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_days2005-09-25 12:07 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-09-25 12:07 pm
[Sept. 25] [James Bond] Such Great Heights
Title: Such Great Heights
Day/Theme: Sept. 25 - What we had I cannot even say
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: You were expecting someone else?
Rating: PG-13
What we had, I cannot even say.
I think I loved him. I certainly told him I loved him, in one of the millions of afterglows he afforded me. I doubt he loved me. We followed each other for over a year, as Joan Baez might put it - I don't remember us ever deciding we ought to be together. We just were, most of the time.
I was young. He was less so. I always felt I brought out the youth in him, the lost carelessness of boyhood that was torn away when he lost his parents. We always laughed when we were together. I didn't ask much of him, really. He liked that.
He was a spy, and that never bothered me much. He'd go away for a week or a month, but he always came home, and it never occured to me that what he did was dangerous. Not really. I took him for granted, which was my first mistake.
I was an American in London, a bit of a misfit, divided from my neighbors by a common language. James was my refuge. Despite being thunderingly British, he didn't seem to give much consequence to national barriers, and I never felt there was a gap between us.
Every once in a while, he left me to go on a mission somewhere. At first, it was novel - even exciting. I felt like Lois Lane. But every time he returned, I could see another dark secret hidden away in the back of his eyes. He was drawing away from me, closing down, pushing me away...it was painfully obvious, but what could I do? Confront him about it? The very idea was laughable. As if he'd care - as if he'd even admit it.
When we took that boat trip together, I could feel that it was almost over. The knowledge stabbed through my chest and kept me on the verge of tears every time I took a breath, and I told James I was just tired. He talked me into one last screw anyway, in the tiny captain's bunk. There was barely room enough for both of us. If I'd known it was to be the last time, I might have put more effort into it. As it was, I lay under him and hoped against hope that he might be able to make me forget the turmoil in my mind by creating turmoil in my body. And once again I was startled at the reaction he could elicit from me, even when my heart wasn't in it.
But even he, the great lover, was distracted. I can remember how long it took for him to let himself go, and then he lay beside me, with his back to me, quiet and morose.
"James?"
"Mmm?"
"I wish you wouldn't treat me like one of your kills."
His whole body stiffened.
"What?"
"Like you're going to have to shoot me later, or I'm going to up and die. I'm not leaving you. You don't have to be so..."
"So...?"
"Distant."
He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling. "I don't know what you mean."
"James, we -"
"Tomorrow morning," he interrupted me. "We can talk. We're tired. You're tired, remember?"
We wouldn't talk tomorrow, and we both knew it.
As sleep eluded me, I heard something on the radio about a hurricane warning.
The next day, all hell broke loose.
The next day, James left me forever.
I expected it, but could not believe. I went back to my hometown of Chicago and started fresh, turning all my anger and indigation into furious energy. Landing a job as a local news anchor was easy, thanks to my camera-friendly looks and my previous experience as a journalist. At some sort of convention - I can never remember which - I met my future husband.
He didn't love me. That was understood. It was purely a business arrangement, and I liked that. We were cordial to each other, even friendly, and that was perfectly adequate.
Yes, I was happy.
Until tonight.
My hand still tingles where it touched his flesh. My husband never made me feel that way, not even when he tried. Not that he tries anymore. Wham, bam, thank you, m'am. Minus the thank you.
After all these years, I still burn.
It is not my heart, nor my brain, but a much more primitive instinct that drives me to slink down the hall, pulse pounding in my ears, grateful that I'm not a man and so no one can tell what I'm thinking.
He won't resist me - he can't. My submission is intoxicating - and so, in way, becomes my domination. He doesn't know that I still own him.
He sits alone, with vodka and a gun. So very like him. At first he brushes me off, but all I have to do is push a little further, and there -
I've melted him.
"You kill me, James," I gasp, some time later. I collapse and roll off of him. This time, I'm in control.
His eyes are still closed. He murmurs: "It's good to know I'll always have Paris."
Oh, you kill me, darling.
Honest, you do.
Day/Theme: Sept. 25 - What we had I cannot even say
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: You were expecting someone else?
Rating: PG-13
What we had, I cannot even say.
I think I loved him. I certainly told him I loved him, in one of the millions of afterglows he afforded me. I doubt he loved me. We followed each other for over a year, as Joan Baez might put it - I don't remember us ever deciding we ought to be together. We just were, most of the time.
I was young. He was less so. I always felt I brought out the youth in him, the lost carelessness of boyhood that was torn away when he lost his parents. We always laughed when we were together. I didn't ask much of him, really. He liked that.
He was a spy, and that never bothered me much. He'd go away for a week or a month, but he always came home, and it never occured to me that what he did was dangerous. Not really. I took him for granted, which was my first mistake.
I was an American in London, a bit of a misfit, divided from my neighbors by a common language. James was my refuge. Despite being thunderingly British, he didn't seem to give much consequence to national barriers, and I never felt there was a gap between us.
Every once in a while, he left me to go on a mission somewhere. At first, it was novel - even exciting. I felt like Lois Lane. But every time he returned, I could see another dark secret hidden away in the back of his eyes. He was drawing away from me, closing down, pushing me away...it was painfully obvious, but what could I do? Confront him about it? The very idea was laughable. As if he'd care - as if he'd even admit it.
When we took that boat trip together, I could feel that it was almost over. The knowledge stabbed through my chest and kept me on the verge of tears every time I took a breath, and I told James I was just tired. He talked me into one last screw anyway, in the tiny captain's bunk. There was barely room enough for both of us. If I'd known it was to be the last time, I might have put more effort into it. As it was, I lay under him and hoped against hope that he might be able to make me forget the turmoil in my mind by creating turmoil in my body. And once again I was startled at the reaction he could elicit from me, even when my heart wasn't in it.
But even he, the great lover, was distracted. I can remember how long it took for him to let himself go, and then he lay beside me, with his back to me, quiet and morose.
"James?"
"Mmm?"
"I wish you wouldn't treat me like one of your kills."
His whole body stiffened.
"What?"
"Like you're going to have to shoot me later, or I'm going to up and die. I'm not leaving you. You don't have to be so..."
"So...?"
"Distant."
He rolled onto his back, stared at the ceiling. "I don't know what you mean."
"James, we -"
"Tomorrow morning," he interrupted me. "We can talk. We're tired. You're tired, remember?"
We wouldn't talk tomorrow, and we both knew it.
As sleep eluded me, I heard something on the radio about a hurricane warning.
The next day, all hell broke loose.
The next day, James left me forever.
I expected it, but could not believe. I went back to my hometown of Chicago and started fresh, turning all my anger and indigation into furious energy. Landing a job as a local news anchor was easy, thanks to my camera-friendly looks and my previous experience as a journalist. At some sort of convention - I can never remember which - I met my future husband.
He didn't love me. That was understood. It was purely a business arrangement, and I liked that. We were cordial to each other, even friendly, and that was perfectly adequate.
Yes, I was happy.
Until tonight.
My hand still tingles where it touched his flesh. My husband never made me feel that way, not even when he tried. Not that he tries anymore. Wham, bam, thank you, m'am. Minus the thank you.
After all these years, I still burn.
It is not my heart, nor my brain, but a much more primitive instinct that drives me to slink down the hall, pulse pounding in my ears, grateful that I'm not a man and so no one can tell what I'm thinking.
He won't resist me - he can't. My submission is intoxicating - and so, in way, becomes my domination. He doesn't know that I still own him.
He sits alone, with vodka and a gun. So very like him. At first he brushes me off, but all I have to do is push a little further, and there -
I've melted him.
"You kill me, James," I gasp, some time later. I collapse and roll off of him. This time, I'm in control.
His eyes are still closed. He murmurs: "It's good to know I'll always have Paris."
Oh, you kill me, darling.
Honest, you do.