31_days | [3 April] [James Bond] And So Forth

Title: And So Forth
Day/Theme: April 3rd - Etc.
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: James/Jessica (OFC)
Rating: PG-13

Note: This is [very] loosely based on my novel-length WIP, Blind Man's Bluff. Probably works without any prior experience of the story, though.

I am explaining Latin to him.

"E.G. means 'exempli gratia,'" I say. "But you knew that."

He nods slightly. His eyes, ever-changing, are deep and thoughtful now. I know it's probably falsified. I know he's learned to fill his face with whatever emotion he needs.

The fire's mostly for atmosphere; it's not cold here. The cabin floor is rough beneath me. Any two rational people would be naked by now - long before now, in fact. I wouldn't mind the splinters, honest.

"People tend to confuse it with 'id est,' which means 'that is.' 'Exempli gratia' means 'for example.' It's a subtle difference. 'I love many colors, e.g., green and blue.' Versus, 'I like many colors, i.e., I can't pick just one.'"

He sips at the Riesling and says, "that, I didn't know."

"Stop me when it's boring."

James, he just shrugs. "You don't bore me. All the education of school with none of the suicidal boredom. Ever consider becoming a teacher?"

"Don't have the patience. Do you know the proper usage of the phrase 'begging the question'?"

"I know it's not what one would think. But no, I've forgotten entirely. I just avoid it."

"Me too. My dad -" something happens to him when I mention Dad. It's miniscule. But there's a chill, suddenly, a wall between us. He doesn't want to hear this. "- used to tell me all the time. I never really listened."

He looks at me as if he expects me to go on. I wish I had, or something. Now it's too late. Boo hoo. What does he think this is, the Hallmark Channel? I'm just making a statement. Christ.

" 'Leads to the question' works fine, in my opinion," he says quietly, and the wall is still there. "What's that in Latin?"

"I don't know," I reply, just as quietly, responding to his subtle coldness. "My knowledge of the language is mostly confined to pithy sayings."

"But to be fair," he mumbles, "the same's true of you and English, isn't it?"

I tell myself I'm ignoring the jab. It still hurts. "'Behold the man' is 'ecce homo.' Apart from the obvious, that's also what Oscar Wilde said when he went on trial for..." why am I bringing this up? "...sodomy."

His eyebrows lift, ever-so-slightly. Yes, I'm a librarian. Yes, I said "sodomy." Get over it. "Did he?" His voice is low and pleasing. Sly and surprising. Miss Carson, are you trying to seduce me?

I shrug. "It's probably apocryphal."

"Quite."

At this point, there is an awkward lull.

"Et cetera." I'm not looking at him anymore. "Really means 'and the like.' People don't always use it that way."

He shrugs abruptly, and I realize that our conversation is over. Silently cursing myself, I swallow the last of the fruity German wine and set the glass down harder than I mean to. The noise makes him start, but he doesn't look.

And with the depressant coursing through my veins, my heartbeat feels sluggish and my mind is sentimental. My body rebels. There is a roiling warmth in the pit of my stomach when I look at him, wanting to touch him, wanting to feel the harshness and softness of his skin and of his hair. Wanting to taste that thin uncompromising mouth that likes to turn up at the corner in a bitter, ironical smile. Wanting to be consumed.

Wanting to know him, psychosis and all.

Wanting to love him.

This is why it's dangerous. This is why I can't let it happen. Because I should be afraid of him, and I'm not.

This is why I can't know him. Love him. Submit to him. Taste him. Feel him.

Et cetera.

Et cetera.

Et cetera.