Vesper Lynd (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bitteraftertaste) wrote2013-11-14 11:59 am
bitteraftertaste) wrote2013-11-14 11:59 am
eighteen ♥ spam/voice
[Spam for Bond]
[She feels like she hates this place even more with each passing day she spends here, and there's a part of her that she can't even call selfish that wants to insist they leave as soon as he wakes up. It's killing him to be here, even if he can't see it himself, and she can't sit here and watch it happen anymore, not after this.
She'd been surprised when Nathan found her, and even more surprised by what he had to say. She'd rushed to the infirmary and been there ever since, sitting in a chair next to James' bed waiting for him to wake up. It's not the first time she's done this, and it probably won't be the last even if they do leave, but this time feels like something's snapped in her, and it leaves her feeling raw and vulnerable, but also somehow resigned. They need to talk about this. She can't keep putting it off.
The hours stretch on, and although she tries to fight it, she eventually falls asleep in the chair she'd pulled up next to his bed, her head pillowed on the mattress near his chest. It's not exactly a comfortable position, but they've established that these beds aren't really meant for two and she wants to be close to him, so this has to be good enough.]
[Public]
[She's realizing the second she opens her mouth that she probably should have made this a text post, because her throat feels constricted and awful, and she's never been one for letting other people see her weakness, or wearing it on her sleeve like a badge of honor.]
James Bond appears to have left the Barge.
[And her voice - controlled and composed as it is, as she tries to force it to be - does wobble, and it's embarrassing, because it's not like she can take it back or pretend like this isn't affecting her the way it is.
There's a long moment where she considers saying something else, opens her mouth and gets ready to phrase it, even, but there's just a soft rush of air which is definitely not leading up to a sob before she clicks off the feed.]
[She feels like she hates this place even more with each passing day she spends here, and there's a part of her that she can't even call selfish that wants to insist they leave as soon as he wakes up. It's killing him to be here, even if he can't see it himself, and she can't sit here and watch it happen anymore, not after this.
She'd been surprised when Nathan found her, and even more surprised by what he had to say. She'd rushed to the infirmary and been there ever since, sitting in a chair next to James' bed waiting for him to wake up. It's not the first time she's done this, and it probably won't be the last even if they do leave, but this time feels like something's snapped in her, and it leaves her feeling raw and vulnerable, but also somehow resigned. They need to talk about this. She can't keep putting it off.
The hours stretch on, and although she tries to fight it, she eventually falls asleep in the chair she'd pulled up next to his bed, her head pillowed on the mattress near his chest. It's not exactly a comfortable position, but they've established that these beds aren't really meant for two and she wants to be close to him, so this has to be good enough.]
[Public]
[She's realizing the second she opens her mouth that she probably should have made this a text post, because her throat feels constricted and awful, and she's never been one for letting other people see her weakness, or wearing it on her sleeve like a badge of honor.]
James Bond appears to have left the Barge.
[And her voice - controlled and composed as it is, as she tries to force it to be - does wobble, and it's embarrassing, because it's not like she can take it back or pretend like this isn't affecting her the way it is.
There's a long moment where she considers saying something else, opens her mouth and gets ready to phrase it, even, but there's just a soft rush of air which is definitely not leading up to a sob before she clicks off the feed.]
Voice
I'm sorry. [The words are quietly sincere. She's not going to make a spectacle of it, but she wanted to say something.]
Voice
Thank you.
spam;
He never feared heights, but he made himself climb the mountain that claimed his parents' lives when he was a younger man: proof to himself that he was not afraid. Proof that they made mistakes. Proof that he could not be killed. It was a sign of his indomitable sense of self - not even that mountain, not even nature itself could claim him.
Arrogance has always been his weakness.
There was a poetry to it, falling from the train. His parents fell to their deaths; Vesper drowned. If Bond was the sort to appreciate poetry, symbolism, karma, he'd have called it thusly. But he doesn't care for the intangible; what he cannot touch has less substance, until his subconscious has free reign.
He remembers so few of them, and there have been far too many: Dimitrios' wife, he can't remember her name. Fields, whose name he looked up after Kazakhstan. Felicity Willing, in Cape Town; Xenia Onatopp in Cuba; Renee Mathis, Le Chiffre, Greene, that agent from special branch, Ronson, others, more, names he doesn't remember, names he wishes he didn't.
He claws his way past smokey faces, pushing away those he recognizes, those he barely remembers. He has no room for guilt, regret is unprofessional, he's the strong right arm of MI6 - he's a sacrificed agent - he's an old man living a young man's life - he's dead - he's given up - he's a lover - he's a poor shot, he's a great shot - he's dad - he's played out--
No, he's done, he's had enough. It's time to wake up.
His eyes snap open, and he doesn't know where he is for a moment. Instinct keeps him lying still and silent, eyes darting side to side. This isn't his flat; it's a hospital, and for a long moment, he's so confused: did the girl retrieve him, is he still in Istanbul?
Suppressing the urge to cough, his eyes drop, and he sees her dozing on his bed. His chest tightens: how often will she do this? How many times will she have to hover at his bedside, hoping he wakes and recovers soon?
He feels like he's choking still, and swallows hard past that agony. Istanbul fades (the water recedes), and he remembers dreams of fire, burning, smoke. He died again: he knows how it feels, now.
James Bond, 007, died twice in two weeks. Maybe he is played out. This isn't worth it. He can't keep doing this to her.
Silently, he reaches for the side table, finds a communicator there. Moving is a small agony, typing is a softer chaser, and he fumbles, grits his teeth when he has to delete mistakes from unsteady thumbs. This isn't him. He isn't this mess. He types one message, and sets the device down on the bed beside him.
send me home
Once it's sent, he turns to watch Vesper sleep. She is one of the only good things about this ship, and he wants to remember her. In repose, she looks peaceful: it's a better memory than dragging her from the canal.
A moment later, he disappears, device with him, leaving only rumpled sheets.]
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