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31_days2006-04-05 03:22 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-05 03:22 pm
[5 April] [James Bond] Woman Like a Man
Title: Woman Like a Man
Day/Theme: April 5 - Girls who are boys who like boys to be girls
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond, OFC
Rating: PG-13
Note: Title is from Damien Rice's song of the same name, found on the album B-Sides.
She was what Earnest Hemingway would have been, if he were a woman. Strong and fresh and a little bit wild, even wrapped up in that business suit. Her hair was dark and her small mouth seemed turned permanently down. Beautiful like Hemingway was handsome, and with the same tendency to express herself in sentences that were either too short, or too long. James Bond could imagine her shark-hunting with a rifle. She was that kind of woman.
And she was exactly the kind of woman he wanted by his side for this assignment. His younger days, when he had regarded girls as an entertainment bordering on a nuisance, were long gone. He had learned - sometimes painfully - just how capable they could be, and Earnestine, as he whimsically thought of her, was no exception.
Her name was actually Jaime (an appropriately androgynous name, Bond thought). She was nicely, sturdily built, and her almost military bearing held little erotic promise. Bond honestly wondered what he'd do if she came to him; he didn't desire her, really, not that there was anything wrong with her. She just wasn't his type, whatever that meant. He supposed he could claim to be married, or what they used to call "going steady," or impotent. But she might take the final excuse as a challenge. Well - so be it.
Somewhere past mile marker 18, she pulled her hair down from its severe ponytail. Bond had always believed women looked better with their hair down, and thus even strong-jawed Jaime suddenly took on a more alluring air. Still what you'd call a handsome woman, though. Not beautiful.
He motored on silently.
Mile twelve. Jaime said, after hours of silence, "do you still think about them?"
Bond said, "sorry?"
"Miss them?" She glanced at him.
"Miss - who?" He was genuinely worried, now.
"Evidently not."
Jaime settled back into her seat and kept on staring at the Texas countryside, sweeping by, sweeping by, yellow and green and flat. Bond, bemused, motored on.
Mile ten. "Your parents. Who else?"
"My -" Bond wanted to slam his forehead against the dash. " - it's been twenty-six years, Jaime."
She shrugged tightly. "It's all right to cry, you know."
Bond, silently fuming, retreated back into his shell. This one was hardly worth it. What a ridiculous accusation! How'd she know, anyway? This became his immediate concern as soon as he thought of it. "They let you read my file?"
"No," she said, coolly. "Lucky guess."
She was not lying.
"Goddamn it, Jaime." He was truly angry with her, now.
"You don't have to be ashamed of being an orphan."
"I'm not a bloody orphan! I'm nearly forty years old, for Christ's sake!"
"All right, James." A patient smile. Bond's blood boiled.
Of all the impertinence.
And he had to admit to himself, as he watched her in the rear-view, it wasn't the sharp jaw or the strong shoulders that made his libido grind a shuddering halt. It wasn't that - of course not. She was one of those women who is something like a man, but, as it happens, not truly. Not enough. She played butch, and expected him to melt to this posturing, to whimper and cry and spill his secrets.
Girls who were boys wanted boys to be girls.
And Bond would have none of that.
Day/Theme: April 5 - Girls who are boys who like boys to be girls
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond, OFC
Rating: PG-13
Note: Title is from Damien Rice's song of the same name, found on the album B-Sides.
She was what Earnest Hemingway would have been, if he were a woman. Strong and fresh and a little bit wild, even wrapped up in that business suit. Her hair was dark and her small mouth seemed turned permanently down. Beautiful like Hemingway was handsome, and with the same tendency to express herself in sentences that were either too short, or too long. James Bond could imagine her shark-hunting with a rifle. She was that kind of woman.
And she was exactly the kind of woman he wanted by his side for this assignment. His younger days, when he had regarded girls as an entertainment bordering on a nuisance, were long gone. He had learned - sometimes painfully - just how capable they could be, and Earnestine, as he whimsically thought of her, was no exception.
Her name was actually Jaime (an appropriately androgynous name, Bond thought). She was nicely, sturdily built, and her almost military bearing held little erotic promise. Bond honestly wondered what he'd do if she came to him; he didn't desire her, really, not that there was anything wrong with her. She just wasn't his type, whatever that meant. He supposed he could claim to be married, or what they used to call "going steady," or impotent. But she might take the final excuse as a challenge. Well - so be it.
Somewhere past mile marker 18, she pulled her hair down from its severe ponytail. Bond had always believed women looked better with their hair down, and thus even strong-jawed Jaime suddenly took on a more alluring air. Still what you'd call a handsome woman, though. Not beautiful.
He motored on silently.
Mile twelve. Jaime said, after hours of silence, "do you still think about them?"
Bond said, "sorry?"
"Miss them?" She glanced at him.
"Miss - who?" He was genuinely worried, now.
"Evidently not."
Jaime settled back into her seat and kept on staring at the Texas countryside, sweeping by, sweeping by, yellow and green and flat. Bond, bemused, motored on.
Mile ten. "Your parents. Who else?"
"My -" Bond wanted to slam his forehead against the dash. " - it's been twenty-six years, Jaime."
She shrugged tightly. "It's all right to cry, you know."
Bond, silently fuming, retreated back into his shell. This one was hardly worth it. What a ridiculous accusation! How'd she know, anyway? This became his immediate concern as soon as he thought of it. "They let you read my file?"
"No," she said, coolly. "Lucky guess."
She was not lying.
"Goddamn it, Jaime." He was truly angry with her, now.
"You don't have to be ashamed of being an orphan."
"I'm not a bloody orphan! I'm nearly forty years old, for Christ's sake!"
"All right, James." A patient smile. Bond's blood boiled.
Of all the impertinence.
And he had to admit to himself, as he watched her in the rear-view, it wasn't the sharp jaw or the strong shoulders that made his libido grind a shuddering halt. It wasn't that - of course not. She was one of those women who is something like a man, but, as it happens, not truly. Not enough. She played butch, and expected him to melt to this posturing, to whimper and cry and spill his secrets.
Girls who were boys wanted boys to be girls.
And Bond would have none of that.