ext_10837 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2005-09-15 08:41 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-09-15 08:41 pm
[Sept. 15] [James Bond] Victoria
Title: Victoria
Day/Theme: Sept. 15 - Your eyes closed
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/Victoria (OFC), John (ORC [Other Real Character, durhey - now aren't you curious?])
Rating: R for language and "frank talk of a sexual nature" (gotta love the FCC!)
Part I
Hiding
Your eyes closed, and I wondered what it was, exactly, you thought you were hiding.
Or hiding from.
"Who's that supposed to be about, then?"
Tori just shrugged. "Whoever. Anybody. It just came into my head."
But all Bond could think of was the night before, the two of them drenched in water and steam, behind a frosted door, and then suddenly she knelt down and there was water streaming into her eyes and his fingers tangled in her hair and then when she stood up, the look on her face spoke of love. And he, still dizzy with pleasure, had suddenly felt a sick guilt in the pit of his stomach. His eyes closed. He was a bastard. He was using her. And he'd keep on using her, because she'd let him.
Get out while you still can.
Oh, but she still thought she could win his heart. If she touched him the right way. If her lips felt just right. If she could be the perfect woman, then he...
He wanted to tell her it was all in vain. But instead he just opened his eyes and smiled and told her he'd return the favor if she'd meet him in the bedroom.
If he was going to be a bastard, then he could at least show her a good time.
But she was starting to find out.
Bond recalled a late-night conversation with a very drunk Felix, who advised, "never fuck a writer, Jim. They notice everything. They know when you stop caring and they'll give you hell about it, then scrawl about what a rat-bastard you are. It's not worth it."
Now, looking across at Victoria's impassive face, he wished he'd listened.
Initially she had been irresistable. Tall, standing almost eye-to-eye with him, she was long-legged and very German in the face. She was American by her accent, but the Germanic face looked intelligent all the time and severely cute when she smiled. From the side she thought her nose was too big and her chin was too small - there was just a touch of Queen Victoria, for whom she happened to be named. Bond liked it. It kept her humble, and before long, he had as much of her as he could want.
She had coincidentally taken a flat in his building for a few months, and each found it a bit too convenient to drop in on the other, sometimes with a bottle of champagne or boxes of takeaway Italian, and, on one memorable occasion, a pair of genuine metal handcuffs. Cast-offs from a police officer she'd known, Tori claimed, but Bond was incredulous.
By her own admission she'd been largely celibate in the past few years, and Bond was pleased to watch her blossom under his standard course of T.L.C. (with just a bit of S. and M. thrown in, because the handcuffs had been her bloody idea). He could have sworn she actually glowed. After a while she trusted him enough to let him read some of her book-in-progress, which Felix had said was the most intimate gesture a writer could make.
That night, after Tori left, Bond went out to the pub, refusing to wallow in his own bastardliness. It was loud and crass and smelled of unpleasant things, which was exactly what he needed.
"James!" came a shout from across the room. He recognized the voice and, smiling, made his way through the crowd.
"Hullo, John," he said, as the two men exchanged a firm handshake. John was shorter, stockier, and probably younger, with dark, moody eyes and a penchant for pouting. He was, of all things, a musician. Bond, when they first met a few weeks ago in that very pub, had been prepared to hate him. But after five minutes of John's conversation he decided the young man with the guitar over his shoulder was remarkably intelligent, enjoyable to talk to, and one of those good Americans who are fine people.
"Are you from Texas, by any chance?" he'd asked.
John laughed. "Sorry. Connecticut. Uh...why?"
He claimed to be doing a bit of an impromtu tour of Europe, playing coffeehouses and the like, but Bond imagined he was just trying to get away. Away from whatever celebrity he might have back in the states, and away, perhaps, from a girl...
Tori.
God, what was he going to do about Tori?
"What's doin', James? You look pensive."
He shrugged. This wasn't something to make public just yet. Really, everything was going swimmingly - the only doubts were in his own head. Maybe she didn't love him. Maybe he'd imagined that unmistakable look.
Part II
Girl, Interrupted
After a few laughs and several free drinks (the bartender knew John's music and was always happy to treat the musician and his companions), Bond returned to The King's Road, feeling considerably more lighthearted. After stopping at his place to brush his teeth and wash the pub-grime off his hands, he ambled down to Tori's door and knocked firmly.
Putting his ear closer to the wood, he could detect the strains of music playing rather loudly inside. No wonder she couldn't hear. He pounded harder. Just when he was about to retreat and nurse his banged-up knuckles, the door flew open.
Hair wild, face flushed, and she looked hastily dressed. For a moment Bond considered the unthinkable. Why did it send a stab of fury through him? It wasn't like they were in any sort of relationship. But still, the idea that any woman he romanced might still need a bit on the side...
But her eyes were bright and unashamed, and she smiled at his blank look.
"Sorry, come in," she said.
He blinked. What in the hell?
Raising her eyebrows, she said, confidentially, "I was just thinking about you."
Oh.
Oh.
OOOOOOOH.
Oh ho HO.
In a tiny, backmost corner of his mind, Bond wasn't sure how he felt about that. Every other atom in his body told him to tear her clothes off now, and ask questions later.
She seemed amenable to this.
It wasn't until later that he remembered the words to the song that had been blaring. Tori, he knew, always put on music that fit her mood. The first time he'd come over, he recalled something to the effect of do you want me, like I want you? Or am I standing still...? But today -
Almost paradise
We're knockin' on heaven's door
Almost paradise
How could we ask for more?
I swear that I can see forever
In your eyes....
His eyes closed. Suddenly, he felt very cold.
Part IV
Talking About the Weather
"You weren't embarrassed, were you?"
"No, no." Bond shook his head emphatically. "Not embarrassed."
"Because if you were, you need to wake up and smell the 21st century."
"I said I wasn't."
"You're still all squirmy about it."
"I'm not embarrassed!" he insisted. "It's just - well, it's not something I've ever really discussed."
She looked rather incredulous.
"With a woman," he clarified.
She tsked. "Who the hell am I sleeping with, here, the Forty-Year-Old Virgin?"
"That's not funny," said Bond. "And anyway, I'm not forty yet."
"Whatever, Sir Walter Raleigh. Someday I'm just going to burst into your place unnannounced and catch you -"
"All right, all right, all right!" Bond held up his hand. "I get your point. I'm not embarrassed. Can we change the subject?"
She giggled. "You're blushing."
"I don't," said Bond, "blush."
Tori just smiled.
Bond turned his head to the window. "Lovely weather we're having."
Part V
Room for Squares
John was waving his hand in front of Bond's face.
"Hello, hello! Earth to Jimmy! You're a million miles away, man. what's going on?"
Bond shrugged.
"Girl troubles?"
"Not troubles, exactly."
Chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick, John nodded. "Just awkwardness?"
"I suppose so."
"So who's the lucky girl?"
Bond shrugged again. "Just somebody called Victoria. She moved into my building about a month ago."
John sucked in air through his teeth. "Oooh, ouch. Awkward. Yeah. And you can feel the first rumblings of disaster, right? Wondering what you'll do if it ends before she leaves?"
"Yes. Yes, a bit."
"I'm sorry, dude. What does she do?"
"She writes. Bit of a nutter, really."
Laughing, John said, "I know all about that. You know, you learn in life: crazy between the sheets means crazy outside the sheets. Every time. It's a damn shame, but, there you go."
Bond twirled the stem of his cocktail glass between his fingers. "Roses and thorns, eh?"
"Rainbows and rain, man. And I don't mean the gay kind of rainbow."
Bond smiled. "Well, thank God for that."
"I mean, you're an attractive man and everything, but -" John started laughing, and it was infectious. Bond remembered how much he liked the American approach to life - no-holds-barred, passionate, honest. The average Englishman - he could have a nervous breakdown right next to you, and you might be his best chum, and you'd never be any the wiser. It was a miserable way to live.
Tori was very American. It was jarring, yes, but exciting. Like a roller coaster.
Bond had to admit to himself that he was no good at analogies.
Part VI
A Burning Flame
It was, in fact, better than any roller coaster.
Either she was madly in love with him or she was trying to kill him, and at the moment Bond didn't really care which. Even the ringing telephone couldn't break through the haze in his mind. But she reacted immediately, and with a curse, clambered off of him and half-pulled on her bathrobe.
It was a short conversation, but by the time she got back, Bond found that his legs were working again. He sat up and dimmed the lights a bit, since they'd been too preoccupied to do so earlier. She smiled and went for the stereo.
In Bond's heart, the warm glow dissolved into that same cold, tight emptiness - he could almost see each word of the song, as if it were branded into her skin.
You consume me
You consume me
Like a burning flame
Running through my veins...
Part VII
No Such Thing
"Wanna know the truth, James?"
Bond wasn't sure, but he nodded.
"I'm here because I haven't been able to write a song in forever."
"Oh," said Bond politely.
"I sit there, with my guitar, and poof - like magic! - nothing. I don't know. It was never this hard before. I thought maybe going to Europe, you know, the old motherland...but so far, no luck."
"Awfully sorry about that," said Bond, trying to remember if this was John's fifth beer, or his sixth.
"But enough about me. How's the headcase?"
"I didn't say she was a headcase, she's just a bit...."
"...a bit of a writer. I know. Doesn't get much crazier than that."
"No," said Bond. "No, I suppose it doesn't."
Part VIII
...And I Don't Wanna Change Your Life
"Here," she said, dangling something in front of him.
"What's this?" Bond asked, although he knew.
"I had a duplicate key made. You're always over here, so I thought..." She paused, looking at him. "It's no big deal, James. Stop frowning at me. I thought you'd appreciate the gesture."
"All right," said Bond. "I'm not frowning. I'm just - I didn't expect it, that's all."
"I always aim to surprise," she said, tucking the key into his pocket. She kept her hand there, letting her fingers flatten and spread across his upper thigh. She stepped closer. "You could bring a few things over here, you know. Toothbrush...shirts...whatever."
"I'm not moving in with you," said Bond quietly.
She withdrew her hand. "Okay."
His eyes closed. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Yeah," she said, suddenly looking very tired. "I know."
Bond wondered if she did.
Part IX
Something's Missing
"I see what you mean," said John quietly, leaning across the table. "A little...off. Cute, though. How much longer is she planning to stay?"
"Another two months, at least." Bond ran his fingers through his hair. "It's the damnedest thing, because nothing's actually gone sour, it's just...something will. I know it."
John chewed on his fingernail. "Self-fulfilling prophecy?"
Bond hadn't thought of that. "Maybe," he admitted.
"Maybe you want it to end."
"Thanks, Sigmund."
"No, really. I can tell you're on pins and needles around her, afraid she's gonna say something over-the-top."
"I'm not!"
"A little too wild for the hard-assed Brit?" John grinned. "Fair enough."
Shaking his head disapprovingly at his friend, Bond said, "look, it's not as if she's my girlfriend. We're just -"
"Fuckbuddies?"
Bond winced.
"Oh, come on. She's not your girlfriend, and yet, you fuck her. Ergo, fuckbuddy."
"John, there are minors at this bar."
They both chuckled at this.
Victoria was slowly weaving her way back from the washroom. She had no problem holding her liquor, provided it was less than half a pint. Beyond that, she was hopeless.
Strike two, Bond thought, watching her collide with the coat-rack.
A shrill ring pierced the hazy background noise, and Bond cursed. "Bloody phone," he said, producing it from his jacket. "Hang on. Bond here!"
There was a pause, during which John gallantly pulled out Tori's chair. She fell into it with a tiny groan.
"Please tell me the room's spinning for you, too."
John sniggered. "Sorry, nah. But thanks for playing!"
"No - all right, yes, all right," Bond sighed into the phone. "All right. I'll - I heard you, Penny! No, you're right, sorry. I'm not in a pub! Look, I'm hanging up now. I'll see you in a bit."
Pressing his fingers into his eyes, Bond stood up. "Right," he said. "I've had a lovely evening, chaps, but I'm off. The Minister of Defence has requested a special audience with me."
"What?!" Tori squinted at him. "But we were gonna -"
"Yes, well, all in good time!" Bond interrupted her hastily. "I'll be seeing you later."
He hurried off.
"YEAH, WELL, DON'T LET THE DOOR HIT YOU IN THE ASS ON THE WAY OUT!"
John patted Tori's shoulder. "Easy, hon," he said. "Not his fault he's always on call."
Part X
Frostbite
"Lots of writers are migrating to Iceland," she said, gazing at her half-empty glass of Merlot.
"Migrating?" Bond lifted his head. "You make them sound like so many lemmings."
"Maybe they are." She sighed. "Still in all, Iceland. Very romantic."
"Until the frostbite sets in."
"I think maybe I will go. Once my lease runs out here."
"Oh?" said Bond. "Sounds like good fun."
The covers rustled, and he was conscious of her warmth retreating. Her feet made no sound as they hit the floor.
"Where're you going?" he asked.
"I'll be right back." Something in her voice sounded odd.
She walked rapidly away. Bond's eyes were drawn almost subconsciously to the mirror, where he was able to catch a glimpse of her face in the dusky light.
Her eyes glistened with tears.
She was in the bathroom for a long time, and he heard running water. When she came back she was smiling again, but Bond thought it looked hollow.
Well, damn her anyway.
She stopped and knelt at the CD player he kept around exclusively for women to play with. In a moment, the room was filled with a soft, sweet voice.
Two a.m. and she calls me, 'cause I'm still awake
Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?
I don't love him
Winter just wasn't my season...
His eyes closed.
He wished he could close his ears.
Part XI
Always
When he woke up, he knew something was wrong.
He was alone in his bed - Tori always stayed for the whole night if she stayed at all. He sat up and saw that her clothes were gone from the floor.
Heart pounding, he pulled on a bathrobe and searched in vain for traces of her. The CD player was empty. All the little sundries she'd left over the weeks were nowhere to be found - a hairbrush, a spare shirt, even a little bottle of Orangina she'd put in the refrigerator.
He'd expected her to leave. But not like this.
In the bathroom, he wet down his hair just enough to be presentable and pulled on last night's clothes. It seemed to take an age for him to reach that familiar door in that familiar corridor. Just to be polite, he knocked.
No one answered.
He took out his key and fumbled with it, briefly, pushing her door open with frantic impatience.
Empty.
Only the furniture, which had not been hers, remained. That exotic throw-rug that had fit her personality so well, every single souvenier of her travels, every morsel of food and every potted plant, gone.
Wasn't this what he wanted?
Why did he feel so cold?
There was, he realized belatedly, music.
But it was just the radio.
There was no way she could have known.
And yet.
And yet.
I feel
Like you don't want me around
I guess I'll pack all my things, I guess I'll see you around
It's all
Been bottled up until now
As I walk out your door, all I can hear is the sound
Always
Always
Always
Always...
Part XII
Muse
John, sitting alone in the pub with a glass of orange squash, contemplated the severe lameness of sitting alone in a pub with a glass of orange squash at nine in the morning. Liquor licenses around here were no good until eleven, so why was it even open? Perhaps, every once in a while, a complete loser came in for a glass of squash.
It was then that Tori stumbled in.
Her purse was slung over one shoulder and her eyes held the haunted look of someone who hadn't slept at all. John knew it well.
"Victoria! What -"
"John." She took a breath. "I'm glad you're here."
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then went on.
"If you see James again, tell him he was right. Everything's romantic until frostbite sets in."
John blinked. "Have you been drinking?"
"No. Well, yeah, but that's not the point." Looking closer, John could see tears welled up in her eyes. "I have to go," she said, turning abruptly. The door slammed behind her.
The morning-shift barkeep looked up briefly from his task of incessantly wiping the counter, then looked down again. John just stared at the wall.
After a moment, he took out his guitar. A soft, plaintive melody came, unbidden, from his fingers. Softly, he began to sing.
Dunno why
Tori came by
But I could see
By the look in her eyes
Tori'd been drivin' round the town for a while
Playin' with the thought of leaving...
///
finis
Author's Note: ...yes, it's John Mayer. You really ought to have realized that sooner, you know. I'm sure this story raises a few questions, most likely: WHY? Because I was listening to John Mayer's "Victoria", and thought it was be funny if she were a Bond girl. That's all, really.
Day/Theme: Sept. 15 - Your eyes closed
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/Victoria (OFC), John (ORC [Other Real Character, durhey - now aren't you curious?])
Rating: R for language and "frank talk of a sexual nature" (gotta love the FCC!)
Part I
Hiding
Your eyes closed, and I wondered what it was, exactly, you thought you were hiding.
Or hiding from.
"Who's that supposed to be about, then?"
Tori just shrugged. "Whoever. Anybody. It just came into my head."
But all Bond could think of was the night before, the two of them drenched in water and steam, behind a frosted door, and then suddenly she knelt down and there was water streaming into her eyes and his fingers tangled in her hair and then when she stood up, the look on her face spoke of love. And he, still dizzy with pleasure, had suddenly felt a sick guilt in the pit of his stomach. His eyes closed. He was a bastard. He was using her. And he'd keep on using her, because she'd let him.
Get out while you still can.
Oh, but she still thought she could win his heart. If she touched him the right way. If her lips felt just right. If she could be the perfect woman, then he...
He wanted to tell her it was all in vain. But instead he just opened his eyes and smiled and told her he'd return the favor if she'd meet him in the bedroom.
If he was going to be a bastard, then he could at least show her a good time.
But she was starting to find out.
Bond recalled a late-night conversation with a very drunk Felix, who advised, "never fuck a writer, Jim. They notice everything. They know when you stop caring and they'll give you hell about it, then scrawl about what a rat-bastard you are. It's not worth it."
Now, looking across at Victoria's impassive face, he wished he'd listened.
Initially she had been irresistable. Tall, standing almost eye-to-eye with him, she was long-legged and very German in the face. She was American by her accent, but the Germanic face looked intelligent all the time and severely cute when she smiled. From the side she thought her nose was too big and her chin was too small - there was just a touch of Queen Victoria, for whom she happened to be named. Bond liked it. It kept her humble, and before long, he had as much of her as he could want.
She had coincidentally taken a flat in his building for a few months, and each found it a bit too convenient to drop in on the other, sometimes with a bottle of champagne or boxes of takeaway Italian, and, on one memorable occasion, a pair of genuine metal handcuffs. Cast-offs from a police officer she'd known, Tori claimed, but Bond was incredulous.
By her own admission she'd been largely celibate in the past few years, and Bond was pleased to watch her blossom under his standard course of T.L.C. (with just a bit of S. and M. thrown in, because the handcuffs had been her bloody idea). He could have sworn she actually glowed. After a while she trusted him enough to let him read some of her book-in-progress, which Felix had said was the most intimate gesture a writer could make.
That night, after Tori left, Bond went out to the pub, refusing to wallow in his own bastardliness. It was loud and crass and smelled of unpleasant things, which was exactly what he needed.
"James!" came a shout from across the room. He recognized the voice and, smiling, made his way through the crowd.
"Hullo, John," he said, as the two men exchanged a firm handshake. John was shorter, stockier, and probably younger, with dark, moody eyes and a penchant for pouting. He was, of all things, a musician. Bond, when they first met a few weeks ago in that very pub, had been prepared to hate him. But after five minutes of John's conversation he decided the young man with the guitar over his shoulder was remarkably intelligent, enjoyable to talk to, and one of those good Americans who are fine people.
"Are you from Texas, by any chance?" he'd asked.
John laughed. "Sorry. Connecticut. Uh...why?"
He claimed to be doing a bit of an impromtu tour of Europe, playing coffeehouses and the like, but Bond imagined he was just trying to get away. Away from whatever celebrity he might have back in the states, and away, perhaps, from a girl...
Tori.
God, what was he going to do about Tori?
"What's doin', James? You look pensive."
He shrugged. This wasn't something to make public just yet. Really, everything was going swimmingly - the only doubts were in his own head. Maybe she didn't love him. Maybe he'd imagined that unmistakable look.
Part II
Girl, Interrupted
After a few laughs and several free drinks (the bartender knew John's music and was always happy to treat the musician and his companions), Bond returned to The King's Road, feeling considerably more lighthearted. After stopping at his place to brush his teeth and wash the pub-grime off his hands, he ambled down to Tori's door and knocked firmly.
Putting his ear closer to the wood, he could detect the strains of music playing rather loudly inside. No wonder she couldn't hear. He pounded harder. Just when he was about to retreat and nurse his banged-up knuckles, the door flew open.
Hair wild, face flushed, and she looked hastily dressed. For a moment Bond considered the unthinkable. Why did it send a stab of fury through him? It wasn't like they were in any sort of relationship. But still, the idea that any woman he romanced might still need a bit on the side...
But her eyes were bright and unashamed, and she smiled at his blank look.
"Sorry, come in," she said.
He blinked. What in the hell?
Raising her eyebrows, she said, confidentially, "I was just thinking about you."
Oh.
Oh.
OOOOOOOH.
Oh ho HO.
In a tiny, backmost corner of his mind, Bond wasn't sure how he felt about that. Every other atom in his body told him to tear her clothes off now, and ask questions later.
She seemed amenable to this.
It wasn't until later that he remembered the words to the song that had been blaring. Tori, he knew, always put on music that fit her mood. The first time he'd come over, he recalled something to the effect of do you want me, like I want you? Or am I standing still...? But today -
Almost paradise
We're knockin' on heaven's door
Almost paradise
How could we ask for more?
I swear that I can see forever
In your eyes....
His eyes closed. Suddenly, he felt very cold.
Part IV
Talking About the Weather
"You weren't embarrassed, were you?"
"No, no." Bond shook his head emphatically. "Not embarrassed."
"Because if you were, you need to wake up and smell the 21st century."
"I said I wasn't."
"You're still all squirmy about it."
"I'm not embarrassed!" he insisted. "It's just - well, it's not something I've ever really discussed."
She looked rather incredulous.
"With a woman," he clarified.
She tsked. "Who the hell am I sleeping with, here, the Forty-Year-Old Virgin?"
"That's not funny," said Bond. "And anyway, I'm not forty yet."
"Whatever, Sir Walter Raleigh. Someday I'm just going to burst into your place unnannounced and catch you -"
"All right, all right, all right!" Bond held up his hand. "I get your point. I'm not embarrassed. Can we change the subject?"
She giggled. "You're blushing."
"I don't," said Bond, "blush."
Tori just smiled.
Bond turned his head to the window. "Lovely weather we're having."
Part V
Room for Squares
John was waving his hand in front of Bond's face.
"Hello, hello! Earth to Jimmy! You're a million miles away, man. what's going on?"
Bond shrugged.
"Girl troubles?"
"Not troubles, exactly."
Chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick, John nodded. "Just awkwardness?"
"I suppose so."
"So who's the lucky girl?"
Bond shrugged again. "Just somebody called Victoria. She moved into my building about a month ago."
John sucked in air through his teeth. "Oooh, ouch. Awkward. Yeah. And you can feel the first rumblings of disaster, right? Wondering what you'll do if it ends before she leaves?"
"Yes. Yes, a bit."
"I'm sorry, dude. What does she do?"
"She writes. Bit of a nutter, really."
Laughing, John said, "I know all about that. You know, you learn in life: crazy between the sheets means crazy outside the sheets. Every time. It's a damn shame, but, there you go."
Bond twirled the stem of his cocktail glass between his fingers. "Roses and thorns, eh?"
"Rainbows and rain, man. And I don't mean the gay kind of rainbow."
Bond smiled. "Well, thank God for that."
"I mean, you're an attractive man and everything, but -" John started laughing, and it was infectious. Bond remembered how much he liked the American approach to life - no-holds-barred, passionate, honest. The average Englishman - he could have a nervous breakdown right next to you, and you might be his best chum, and you'd never be any the wiser. It was a miserable way to live.
Tori was very American. It was jarring, yes, but exciting. Like a roller coaster.
Bond had to admit to himself that he was no good at analogies.
Part VI
A Burning Flame
It was, in fact, better than any roller coaster.
Either she was madly in love with him or she was trying to kill him, and at the moment Bond didn't really care which. Even the ringing telephone couldn't break through the haze in his mind. But she reacted immediately, and with a curse, clambered off of him and half-pulled on her bathrobe.
It was a short conversation, but by the time she got back, Bond found that his legs were working again. He sat up and dimmed the lights a bit, since they'd been too preoccupied to do so earlier. She smiled and went for the stereo.
In Bond's heart, the warm glow dissolved into that same cold, tight emptiness - he could almost see each word of the song, as if it were branded into her skin.
You consume me
You consume me
Like a burning flame
Running through my veins...
Part VII
No Such Thing
"Wanna know the truth, James?"
Bond wasn't sure, but he nodded.
"I'm here because I haven't been able to write a song in forever."
"Oh," said Bond politely.
"I sit there, with my guitar, and poof - like magic! - nothing. I don't know. It was never this hard before. I thought maybe going to Europe, you know, the old motherland...but so far, no luck."
"Awfully sorry about that," said Bond, trying to remember if this was John's fifth beer, or his sixth.
"But enough about me. How's the headcase?"
"I didn't say she was a headcase, she's just a bit...."
"...a bit of a writer. I know. Doesn't get much crazier than that."
"No," said Bond. "No, I suppose it doesn't."
Part VIII
...And I Don't Wanna Change Your Life
"Here," she said, dangling something in front of him.
"What's this?" Bond asked, although he knew.
"I had a duplicate key made. You're always over here, so I thought..." She paused, looking at him. "It's no big deal, James. Stop frowning at me. I thought you'd appreciate the gesture."
"All right," said Bond. "I'm not frowning. I'm just - I didn't expect it, that's all."
"I always aim to surprise," she said, tucking the key into his pocket. She kept her hand there, letting her fingers flatten and spread across his upper thigh. She stepped closer. "You could bring a few things over here, you know. Toothbrush...shirts...whatever."
"I'm not moving in with you," said Bond quietly.
She withdrew her hand. "Okay."
His eyes closed. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Yeah," she said, suddenly looking very tired. "I know."
Bond wondered if she did.
Part IX
Something's Missing
"I see what you mean," said John quietly, leaning across the table. "A little...off. Cute, though. How much longer is she planning to stay?"
"Another two months, at least." Bond ran his fingers through his hair. "It's the damnedest thing, because nothing's actually gone sour, it's just...something will. I know it."
John chewed on his fingernail. "Self-fulfilling prophecy?"
Bond hadn't thought of that. "Maybe," he admitted.
"Maybe you want it to end."
"Thanks, Sigmund."
"No, really. I can tell you're on pins and needles around her, afraid she's gonna say something over-the-top."
"I'm not!"
"A little too wild for the hard-assed Brit?" John grinned. "Fair enough."
Shaking his head disapprovingly at his friend, Bond said, "look, it's not as if she's my girlfriend. We're just -"
"Fuckbuddies?"
Bond winced.
"Oh, come on. She's not your girlfriend, and yet, you fuck her. Ergo, fuckbuddy."
"John, there are minors at this bar."
They both chuckled at this.
Victoria was slowly weaving her way back from the washroom. She had no problem holding her liquor, provided it was less than half a pint. Beyond that, she was hopeless.
Strike two, Bond thought, watching her collide with the coat-rack.
A shrill ring pierced the hazy background noise, and Bond cursed. "Bloody phone," he said, producing it from his jacket. "Hang on. Bond here!"
There was a pause, during which John gallantly pulled out Tori's chair. She fell into it with a tiny groan.
"Please tell me the room's spinning for you, too."
John sniggered. "Sorry, nah. But thanks for playing!"
"No - all right, yes, all right," Bond sighed into the phone. "All right. I'll - I heard you, Penny! No, you're right, sorry. I'm not in a pub! Look, I'm hanging up now. I'll see you in a bit."
Pressing his fingers into his eyes, Bond stood up. "Right," he said. "I've had a lovely evening, chaps, but I'm off. The Minister of Defence has requested a special audience with me."
"What?!" Tori squinted at him. "But we were gonna -"
"Yes, well, all in good time!" Bond interrupted her hastily. "I'll be seeing you later."
He hurried off.
"YEAH, WELL, DON'T LET THE DOOR HIT YOU IN THE ASS ON THE WAY OUT!"
John patted Tori's shoulder. "Easy, hon," he said. "Not his fault he's always on call."
Part X
Frostbite
"Lots of writers are migrating to Iceland," she said, gazing at her half-empty glass of Merlot.
"Migrating?" Bond lifted his head. "You make them sound like so many lemmings."
"Maybe they are." She sighed. "Still in all, Iceland. Very romantic."
"Until the frostbite sets in."
"I think maybe I will go. Once my lease runs out here."
"Oh?" said Bond. "Sounds like good fun."
The covers rustled, and he was conscious of her warmth retreating. Her feet made no sound as they hit the floor.
"Where're you going?" he asked.
"I'll be right back." Something in her voice sounded odd.
She walked rapidly away. Bond's eyes were drawn almost subconsciously to the mirror, where he was able to catch a glimpse of her face in the dusky light.
Her eyes glistened with tears.
She was in the bathroom for a long time, and he heard running water. When she came back she was smiling again, but Bond thought it looked hollow.
Well, damn her anyway.
She stopped and knelt at the CD player he kept around exclusively for women to play with. In a moment, the room was filled with a soft, sweet voice.
Two a.m. and she calls me, 'cause I'm still awake
Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?
I don't love him
Winter just wasn't my season...
His eyes closed.
He wished he could close his ears.
Part XI
Always
When he woke up, he knew something was wrong.
He was alone in his bed - Tori always stayed for the whole night if she stayed at all. He sat up and saw that her clothes were gone from the floor.
Heart pounding, he pulled on a bathrobe and searched in vain for traces of her. The CD player was empty. All the little sundries she'd left over the weeks were nowhere to be found - a hairbrush, a spare shirt, even a little bottle of Orangina she'd put in the refrigerator.
He'd expected her to leave. But not like this.
In the bathroom, he wet down his hair just enough to be presentable and pulled on last night's clothes. It seemed to take an age for him to reach that familiar door in that familiar corridor. Just to be polite, he knocked.
No one answered.
He took out his key and fumbled with it, briefly, pushing her door open with frantic impatience.
Empty.
Only the furniture, which had not been hers, remained. That exotic throw-rug that had fit her personality so well, every single souvenier of her travels, every morsel of food and every potted plant, gone.
Wasn't this what he wanted?
Why did he feel so cold?
There was, he realized belatedly, music.
But it was just the radio.
There was no way she could have known.
And yet.
And yet.
I feel
Like you don't want me around
I guess I'll pack all my things, I guess I'll see you around
It's all
Been bottled up until now
As I walk out your door, all I can hear is the sound
Always
Always
Always
Always...
Part XII
Muse
John, sitting alone in the pub with a glass of orange squash, contemplated the severe lameness of sitting alone in a pub with a glass of orange squash at nine in the morning. Liquor licenses around here were no good until eleven, so why was it even open? Perhaps, every once in a while, a complete loser came in for a glass of squash.
It was then that Tori stumbled in.
Her purse was slung over one shoulder and her eyes held the haunted look of someone who hadn't slept at all. John knew it well.
"Victoria! What -"
"John." She took a breath. "I'm glad you're here."
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, and then went on.
"If you see James again, tell him he was right. Everything's romantic until frostbite sets in."
John blinked. "Have you been drinking?"
"No. Well, yeah, but that's not the point." Looking closer, John could see tears welled up in her eyes. "I have to go," she said, turning abruptly. The door slammed behind her.
The morning-shift barkeep looked up briefly from his task of incessantly wiping the counter, then looked down again. John just stared at the wall.
After a moment, he took out his guitar. A soft, plaintive melody came, unbidden, from his fingers. Softly, he began to sing.
Dunno why
Tori came by
But I could see
By the look in her eyes
Tori'd been drivin' round the town for a while
Playin' with the thought of leaving...
///
finis
Author's Note: ...yes, it's John Mayer. You really ought to have realized that sooner, you know. I'm sure this story raises a few questions, most likely: WHY? Because I was listening to John Mayer's "Victoria", and thought it was be funny if she were a Bond girl. That's all, really.