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31_days2006-04-01 05:20 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-01 05:20 pm
[1 April] [James Bond] Medium Rare
Title: Medium Rare
Day/Theme: April 1st - Dinner for three
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG
Somewhere between the sautéed vegetables and the veal, his conscience began to nag him terribly. "Conscience." That was one way to put it. He was inclined to think that it was fear masquerading as morality. But why fear? That was even more unaccountable than guilt. He'd done this sort of thing enough times to know that the only real danger he faced tonight was potential salmonella from his medium-rare steak. He had her trust, and that was the only weapon he needed.
Dinner in Paris. Thoughtfully, Bond watched his companion nibble at a bite-sized chunk of zucchini. Just about now, her romantic, Casablanca-fueled notions of the gay city would be dissipating - modern France was commercialism, it was overpriced food, it was darkly tanned wiry women over fifty who thought a leopard-print design made it acceptable to display their brasserie straps to the world. Bond was the first to admit that his idea of Paris was forever spoiled at the tender age of sixteen, when a wily prostitute made a valiant attempt to rob him. Sir James Molony, the office headshrink, suggested delicately that the experience might have forever tainted Bond's view of women. Bond was fairly sure it had only taught him a valuable lesson: keep your wits about you, and your libido at arm's length.
Pretty but sexually uninteresting, the girl across from him tongued a slice of green pepper off of her fork. Bond was overcome with the urge to yawn. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch, then began gently steering the conversation back to the topics he knew he must.
His mission that night was clear. He remembered the chief's words. "For God's sake, find out where his next stop is. If we don't catch this lunatic at the airport, there's no telling where he'll wreak havoc next."
"Your brother - what did you say his name was? Martin?"
Something in her eyes flickered. "Y - yes."
"Always liked chaps named Martin. Seem to have their heads screwed on straight. Something more to drink?"
It was evident that this mention of her brother had shaken her. "No - I - I really shouldn't."
"Come now." Bond motioned the waiter over. "Excusez-moi, on voudrait un autre magnum du même champagne, s'il vous plaît."
The serveur, an upright, smartly-dressed young man, nodded sharply. "Oui monsieur."
"James, please." She looked everywhere but at his eyes.
"I insist." He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward, creating the illusion of intimacy. "Your brother Martin, do you often talk to him?"
Her eyes were closed, and she had pressed her fingers to her forehead. "All people ever do," she muttered, distractedly, "is ask me about Martin. Why? What did he ever do? Two men, they came to my house, they showed me their badges, they said - things about him. Terrorism, bombs. I, I didn't - James, do you have a sister?"
Bond shook his head.
Her eyelids were heavy; she seemed focused on her plate. "There's something - when you grow up with someone, like that, you just - you can't let anyone hurt them. Even if you don't like them. You still have to love them. I don't know what my brother does, really. He calls me almost every week and he never tells me exactly what he does. I don't want to know. If I know, I might tell, and I can't tell..." Her head jerked up; there was feverish light in her eyes. Bond could see the insanity that no doubt ran in her blood. Her brother's blood.
"I can't tell. You know?"
Bond said, "excuse me."
He rose from the table and walked towards the back of the restaurant. To his right and to his left, couples leaned over tables, towards each other, smiling, talking, laughing. Candles flickered. Bond stepped over to the pay-phone and gazed at his watch, letting the minute-hand rotate once, twice, three times, four times, five times.
When he returned to their table, the girl had gone.
Absently, he pinched his tie between this thumb and forefinger, sliding down the fabric, feeling the lump of the tiny microphone. He gazed out of the window. A loiterer in a dark coat met his eyes and gave a tiny shrug.
She was gone.
So.
Once she'd stepped out of that door, she was outside of his jurisdiction. There were six men out there, three at each exit, waiting - so if they were no match for a slightly mad twenty-something girl, then Bond was hardly going to take the blame.
Day/Theme: April 1st - Dinner for three
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond
Rating: PG
Somewhere between the sautéed vegetables and the veal, his conscience began to nag him terribly. "Conscience." That was one way to put it. He was inclined to think that it was fear masquerading as morality. But why fear? That was even more unaccountable than guilt. He'd done this sort of thing enough times to know that the only real danger he faced tonight was potential salmonella from his medium-rare steak. He had her trust, and that was the only weapon he needed.
Dinner in Paris. Thoughtfully, Bond watched his companion nibble at a bite-sized chunk of zucchini. Just about now, her romantic, Casablanca-fueled notions of the gay city would be dissipating - modern France was commercialism, it was overpriced food, it was darkly tanned wiry women over fifty who thought a leopard-print design made it acceptable to display their brasserie straps to the world. Bond was the first to admit that his idea of Paris was forever spoiled at the tender age of sixteen, when a wily prostitute made a valiant attempt to rob him. Sir James Molony, the office headshrink, suggested delicately that the experience might have forever tainted Bond's view of women. Bond was fairly sure it had only taught him a valuable lesson: keep your wits about you, and your libido at arm's length.
Pretty but sexually uninteresting, the girl across from him tongued a slice of green pepper off of her fork. Bond was overcome with the urge to yawn. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch, then began gently steering the conversation back to the topics he knew he must.
His mission that night was clear. He remembered the chief's words. "For God's sake, find out where his next stop is. If we don't catch this lunatic at the airport, there's no telling where he'll wreak havoc next."
"Your brother - what did you say his name was? Martin?"
Something in her eyes flickered. "Y - yes."
"Always liked chaps named Martin. Seem to have their heads screwed on straight. Something more to drink?"
It was evident that this mention of her brother had shaken her. "No - I - I really shouldn't."
"Come now." Bond motioned the waiter over. "Excusez-moi, on voudrait un autre magnum du même champagne, s'il vous plaît."
The serveur, an upright, smartly-dressed young man, nodded sharply. "Oui monsieur."
"James, please." She looked everywhere but at his eyes.
"I insist." He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward, creating the illusion of intimacy. "Your brother Martin, do you often talk to him?"
Her eyes were closed, and she had pressed her fingers to her forehead. "All people ever do," she muttered, distractedly, "is ask me about Martin. Why? What did he ever do? Two men, they came to my house, they showed me their badges, they said - things about him. Terrorism, bombs. I, I didn't - James, do you have a sister?"
Bond shook his head.
Her eyelids were heavy; she seemed focused on her plate. "There's something - when you grow up with someone, like that, you just - you can't let anyone hurt them. Even if you don't like them. You still have to love them. I don't know what my brother does, really. He calls me almost every week and he never tells me exactly what he does. I don't want to know. If I know, I might tell, and I can't tell..." Her head jerked up; there was feverish light in her eyes. Bond could see the insanity that no doubt ran in her blood. Her brother's blood.
"I can't tell. You know?"
Bond said, "excuse me."
He rose from the table and walked towards the back of the restaurant. To his right and to his left, couples leaned over tables, towards each other, smiling, talking, laughing. Candles flickered. Bond stepped over to the pay-phone and gazed at his watch, letting the minute-hand rotate once, twice, three times, four times, five times.
When he returned to their table, the girl had gone.
Absently, he pinched his tie between this thumb and forefinger, sliding down the fabric, feeling the lump of the tiny microphone. He gazed out of the window. A loiterer in a dark coat met his eyes and gave a tiny shrug.
She was gone.
So.
Once she'd stepped out of that door, she was outside of his jurisdiction. There were six men out there, three at each exit, waiting - so if they were no match for a slightly mad twenty-something girl, then Bond was hardly going to take the blame.