[ James Bond wasn't trying to change but, somehow, it snuck up on him and it happened anyway. He knew it was foolish for someone like him to be in love (but how he wanted it), but that's why they call it 'falling' instead of 'jumping', isn't it? Every lesson Bond ever learned, he had to learn it the hard way. Never count on anyone but yourself (everyone will leave you in the end), keep moving, don't get attached, only action and the absence of thought during a kill, and it's not as real if you don't look in their eyes. These are only a handful of truths he's had proven to him, in some manner, at least once. You couldn't tell him a damn thing.
Today, he learns that if death and destruction are your companions, you let free the ones you want to live. If there's no hope of saving you, don't cling to the one who actually stands a chance of crawling out of the pit. Christ. When did he become so bloody selfless? Because the last time he looked at himself, he was the most self-serving bastard he'd ever known. This is incredibly inconvenient for him.
Bond's thankful for the silence that reigns for a while. He uses it to let his mind wander, albeit not very far, and to rest leaning against the door. Both the work he's done today, on top of the lack of sleep he's gotten, on top of the tax his regeneration can take on him, have made him very drowsy. It's a poor idea, but he's spaced out, staring into the depths of the wasteland, when a static lullaby crackles onto the radio. By then, there's probably a lot more skin he can flake off, but the agent honestly can't be bothered to move. His limbs feel heavy.
When Natasha speaks, he's even begun to doze a little. Maybe he trusts her not to kill him. Maybe he just wouldn't care if she did.
His eyelids, new skin under charcoal smears, shift with the movements of the eyeballs beneath, then blink slowly as the brain translates the same message several times over. Then his eyes open to look at her without so much as a twitch from any other part of his body, pale and distinctive but dulled, like a mirror that's been smeared by humans hands, traces of oil and little fingerprints on the surface.
Is it kindness? Sometimes, Natasha, he just feels tired. And it's not just Camille, it's not even Vesper, it's everything. Sometimes, quite without his permission, Bond looks at himself and sees how very much has been taken away from him, and he feels it. He feels like a tooth drilled free of a massive cavity, just this gaping hole inside of something so sturdy, waiting to be refilled with the inorganic, stronger ceramic. It'd be better, you'd think, once he was more that then human bone. But the truth was fillings were sensitive to extremes: fire, ice, and sugar. No, what James needed in those moments was either a root canal (remove the nerve) or to be pulled entirely. Maybe that's age, maybe it's not. All he knows is that, hard as he knows it is, he wants to die in action and just be done with it all. He doesn't want to linger. Put him in the skip.
Those feelings don't last (thank god). One thing he learned long ago that holds true now: leave the past behind as soon as it becomes the past.
He needs a drink. ]
Pot, kettle, Nattie.
[ Because he does remember you, Natasha. And there's a whole lot more implication, a whole lot more ridicule, you could have put into the statement. Sometimes the absence of malice goes farther than any tender tone.
His eyes shut. ]
Just drop me off at the next place that has a pub in sight and looks like it might have a shower, will you?
no subject
Today, he learns that if death and destruction are your companions, you let free the ones you want to live. If there's no hope of saving you, don't cling to the one who actually stands a chance of crawling out of the pit. Christ. When did he become so bloody selfless? Because the last time he looked at himself, he was the most self-serving bastard he'd ever known. This is incredibly inconvenient for him.
Bond's thankful for the silence that reigns for a while. He uses it to let his mind wander, albeit not very far, and to rest leaning against the door. Both the work he's done today, on top of the lack of sleep he's gotten, on top of the tax his regeneration can take on him, have made him very drowsy. It's a poor idea, but he's spaced out, staring into the depths of the wasteland, when a static lullaby crackles onto the radio. By then, there's probably a lot more skin he can flake off, but the agent honestly can't be bothered to move. His limbs feel heavy.
When Natasha speaks, he's even begun to doze a little. Maybe he trusts her not to kill him. Maybe he just wouldn't care if she did.
His eyelids, new skin under charcoal smears, shift with the movements of the eyeballs beneath, then blink slowly as the brain translates the same message several times over. Then his eyes open to look at her without so much as a twitch from any other part of his body, pale and distinctive but dulled, like a mirror that's been smeared by humans hands, traces of oil and little fingerprints on the surface.
Is it kindness? Sometimes, Natasha, he just feels tired. And it's not just Camille, it's not even Vesper, it's everything. Sometimes, quite without his permission, Bond looks at himself and sees how very much has been taken away from him, and he feels it. He feels like a tooth drilled free of a massive cavity, just this gaping hole inside of something so sturdy, waiting to be refilled with the inorganic, stronger ceramic. It'd be better, you'd think, once he was more that then human bone. But the truth was fillings were sensitive to extremes: fire, ice, and sugar. No, what James needed in those moments was either a root canal (remove the nerve) or to be pulled entirely. Maybe that's age, maybe it's not. All he knows is that, hard as he knows it is, he wants to die in action and just be done with it all. He doesn't want to linger. Put him in the skip.
Those feelings don't last (thank god). One thing he learned long ago that holds true now: leave the past behind as soon as it becomes the past.
He needs a drink. ]
Pot, kettle, Nattie.
[ Because he does remember you, Natasha. And there's a whole lot more implication, a whole lot more ridicule, you could have put into the statement. Sometimes the absence of malice goes farther than any tender tone.
His eyes shut. ]
Just drop me off at the next place that has a pub in sight and looks like it might have a shower, will you?