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31_days2005-09-02 12:09 am
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-09-02 12:09 am
[Sept. 2] [James Bond] "Crimson and Clover"
Title: Crimson and Clover
Day/Theme: Sept 2 - "Cat"
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/OFC
Rating: PG-13
Note: Makes more sense if you've read John Gardner's Win, Lose, or Die, and, as such, contains spoilers for it. But don't let that scare you off. Title and extracts from the song "A Praise Chorus" by Jimmy Eat World.
He doesn't know why he's thinking about her now. He woke up and drank his coffee and ate his eggs and suddenly, there's her face, as clear as the butter-dish on the table before him.
Clover.
He blinks, and she's gone. Now he drinks another generous mug of coffee, laced with brandy because it was the first alcoholic beverage he grabbed from the cupboard. Why now? It's been years. Last time he saw her, car-phones and Duran Duran tapes were the height of sophistication. There have been dozens of girls since. Maybe hundreds.
There was Ronnie, last night, the tomboy who chews gum and likes American base-ball. She also likes to be hurt. Bond knows this should've excited him, but despite the fetching combination of her slender body and her fresh make-up-less face begging to be degraded, he just felt a sort of pervasive ennui. But she enjoyed herself, or seemed to, and when he was done she pulled on her blue-jeans and her birkenstocks and her raggedy shirt that couldn't hide a bosom of truly epic preportions. She left quietly sometime in the night, which unnerved Bond. Usually, he was the one doing the leaving.
As the morning haze lifts from his brain, he starts to notice an irritating sound, like a buzzing insect in the corner of the room. He walks towards the bathroom. It becomes louder and more distinct, gradually forming itself into half-shouted words and a cachophany of instruments. Just the sort of music that Ronnie would listen to. His eyes follow the sound until he catches sight of a little tinny radio perched on a high shelf. He's reaching up to switch it off when the words hit him, and he stops, squeezing his eyes tight shut.
Crimson
And clover
Over
And over
Crimson
And clover
Over
And over...
He can see her again, more clearly now. Clover. The sweet longing in her eyes (real or contrived?) when she looked at him, her carelessness (what about that?), and the way her face transformed when he named her for who she really was.
"Hello, Cat."
He'll never forget. He never forgets the moments of supreme betrayal, and he never gets used to the feeling of it, no matter how many times it happens. Vesper was the first. Clover was not the last. Funny that they called her Cat; she was, like a cat, very good at getting what she wanted while giving nothing back in return.
Crimson
And clover
Crimson like blood. Like the blood she spilled all over the bathroom floor when she slit her victim's throat.
Over
And over
Our hearts in the middle of the street
Why did we ever meet?
Kick-start my rock 'n' roll fantasy...
His hand comes down on the off-switch so hard it sends the radio flying. Shards of brittle plastic and batteries scatter all over the tiles. If Ronnie comes back, he'll tell her that it must have fallen from its precarious perch sometime while he was sleeping. He can buy her a new one if she wants it. A better one - and maybe she'll like it well enough to come back to bed, to give him something to occupy his time.
She is not like Clover. She keeps her femininity hidden, and for some reason he likes that. He feels that Ronnie only becomes a real woman when he's there to show her what a real man is like. Given one more opportunity, maybe she'll put that sentiment into words herself.
The doorbell rings.
Ronnie's hair is all mussed as if she's not brushed it since her shower the night before, and she's still wearing her white rubber bracelet that exhorts the viewer to Make Poverty History. "I just came back for my radio," she says, "I think I left it in the bathroom."
"Oh, okay," says Bond. "Sure. No problem." He shuts the door behind her and waits. In a minute he hears sounds like plastic being scraped up off of tile, and clattering like it's being dropped in the wastebasket. In a moment she emerges, dusting off her hands, and says,
"It must've fallen."
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
"It's not your fault. Silly of me to leave it up on that little shelf. I can always get a new one."
"Let me," says Bond, earnestly. "Would you like to pick it out yourself? Here." He goes to his dresser and takes a few bills from his wallet. "Get a nicer one, but be kind to it, all right?"
"James, no, listen...you don't..." But few are those virtuous enough to turn down cold, hard cash. With a smile, Ronnie pockets the money. "I'll buy another cheap one and use the rest to get some takeaway. What do you fancy?"
His plan is working better than he hoped. Maybe the second round will be better than the first. He hopes so.
When she's gone, he is still smiling. She likes to make him smile. She's like a dog that way. Not like a cat. Cats take, dogs give. Dogs love, in their own simple-minded way. Cats are smarter, and so they don't love, because they are wise enough to know that all love is in vain. Ronnie will learn that soon enough.
When he's done with her, she'll be like Paris. Vesper. Elektra.
Like Clover.
Over.
And over.
Day/Theme: Sept 2 - "Cat"
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/OFC
Rating: PG-13
Note: Makes more sense if you've read John Gardner's Win, Lose, or Die, and, as such, contains spoilers for it. But don't let that scare you off. Title and extracts from the song "A Praise Chorus" by Jimmy Eat World.
He doesn't know why he's thinking about her now. He woke up and drank his coffee and ate his eggs and suddenly, there's her face, as clear as the butter-dish on the table before him.
Clover.
He blinks, and she's gone. Now he drinks another generous mug of coffee, laced with brandy because it was the first alcoholic beverage he grabbed from the cupboard. Why now? It's been years. Last time he saw her, car-phones and Duran Duran tapes were the height of sophistication. There have been dozens of girls since. Maybe hundreds.
There was Ronnie, last night, the tomboy who chews gum and likes American base-ball. She also likes to be hurt. Bond knows this should've excited him, but despite the fetching combination of her slender body and her fresh make-up-less face begging to be degraded, he just felt a sort of pervasive ennui. But she enjoyed herself, or seemed to, and when he was done she pulled on her blue-jeans and her birkenstocks and her raggedy shirt that couldn't hide a bosom of truly epic preportions. She left quietly sometime in the night, which unnerved Bond. Usually, he was the one doing the leaving.
As the morning haze lifts from his brain, he starts to notice an irritating sound, like a buzzing insect in the corner of the room. He walks towards the bathroom. It becomes louder and more distinct, gradually forming itself into half-shouted words and a cachophany of instruments. Just the sort of music that Ronnie would listen to. His eyes follow the sound until he catches sight of a little tinny radio perched on a high shelf. He's reaching up to switch it off when the words hit him, and he stops, squeezing his eyes tight shut.
Crimson
And clover
Over
And over
Crimson
And clover
Over
And over...
He can see her again, more clearly now. Clover. The sweet longing in her eyes (real or contrived?) when she looked at him, her carelessness (what about that?), and the way her face transformed when he named her for who she really was.
"Hello, Cat."
He'll never forget. He never forgets the moments of supreme betrayal, and he never gets used to the feeling of it, no matter how many times it happens. Vesper was the first. Clover was not the last. Funny that they called her Cat; she was, like a cat, very good at getting what she wanted while giving nothing back in return.
Crimson
And clover
Crimson like blood. Like the blood she spilled all over the bathroom floor when she slit her victim's throat.
Over
And over
Our hearts in the middle of the street
Why did we ever meet?
Kick-start my rock 'n' roll fantasy...
His hand comes down on the off-switch so hard it sends the radio flying. Shards of brittle plastic and batteries scatter all over the tiles. If Ronnie comes back, he'll tell her that it must have fallen from its precarious perch sometime while he was sleeping. He can buy her a new one if she wants it. A better one - and maybe she'll like it well enough to come back to bed, to give him something to occupy his time.
She is not like Clover. She keeps her femininity hidden, and for some reason he likes that. He feels that Ronnie only becomes a real woman when he's there to show her what a real man is like. Given one more opportunity, maybe she'll put that sentiment into words herself.
The doorbell rings.
Ronnie's hair is all mussed as if she's not brushed it since her shower the night before, and she's still wearing her white rubber bracelet that exhorts the viewer to Make Poverty History. "I just came back for my radio," she says, "I think I left it in the bathroom."
"Oh, okay," says Bond. "Sure. No problem." He shuts the door behind her and waits. In a minute he hears sounds like plastic being scraped up off of tile, and clattering like it's being dropped in the wastebasket. In a moment she emerges, dusting off her hands, and says,
"It must've fallen."
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
"It's not your fault. Silly of me to leave it up on that little shelf. I can always get a new one."
"Let me," says Bond, earnestly. "Would you like to pick it out yourself? Here." He goes to his dresser and takes a few bills from his wallet. "Get a nicer one, but be kind to it, all right?"
"James, no, listen...you don't..." But few are those virtuous enough to turn down cold, hard cash. With a smile, Ronnie pockets the money. "I'll buy another cheap one and use the rest to get some takeaway. What do you fancy?"
His plan is working better than he hoped. Maybe the second round will be better than the first. He hopes so.
When she's gone, he is still smiling. She likes to make him smile. She's like a dog that way. Not like a cat. Cats take, dogs give. Dogs love, in their own simple-minded way. Cats are smarter, and so they don't love, because they are wise enough to know that all love is in vain. Ronnie will learn that soon enough.
When he's done with her, she'll be like Paris. Vesper. Elektra.
Like Clover.
Over.
And over.