bitteraftertaste | fourteen ♥ spam/video

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fourteen ♥ spam/video

[Spam for Bond, backdated to the start of the flood]

[The unfortunate part of floods like these when you're in a relationship with someone on the Barge is that you're very likely to wake up next to someone you've never seen before, and have no idea who they are and how you got there.

This is generally made even more horrifying when you're a very unhappy teenager on the best of days, and waking up with an unfamiliar teenage boy spooning you is definitely a good way to ignite all sorts of latent intimacy and commitment issues that only vaguely have to do with the extremely unlikely chance that she lost control of herself long enough to wind up in this sort of situation. That kind of thing definitely does not happen to Vesper Lynd.

Fortunately (?) Vesper is still asleep for the time being, and blissfully unaware that anything's amiss. Of course, that really means it's just a matter of time before the shit hits the fan and she realizes what the hell is actually going on here.]

[Public]

[Vesper addresses the Barge a little while later, once she's had more opportunity to encounter her ex-roommate James' behavior. She looks like she's about fifteen, but she sits so her back is ramrod straight, her shoulders squared and head held high, making it more or less unmistakeable that this girl is confident and self assured and not in the mood to take anyone's bullshit, even if they're an adult and she is - technically - a child.

Really, this is just a carefully constructed mask, but no one needs to know that. Obviously.]

Is there anyone whose supposed to be assuming responsibility for James Bond? [This is being said in a way that suggests she thinks you are doing a terrible job of it, whoever you are.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[It's a tone he knows well, but he doesn't know how to respond to it except with acid.]

And what the hell is that supposed to mean?

Nothing. [She hadn't meant to say it.] You're a prat.

And you're a bitch who doesn't know what she's talking about.

[And he thinks, he thinks he understands, and he's too angry to stop it. So it spills out.]

I didn't say I was going back to them.

[He didn't really mean to say it, either. So he just lets the fury - at himself, really - cross his face before killing the feed.]

[She lets him go, and she feels sort of bad about it, because she had t realized, even though it really doesn't excuse his behavior. Just explains it, because god knows she knows how hard that is.

She ignores him for the better part of a day, fully intending on ignoring him until this is over or he apologizes (not likely), but then he cat isn't in her room and she has to go looking for it, so she carefully creaks the door open to the room she'd woken up in to see if he's anywhere in sight.

And finds him happily curled up in James's lap, purring quite contendey. So. That's a thing that's happening.]

[It's definitely a thing that's happening. IT's been happening for a few minutes, actually. There's only one light on, and Bond is in an arm chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He's been rubbing the cat's neck for a while, and he doesn't really notice when the door opens, head propped against one hand.

He's miserable enough to pet a fucking cat. This place sucks.]

[It does suck, and she abruptly feels badly about how things happened with them before, even if part of her still stubbornly doesn't. James was impossible and he really shouldn't be picking on kids, but she'd seen him getting along well enough with Cassel, and another boy, and the cat obviously liked him, so.

She bites her lip sort of nervously and finally raps on the doorframe, asking permission to come in.]

James?

[He starts at the sounds, enough to startle Martin off his lap. Though the cat just lingers around his feet, waiting for him to settle again and make a new cushion.]

Oh, [he says when he sees her.]

What do you want?

I was looking for the cat, [She says by way of explanation, but it's obviously not the only thing going on. She hesitates for a long moment, still not sure if she wants to apologize.

It's uncomfortable, but something - maybe it's just her conscience, maybe it's whatever made her realize this place was called the Barge - makes her finally speak up.]

I'm sorry, about what I said. I didn't know.

Yeah, whatever, [he mutters as Martin jumps back into his lap. He gives a long suffering sigh, like the warmth isn't welcome.

For a long moment he's sighing, staring at the purring tuxedo. Then he glances up at her.]

You too?

Yes. [But she doesn't say anything more, because she hasn't talked about it with anyone and she doesn't really want to start now, at all.

But she doesn't retreat into the other room, or take a step into the other room to try and steal Martin back.]

[He hasn't talked about it yet, not at all. People have tried, they made him see a counselor at school, but he just waited till the hour was up, talked about nothing involving home or his parents, and left. He kept doing it until they stopped making him go.

James rubs his jaw, then his eyes.]

Sorry. [It's short, he doesn't know how to say it other wise, can't embellish. But he gets it out, and drops his hand to Martin's back.]

[She doesn't want to say it's okay. It's not okay, and it's not really his fault that it isn't. He hadn't been the one who shot her mother and put a gun in her father's mouth, and she can remember what it was like when she first heard what had happened, how she'd been sat down on the stairs and told while she held the cat to her chest and tried not to shake too violently.

She doesn't know anyone else who knows what that's like, and maybe that's the reason why she doesn't just leave him be. It's probably a bad idea - it's not like he's been ideal company thus far - but.] Can I come in?

[He shrugs, starts petting the cat again.] Yeah, I guess.

[Chewing on his lip, James rubs at the bridge of his nose.] Why?

[She shrugs, and doesn't offer further explanation. Maybe she just wants to kidnap Martin after all.

She does finally step inside the room though, and sits down in a chair next to James', making herself comfortable. For practically the first time in the whole time she's been here, she looks like a teenager, because her posture's not perfect as she leans on the arm rest and watches James pet the cat, whose rumbling purr she can hear from here.]

[He realizes, out of nowhere, that he wants to tell her - but he doesn't want to tell her. It's strange. So he keeps his eyes on the cat when he speaks again.]

It was four years ago. It shouldn't - I mean, it doesn't bother me anymore. I'm over it.

[It's such bullshit.]

It isn't something you get over.

[She's not looking at him either, and there's something almost resigned and bitter in her voice when she says it, even though honestly she's just desperately sad. She's never been sure how to actually deal with any of this, and while she's not eager to get into the details, she can say that much very confidently.]

[Something in her voice makes him look up from the cat, finally, makes him really stare at her, because, for the first time in his life, he thinks someone else actually gets it. Thinks they have this in common, that if anyone will understand it - she will.]

They fell. Mountain climbing, they fell.

[She looks at him, wondering if he was there when it happened or if he had to hear the news from a stranger like she did, but she doesn't know how to ask or if she even should. She doesn't want to talk about what happened to her parents, because there's no easy way to explain it like that: they fell, not that his mother was pushed and if he'd been there, he might have been too.

Still. She does feel sorry for him, and she wants to say something, that she does understand.]

I'm sorry.

Yeah.

[He's quiet for a long moment, and he still can't quite look at her. The words just come, because - he knows, she gets it, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to tell someone else. Not Kincaid, who he needs to see him as a man, not his aunt, who he doesn't care about and doesn't care about him, not any one at Eton, not anyone at his new school. The idea that this is the only chance he'll have has the words tumbling out. But he can't look at her.]

I'm not a bully. I'm not. It's just - I can imagine them yelling at me, telling me I'm a prat, sending me to my room without supper or something, I don't know. It's just - better than nothing. Even if they'd be ashamed.

Even if they'd be - disappointed.

[He looks up, then, looking around to see how far the wet bar is. He wouldn't mind another shot of scotch.]

[She's frowning, but it's a confused expression more than anything else.] Why not do something they'd be proud of?

[And, strangely, she doesn't mean the question patronizingly: she's actually curious. She knows it's terrible, that she probably should feel worse about it in this sense, but although she'd loved her father when she'd been younger, he'd gotten more and more unlike the man she'd known when she was small, and while he didn't really scare her, she didn't know how to act around him. Her mother had been more or less the same, although she'd just been quiet and withdrawn and maybe old fashioned, and so while she hated what happened and did miss them... In other ways, she almost didn't. More like she missed the idea of parents, or the people they had been before things had gotten bad.

Was it the same for him, if the only way he could feel close to his parents was to imagine them being disappointed in him? Or was it something else?]

I don't know.

[But he does, and he nudges Martin off his lap before he stands again, going for the bar. Then he can stand with his back to her, instead of just avoid her eyes. Because he thinks his are getting red.]

I don't know, I just - I'm--

[He's grabbed the scotch and a glass, and he hauls off and throws the glass at the opposite wall, away from her and the cat. It shatters, and for half a second, he feels better.]

I'm so bloody angry with them! They wouldn't take me with them! What did they think they were doing, going off fucking mountain climbing? They should've been more careful! They shouldn't have gone!

[He feels completely irrational, out of control, and his eyes are wet when he finally turns to look at her again. He does feel like a bully, like a monster, and he doesn't know how to stop feeling that way.]

I don't want them to be proud of me, I just - want them to come back--

[Martin shrieks and runs out of the room when the glass hits the wall, and Vesper straightens immediately in her seat, staring at him with wide, startled eyes. She's scared at first, but only for the split second before he starts talking. He's angry, but it's coming from a place she really is all too familiar with, even if it's not quite the same, and she can't help but sympathize, more deeply than she'd ever thought she would with him.

But therein lies the issue, really, because she doesn't want to talk about her own experiences. Every instinct is telling her to run, not because she's afraid of him, but because she doesn't want to confront what happened to her. She never has, probably never will, and she wants to leave before he expects her to say anything.

Except he's crying. She can tell he is, even if he's ashamed of himself for doing it, and something keeps her from bolting. She doesn't know what it is- she hates crying, hates seeing other people cry, but she doesn't want to just leave him.

So she hesitates, and finally pushes herself to her feet, cautious and hesitant and really not sure what she's doing.] James-

[She's not sure why she does it, but she finally closes the distance between them and puts her arms around him in a tight hug. She doesn't say anything, because she doesn't know what she could say. But this feels like the right thing to do.]

[He's wary when she stands and starts closer, and he rubs at his eyes. He knows it's too late to act like he wasn't crying, isn't, but at least he can erase all the evidence he can.

When she hugs him, there's a split second where he thinks about shoving her off and running away, finding some place to hole up. It's the only thing that's worked for him in the past, and he thinks of the priest's hole below the moor. Instead, he just drops his chin over her shoulder, and wraps his arms around her. It feels good, better, more right than he thought it would. He doesn't want to think about it. He just wants to hold her - and maybe be held.]

I'm sorry. [It's practically a whisper.]

[She doesn't really want to think about it either. This whole thing is confusing and frustrating, because she doesn't know why she cares, or why she knows what this place is and more or less what it's supposed to do, or why on Earth she feels any amount of obligation to this obnoxious asshole she'd woken up next to on the first day. But here she is, holding on and trying to comfort him because- There are a lot of reasons, and it's easier to just try and focus on something else instead of any of them.

She also really doesn't want to think that he smells sort of good, and that it's actually kind of nice, being close to someone like this. Being held or comforted isn't something she's really sought out, but she hadn't been consciously aware of how long it feels like it's been to have someone hugging her like this, and she gives in to it long enough to put her head on his shoulder. It's probably weak, or embarrassing, but she can't stop herself.

Do not cry, she thinks stubbornly when she realizes all of it, even as her eyes prick with tears, her throat suddenly feeling tight and dry. She hasn't cried since two days after her parent's funeral, and she's in no rush to start again now. It still takes a long moment for her to say something, because she doesn't quite trust her voice.]

You're still a prat. [There's something almost fond there, maybe even teasing, along with the more familiar, more acidic bite.] But I appreciate the apology.

Edited 2013-08-12 05:50 (UTC)

[He smiles just a little against her shoulder, and he doesn't think at all less of her for taking the hug, for leaning into him at all. He didn't realize how much he missed having contact like this, either, and though it's no substitute for a mother's hug, it's better than the lack of contact he's largely become accustomed to.]

You're still a bitch, [But there's something almost affectionate in his voice.] But you're welcome. [He goes silent again, arms around her, until he thinks, maybe it's been too long, he doesn't want her to think he's some pansy. So he straightens, slides his hands to her hips and then lets go entirely, looking around.]

Where'd the cat go?

fourteen ♥ spam/video

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