bitteraftertaste | ten ♥ video

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[Vesper's sitting on a couch in her room - which, for anyone who hasn't seen it, is a very swanky hotel room, which looks somewhere between lived in and waiting for the next guest to come visit, because she's a bit of a neat freak - and looks a little contemplative, like she finds the idea of talking about this to everyone a little ridiculous, which... she does, really.]

When I was about seven, my parents bought me a cat. She was just a cat, nothing special, but she was my closest friend up until she passed away while I was at university.

Maybe that's a bit pathetic. [There's... a lot more to this story than she's letting on, but she's certainly not someone who 1. enjoys revisiting some of the crappier things about her life or 2. feels like sharing much about herself with anyone, so that's a story that's better saved for a truth flood.

Or not at all, really, but we all know how this place works.] But I seriously doubt I'm the only one here who's ever felt like a pet understands them better than most people do. She always seemed to know when I wasn't feeling particularly well, and maybe that's just her wanting something warm to sit with, but I still appreciated having some company when I was feeling low.

Anyway, [Her smile isn't really self-depreciating, but she definitely looks like she thinks it's a little silly that she's telling you all this.] I suppose I was just feeling nostalgic. So if anyone else has any pet stories they feel up to sharing, I certainly wouldn't mind listening.

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We do both technically have our own beds, you know.

Technically.

Well, I won't be kicking you out. And I can promise that wasn't intentional on the part of my parents.

I hope they realized it, at least. [You know. Before they died horribly. :v]

I don't know. It wasn't something we ever discussed. [And hey let's stop talking about them. B(]

[There's a pause while he hems and haws before switching it over to private. He doesn't want to ask, doesn't want to know, but at the same time...they've been getting to know each other like they never did, before coming here, and despite the topic at hand, he likes that.]

What did you discuss?

[She's having more or less the same internal debate, because it's not something she's really discussed with anyone, and she's certainly not eager to start. But, at the same time...]

Not much. They died when I was ten.

[It's a shitty conversation. But he'd rather hear it from her than a third party. Or a flood.]

How?

[She hasn't really told anyone about it, although she'd thought about saying something after he'd gotten cocky and lost, throwing it at him as a weapon as he grabbed her and insisted he could win if he had another chance. Now, she almost wants to tell him because she wants to: she loved him, she didn't mind the idea of him knowing things about her that no one else did, and you should be able to tell the person you loved anything, but at the same time, she still didn't feel ready to tell this story.]

I don't really want to talk about it. [She sounds almost apologetic as she says it.]

All right. [He can't blame her, not really; he doesn't tell his own story, not ever, and he can't even imagine telling it to her in detail. It still hurts, two decades later, and he imagines she feels the same.

And abruptly, his feed dies. But half a minute later, he's opening the door to her suite, and heading over to settle beside her on the couch. The awkwardness between them has largely diminished, and there's no hesitation before he lays a hand over the back of the couch, fingers kneading lightly at the knob of her spine.]

[She curls into him without questioning it, wrapping her arm around his waist and just appreciating being together, that he thought to come over instead of leaving her alone with the bad memories. It had been what made her realize he was more than just an overconfident asshole when they'd first met. He'd been gentle and comforting, and she needed that now.]

You know, you can be quite sweet, from time to time. [She's trying to tease, to turn it into a joke, distract herself from the real reason he'd come over.]

[It's the easiness they had before Venice, and he can't help but hold her close, hold her tight. He'd protect her, even from herself.]

Mm. [He settles his hand on her shoulder, smiling vaguely.] Don't let that get around.

[She chuckles, low and appreciative, sitting up slightly to press a kiss against his jaw.]

I won't. [She settles back in, quiet, and while she said she didn't want to talk about it, now she can't just let the subject rest. She wonders if she should, if it would be good to tell someone, if she wanted to tell him, but it's still easier to sit here and appreciate being close to him than find the words to explain.]

[James, of all people, can appreciate silence. He settles against the couch, with her wait against his chest, her arm around his waist. He can blink and see water from the shower head coming down around them, feel her shivering against him - but this is better. No shivering, no fear, no tears.

He tips his head forward, and kisses the top of hers.]

[She smiles, even though he can't see it, and lets the silence stretch on without interruption for a long time, letting the sound of his breathing keep her grounded and relaxed.

Eventually, though, she does start talking, almost because she feels like she has to, that this was unavoidable after Bond asked about it, and everything else had just been delaying the inevitable.]

My father was a gambler. He got in over his head, and one day, he shot my mother and put a gun in his mouth. I wasn't at home when it happened. [But she could remember what it had been like to find out, to see police and other first responders swarming the house, the blood on the carpet, sitting on the stairs holding the cat while being spoken to by an adult whose words she couldn't even register. It had been the last time she'd seen the house - she and the cat had moved in with her grandmother after that, and her things were moved in days later by someone else.]

[It clicks for him, then: the game, how she must have felt while watching, what she must have thought when he lost to his own arrogance.

Christ, he was an idiot.

Pressing his lips against the top of her head again, he stayed silent for a long while, running his hand over her arm.]

I'm sorry. [It was never enough, but it was just what was said. So after a moment he added,] What can I do?

[She snuggles closer, not really sure how to answer. Neither one of them could change what had happened, and right now, she isn't particularly interested in doing much other than staying right here, turning over the memories in the safety brought on by distance and time, and bundling them back up again in a place where they couldn't hurt her.]

Not much more than you're already doing, I'm afraid. [She does manage an affectionate smile for him.] But for the record, I really do appreciate this.

[He thinks she's dealt with it better than he has. It may still be there, a painful bundle of memories she can't erase, but she's moved on from it better than he did. James settles his other hand on the arm around his waist; he's never been overly tactile, but he wants to protect her. The best shield is another person - and he knows she's a terrible shield.]

Suppose it would have been simpler to just get you a cat. [But there's a quirk to his lips, and a faint tease in his voice. He can't bring himself to say 'I love you' again, not quite yet.]

[She knows. It's more or less why she's hesitated in saying it again, because she doesn't want to put pressure on him, or make it seems as if she expects this to go anywhere. She knows she lost the right to expect things of him when she lied and after she killed herself, so she doesn't want to make it seem like she's putting pressure on him.

This is alright though, and she lets out a gentle laugh at the comment.]

You're not allergic or anything, are you?

Doubt it. Never kept one. [He toys idly with the fabric of her dress, silent for half a moment before adding, almost without realizing,] We had dogs when I was a boy. Can't remember any sneezing fits.

[It's strange, sharing these facts with each other. She'd known almost within seconds of meeting him that their pasts weren't something they'd be discussing, even if they weren't two professionals on assignment and nothing more (ha), and so that's more than she's ever been told about his childhood before. She's not quite sure what to make of it.]

I suppose it could just live here, even if there was. One of the benefit of having two rooms.

[Accept it, but ask nothing, probably; that would be best. Then he won't have to avoid answering.]

You're seriously considering it? [what has he done.]

I might be. [Hey, this is also Cassel's fault. And Vesper's. And lots of people's.]

[Just have a terribly comical groan.

That's it. Just a groan.

But he's not outright asking her not to, so maybe if it stays in her room he could bear it.

Maybe.]

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