[Sept. 3] [James Bond] "In My Place"

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Title: In My Place
Day/Theme: Sept. 3 - Being as yet but a girl
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond, OFC
Rating: R for language

Warning: There is a LOT of language. A lot. There are also some disturbing elements which may offend you if, for instance, you were offended by The Professional. Proceed with caution. If you're going to be upset by the prospect of seeing James Bond through the eyes of a rebellious, self-destructive teenaged girl, you should probably go elsewhere.

Note: Leonard Cohen quote from the book The Favorite Game.

My parents are goddamn idiots.

The knowledge of this goes coursing through me, making my hand shake. I hate this. I hate all of it. I want to slice up my arms like all the fucked-up emo goth chicks at school, but I'm too scared. So instead of bleeding, I'm putting on mascara.

I curse at my hand until it stops shaking. As the brush runs through my lashes, I keep thinking and trying not to think about Ryan the Asshole, a.k.a. my now-ex boyfriend. My parents didn't even know we were dating, because they're goddamn idiots. So tonight he calls me while I'm on vacation in London with my Goddamn Idiot Parents™ and cries like a baby and tells me we have to break up.

He gives me some bullshit about not being able to handle the guilt of having cheated on me. Repeatedly. I'd already suspected it but now I know. And I felt okay at the time, a little light-headed, but a little free. Now it's starting to hurt.

I told my G.I.P™ I had a headache and I couldn't go out to dinner with them. I told them to go ahead to the museum, because I wasn't really interested, but really it's because I can't go on playing tourist when I can't stop thinking about Ryan and me breaking up. The knowledge will always be there. It'll be like, how did Leonard Cohen put it in that shitty novel of his? "A bulldozer turned loose in the heart of the city."

Yeah.

So tonight, I'm going out alone.

I am sick of high school boys back home with their guitars, and their poser t-shirts, and their iPods all loaded up with the flavor of the week. I can almost understand why people hate America. Everything is so fake.

I guess English pop culture isn't all that much better, but at least something here is real. You can't throw a stone without hitting a castle or a monument that somebody built hundreds of years ago, somebody who's probably been buried in its basement until his bones turn to dust. Fairy dust, maybe. There's a kind of magic here.

I love the way the men talk. I'll find one tonight, I've decided, and fuck him in this bed, in this room. I almost hope that my parents walk in. Maybe then they'll get a clue.

I keep thinking of that scene in Requiem for a Dream where Jennifer What's-her-face gets all dolled up to go out and screw her therapist for money. That movie scared the living daylights out of me. It's probably the only reason I don't do drugs. Right now, I wish I did, so I could get all fucked up and forget about Ryan.

My skimpiest outfit is on, and I look like a cheap hooker. A very young cheap hooker. How European of me. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm aware that all the makeup and all the sluttyness doesn't really make me look older. In some backwards way, I guess it actually makes me look younger. But what the hell? Maybe some drunk bouncer will let me in.

I've got nothing but my chutzpah to recommend me as I stroll down the streets of Soho, enjoying the stares that follow me everywhere. I know my parents are far from here, at some phony display of a forged painting that was probably stolen and sold on the black market decades ago.

How'd you learn how to be so goddamn cynical, Fitz? That was what Bryan used to ask me, all the time. I never really had the heart to explain that cynical just means you understand the world. And anyway, what the hell do you expect from a girl named Fitz?

It's not my real name. My real name is April and I hate it, but my last name's Fitzwilliam and that's not bad. So Fitz it is, then.

Suddenly I catch sight of the perfect bouncer. He's all skinny and wiry and blonde, and he's got better cheekbones than I do. Probably very insecure. I bet I could charm my way past him.

Close up, he really looks like a thin gay Nazi. I almost giggle at this, but I get ahold of myself just in time.

"Hi," I say, putting on my best smile.

He doesn't even look up. He's busy lighting a cigarette, which makes me cough, but I just swallow hard and keep standing there.

"Whaddaya want?" he mumbles, or something like it. He sounds like one of the Eastenders.

"I wanna join the party," I tell him, craning my neck to see the writhing bodies and the pulsing lights just inside the door.

"Come back with your mum," fruitcake grunts, spitting on the sidewalk to make himself look more macho.

I let out a little, snobbish laugh. "You're really going to card me?"

"Did I ask for I.D.? I don't believe I did. There's no way in hell you're twenty-one. Don't even try."

I laugh once more, scornfully, and turn away.

I don't want to be too persistent. The more persistent I am, the worse it looks. I'm following my nose now, getting the distinct feeling that I'll have to find my own way in.

It's a dilapidated neighborhood, no question. There's probably a hole in the back where the rats get in - maybe I'm skinny enough to slither right along with 'em. Leaving will be a problem. Maybe if I stick close enough to my chosen boy-toy, there'll be no questions asked. Maybe the bouncers only do four-hour shifts.

I look up, and see what's probably a bathroom window. It's frosted over and mildewed shut, but I figure it's worth a try.

My whole body tingles with adventure as I drag an old crate over to the wall and stand on it. A filthy slab of plywood from the ground becomes my tool as I pry at the edges of the window, noticing how the wood around it is starting to rot away. A few minutes go by and I'm making no progress whatsoever with my prying...time for a different tactic.

The frost isn't so great, and I can still see movement pretty clearly. The bathroom's been empty for a while now, so if I want to break the window the coast is clear. Problem: Fruitcake the Femme Bouncer will undoubtedly hear the crash and come mincing. I stop and think.

Oddly enough, it's a shitty old sci-fi movie that ends up saving my ass. I think it was called The (Something) Brain - these two girls were trying to escape from this house because a mad scientist was going to turn them into zombies or something. One of them broke the window and the other one dropped a vase on the floor at the same time, so when the gaurd came in to check on them, all he noticed was the vase. I wonder if it'll work in real life. It's worth a try. I don't want to get arrested, but I figure I can outrun Fruitcake.

There's a ton of old beer bottles out here, some of them balanced precariously on top of crates. I take one of them in my hand and snatch a good throwing-rock off the ground. I've got to time this just right.

One arm hurls the bottle and the other hurls the rock, smash, and then I hide. I've got no time to check the damage and see if Fruitcake'll notice, but it's a chance I gotta take.

I can hear him mincing over. He putters around for a while, and I'm holding my breath and sweat's dripping into my eyes. It's a minute. It's a million years. He walks away.

I jump back onto the crate and look through the hole I made. It's perfect. The bathroom's all dank and gross, but at least it's empty. I slide in.

There's a split second between when I feel someone grabbing my legs and when my brain tells me to scream. In this time there's a hand clamped over my mouth. I squirm and struggle and I feel something cold and metallic on my bare shoulder.

A voice hisses in my ear.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I twist my head so I can see him; his face scares me even more than the fact that he's almost crushing me with his arm. My heart's thumping so hard I can barely hear his voice.

A moment. One more. His eyes are hard and cruel and fierce.

Then all of a sudden they're not. It's almost like he just tore off a scary halloween mask, a demonic version of himself. Now his eyes are almost gentle, with a nice portion of disgust mixed in. Like a parent.

"Left our license at home, have we?" he whispers, loosening his grip.

"Actually, yeah," I snap back, defiant, no longer struggling to get away from him. "I don't carry it when I'm travelling."

"Okay," he says. "Listen. I'm here for a reason, which you don't need to know, and you're disrupting. Sit and be quiet and don't move until I say."

I guess he's probably a drug dealer or something, arranging a rendezvous.

"What if somebody comes in?"

"No one does. It's 'out of order.'"

This is a small comfort.

I wrap my arms around my knees and try to ignore the cold and the damp that's making goosebumps rise all over my skin. Every once in a while the man with the gun shoots me a look, but I can't quite read what it means.

He is, I realize after a few minutes, dead sexy.

In the dim light I can't really figure out his age, but he's not gray yet, so I figure he's still in my league. He's long and lean and well-built, but not bulky. There's a little bit of his sleek dark hair that falls over his eye, and the white scar on his cheek makes him seem that much cooler.

Jackpot.

I wonder how long he'll make me stay here.

A long time goes by.

Suddenly he twitches, his head tilts to the left, like he's hearing something I'm not.

"Dammit," he mutters in that delicious accent. "Dammit to bloody hell."

I'm afraid to say anything.

"He's not coming," he mutters, more to himself than to me.

"Who?" I couldn't stop myself.

"The man I'm...meeting." He straightens up and tucks his gun away. "Well. That's just fine. It'll be a while before we can get out of here."

Oddly, I get the feeing that he's somehow blaming me. I barely stop myself from apologizing.

"without being seen," he explains, answering my unspoken question.

A minute ticks by.

Suddenly he looks at me, as if seeing me for the first time.

"Who are you?"

I'm almost quivering under the power of that clear blue gaze. "My friends call me Fitz."

"My friends call me James," he says. "What's a little girl like you doing out by yourself? Feud with mum and dad?

He's being funny and condescending at the same time. I'm not sure whether to laugh, or be pissed off. "I'm not that little," I say.

Meaningfully.

He knows exactly what I'm trying to do. I can see it in his face. I cock my hips a little and half-smile, quirking my eyebrow like a promise.

"I'm not with my mom and dad, either. I'm all alone. Lonely."

He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. "There's a youth hostel down the way."

I wilt.

But it's what he didn't say that gets to me. The almost fatherly disapproval in his eyes that makes me feel like I've done something wrong, something grave. It's a sort of unspoken "tsk, tsk," and coming from someone who looks that cool, it kinda hurts.

With one look, this man has put me in my place.

I sigh.

"Got a younger cousin or something?"

He shakes his head, smiling at the floor.

"Little siblings? Has your grace ne'er a brother like you?"

The Shakespeare gets his attention, which is what I wanted. He looks at me in surprise and says, "You read?"

Oh, he likes to sting. "I write better stuff than you read," I tell him, which is probably not true. I do write, but mostly just bad poetry with lines like crow i am here, raven i am here. I burn it when I'm done.

"Okay," he says. I like a man who knows when to pick his fights.

He glances at his watch. "Shall we make a break for it?"

I stammer a bit. "Well, I was, uh, gonna hang out for a while..."

"I think perhaps it's time you went to bed."

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out.

"Where are you staying?" he wants to know, and I tell him, and he seems like he knows the hotel. "I'll walk you there. It's on my way."

We leave the bathroom behind and step into the main part of the club. The sensuality of the downbeat and all the skin and sweat is making me quiver. I turn to James with my last vestiges of hope, but the look on his face is so stern and parental that I have to turn away, disgusted with myself.

"Aw, dammit," I say as we approach the door. "It's the bouncer who wouldn't let me in."

"Just ignore him. Muster up a few tears if you can."

He grips my arm, hard, and begins to drag me. I realize what he's doing: playing as if he's my dad, pulling me home, furious. He doesn't quite look old enough, but he's a good actor anyway.

"But he'll know I snuck in. He'll try to pin the broken window on me."

"Don't worry about it," he mutters out of the side of his mouth. "I've some friends here who will take care of that."

I don't ask.

Fruitcake wears a satisfied smile as James marches me past. When we're out of his sight, my Englishman lets go of my arm and begins to walk briskly, expecting me to keep up. I'm shivering against the night air.

"It's cold," I say, after some time.

He sighs and shimmies out of his coat, without slowing his pace. "Here," he says, holding it out to me.

I take it gratefully. It's still warm and it smells of him, which makes me feel a little bit safer.

The hotel's not far now.

"How old are you?" he asks me. The inevitable question.

"Twenty," I say, because it can't hurt.

He smiles. "You've got a wonderful saying in the States: 'never kid a kidder.'"

I decide not to say anything, but I can tell he knows I'm no twenty. "How old do you think I am?" I say at last, just curious.

"Old enough to know better."

"Were you?" Somehow I think he was a wild child.

He snorts quietly. "No, and that's exactly what gives me the right to preach at you. At your age I was probably soliciting prostitutes in Paris. Not the best way to spend the last years of your childhood."

"But I'm not soliciting prostitutes!" I protest.

"No - just dressing like one."

Oh, burn.

"You got kids?" I ask him, scornfully.

"None at the moment."

It's a funny answer, and I smile in spite of myself. "Well, here's a tip: don't tell your daughter she looks like a ho."

"You, thank God, are not my daughter," he points out, needlessly. "But I'll keep that in mind."

I can see my hotel from here, and I can see my family's suite. The lights are all off. My parents are still out.

"I can take it from here," I say to James.

He quirks an eyebrow at me. So cute. And so, so out of my league. I slip out of his jacket and hand it to him, still warm. He holds it at arm's length as if it smells.

My last view of him is when I turn around, one final time, at the hotel door. His jacket is slung over his forearm and he's walking the other way, upright, confident, purposeful. I've already forgotten what his face looks like.

Back in my room, I take a shower and throw my clothes in my bag. Curled up in a luxuriant hotel bathrobe, I wait for the G.I.P.™ and let my head swim with thoughts of James. Maybe, someday, I can be that cool.

Yeah.

When my parents come in, I am half-asleep. "You okay?" Mom asks.

I mumble something.

"She's sleeping," says Dad, throwing his jacket onto a chair. It's not like James'. He probably bought it for a buck fifty at Wal(star!)Mart.

Mom and Dad are talking about the museum and how interesting it was, and all sorts of things that make sense to them because they've been alive for so long.

And I - being as yet but a girl - have nothing to say.