels throughout the flood, always pushing his boulder or chasing it. At some point, he loses his jacket: by the end of the flood, he's thrown off his sweat soaked shirt as well, baring all his scars to the world. The most noticeable are his right shoulder, his abdomen, along the inside of his left arm; he doesn't care. By the time his shirt is gone, overexertion has his muscles shaking.]