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31_days2006-04-23 11:26 pm
tortillafactory.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-04-23 11:26 pm
[23 April] [James Bond] Compliments of the House
Title: Compliments of the House
Day/Theme: April 23 - Better be unpredictable
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/OFC
Rating: PG-15; not for kids
Note: Also based on Ian Fleming's "From a View to a Kill." Read my drabble Solange first.
"Twenty-one years, Felix." Bond squinted, somewhat blearily, at the sign. "I haven't been here in -"
"I heard you the first eight times, Shamus." The Texan leaned heavily on his cane. "You were sixteen. Her name was Solange. If I didn't know you better I'd say you were in love with her."
"Don't be bloody dense." He spoke with the low, measured tones of a man adept at hiding his drunkenness. "I could never love a whore. They're too..." He glanced around him, as if searching for the right word.
"Whorish?"
"Yes."
Felix shrugged. "Well, you can afford to be picky, James. Us cripples..."
"It's 'we' cripples, Felix. Don't make me look like a simpleton in front of the ladies, please."
The door still stuck in the threshold, one last safeguard between a wandering tourist and the demi-monde. Bond forced it open with considerably more ease than he had as a teenager, and walked inside with a bit more confidence and a bit more liquor in him.
Felix hung back a bit.
A few of the girls lounged in the makeshift parlour, in leather or silk or fishnets or anything else that might catch the eye. They looked a little warmer and a little cleaner than their street-walking counterparts; Bond always felt safer in places like this. One girl fluttered her eyelashes and called out, in French, "Madame, we have visitors."
And the woman who wafted down the stairs in a cloud of satin and perfume was - no.
No, no, it couldn't be.
Bond blinked a few times.
The golden hair, the wide, slender mouth. The soft hips that swayed. She looked a little worse for the wear, but then, so was he.
"Solange," he blurted, before he could think.
Her eyes lit with delight that he knew was falsified.
"Monsieur," she almost purred. "It is such a pleasure to see you again."
Two decades ago her age had been difficult to determine; now it was clear she was as old as he, perhaps a few years older. She still looked rather good. For a Madame, her apparent health and obvious attractiveness were unusual. Bond realised he was grinning.
One of the girls had sidled up to him; she was rather overdone in Bettie Page style and simpered far too much. "Monsieur, a handsome gentleman like you, it's an honour to have you here. Are you from America?"
Bond ignored her. "Solange, you look wonderful."
"Idiot!" Another of the girls, this one a redhead, shoved the Bettie lookalike aside. "No American can speak French. Monsieur is English. I love the English."
"I'm a fan of the French, myself," said Felix from the corner. Young Bettie, nonplussed, sidled over to him. They began to speak in English, he slowly, and she rather brokenly. When Bond looked again, he realised they were gone.
"You look wonderful as well, Monsieur," said Solange gracefully. She reached between her ample cleavage with two fingers and produced a few bills, which she handed to the redhead. "Go and see that Mireille treats Monsieur's American friend well."
"Now, look here -" Bond began firmly.
She cut him off with a laugh, in which he could hear some of the harsh edges that this life had given her. "It's my house now, Monsieur. I will run it how I see fit. Your friend deserves a little extra happiness." Her finger traced his scar. "This was not here before."
Bond knew she was playing the odds, but a shiver ran up his spine nonetheless. "It's not a very interesting story."
"No? And I suppose your friend lost a leg in his sleep." She leaned nonchalantly against the wall. "You are welcome to your pick of any of my girls."
A few more had crept out of the woodwork. They were reluctant still, a bit frightened. Young. Christ. Bond realised the brunette couldn't be much older than he'd been the first time he visited here. His stomach turned a little.
He said, softly, "and is Madame for sale?"
Laughing again, she took him by the hand. "Only to those who have the courage to ask."
On the way up the stairs, he kept his free hand in his pocket. Seeing this, Solange smiled indulgently.
"Don't worry, Monsieur. I turned out all the theives long ago."
Bond felt the chill again. Still - it could all be a coincidence. She couldn't possibly remember him. He watched with barely concealed delight as her backside sashayed down the hallway in front of him, and nearly forgot all about the history.
Her room was sumptuous and tasteless. Satin, mirrors, velvet - all in reds and pinks. She did not hesitate to shed her dress, and her body was almost as breathtaking as it had been all those years ago. Jaded since then, his senses dulled, Bond nevertheless approved.
She grinned. "Monsieur perhaps wishes to keep his trousers on so that his wallet will not go missing? I'll understand."
He realised he was staring. "You do remember me."
Delicate fingers worked at his trouser buttons. "Is that so unbelievable?"
"I thought -"
"You are unforgettable, Monsieur. Do you like me calling you Monsieur?"
"Call me whatever you like. Most people do."
"In that case, it pleases me to call you Lawrence. Like Lawrence of Arabia." She led him to the bed. "You are too dark for an Englishman. Perhaps you have a great friend who is a desert sultan and you visit him often?"
Bond laughed. "Every week-end. I fully intend to pay you extra for comedic value." He threw the sheet aside. "But for now, hush."
///
Initially bewildered, Felix had asked the redhead what she was doing there. "Compliments of the house," she had whispered, and he stopped caring. It occured to him later that Bond must have made quite an impression, last time he was here.
At sixteen!
Leiter chuckled to himself. Only James.
///
The cigarette dangled from Bond's fingers; he raised his hand up to his lips, took another draw, then let his arm go limp again. Ashes scattered on the floor.
"You didn't need to do that, you know," he told her.
She laughed softly. "Do what, Lawrence?"
This time, when he took a draw, he held the cigarette between his teeth. "I'm like an expert jeweller, Solange. I know how to spot a fake."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He handed her the cigarette; she shook her head.
"I don't smoke."
"You used to."
"I've quit."
"So've I." Bond stubbed it out on the ashtray. "A hundred times."
He sat up, reaching for his wallet. Solange shook her head.
"What?"
She slipped out from between the sheets and went to the small handbag on her bedside table, from which she drew an odd assortment of bills and change. She laid it on his chest. Bewildered, he stared at her.
She leaned in close and smiled.
"You leant me this when I was in a jam," she whispered. "I never paid you back."
He closed his eyes. "Solange."
"I haven't adjusted for inflation, but since Madame paid you already I suppose it comes out even in the end." She folded up her purse and began to slither back into her dress. "I must go and greet the guests. Stay for as long as you like."
When she was gone, he sat up abruptly; the money scattered over the bed and the floor. Naked, he took his wallet from the chair and yanked out a handful of bills.
He said, "silly bitch."
Then he threw the money on the bed.
Day/Theme: April 23 - Better be unpredictable
Series: James Bond
Character/Pairing: Bond/OFC
Rating: PG-15; not for kids
Note: Also based on Ian Fleming's "From a View to a Kill." Read my drabble Solange first.
"Twenty-one years, Felix." Bond squinted, somewhat blearily, at the sign. "I haven't been here in -"
"I heard you the first eight times, Shamus." The Texan leaned heavily on his cane. "You were sixteen. Her name was Solange. If I didn't know you better I'd say you were in love with her."
"Don't be bloody dense." He spoke with the low, measured tones of a man adept at hiding his drunkenness. "I could never love a whore. They're too..." He glanced around him, as if searching for the right word.
"Whorish?"
"Yes."
Felix shrugged. "Well, you can afford to be picky, James. Us cripples..."
"It's 'we' cripples, Felix. Don't make me look like a simpleton in front of the ladies, please."
The door still stuck in the threshold, one last safeguard between a wandering tourist and the demi-monde. Bond forced it open with considerably more ease than he had as a teenager, and walked inside with a bit more confidence and a bit more liquor in him.
Felix hung back a bit.
A few of the girls lounged in the makeshift parlour, in leather or silk or fishnets or anything else that might catch the eye. They looked a little warmer and a little cleaner than their street-walking counterparts; Bond always felt safer in places like this. One girl fluttered her eyelashes and called out, in French, "Madame, we have visitors."
And the woman who wafted down the stairs in a cloud of satin and perfume was - no.
No, no, it couldn't be.
Bond blinked a few times.
The golden hair, the wide, slender mouth. The soft hips that swayed. She looked a little worse for the wear, but then, so was he.
"Solange," he blurted, before he could think.
Her eyes lit with delight that he knew was falsified.
"Monsieur," she almost purred. "It is such a pleasure to see you again."
Two decades ago her age had been difficult to determine; now it was clear she was as old as he, perhaps a few years older. She still looked rather good. For a Madame, her apparent health and obvious attractiveness were unusual. Bond realised he was grinning.
One of the girls had sidled up to him; she was rather overdone in Bettie Page style and simpered far too much. "Monsieur, a handsome gentleman like you, it's an honour to have you here. Are you from America?"
Bond ignored her. "Solange, you look wonderful."
"Idiot!" Another of the girls, this one a redhead, shoved the Bettie lookalike aside. "No American can speak French. Monsieur is English. I love the English."
"I'm a fan of the French, myself," said Felix from the corner. Young Bettie, nonplussed, sidled over to him. They began to speak in English, he slowly, and she rather brokenly. When Bond looked again, he realised they were gone.
"You look wonderful as well, Monsieur," said Solange gracefully. She reached between her ample cleavage with two fingers and produced a few bills, which she handed to the redhead. "Go and see that Mireille treats Monsieur's American friend well."
"Now, look here -" Bond began firmly.
She cut him off with a laugh, in which he could hear some of the harsh edges that this life had given her. "It's my house now, Monsieur. I will run it how I see fit. Your friend deserves a little extra happiness." Her finger traced his scar. "This was not here before."
Bond knew she was playing the odds, but a shiver ran up his spine nonetheless. "It's not a very interesting story."
"No? And I suppose your friend lost a leg in his sleep." She leaned nonchalantly against the wall. "You are welcome to your pick of any of my girls."
A few more had crept out of the woodwork. They were reluctant still, a bit frightened. Young. Christ. Bond realised the brunette couldn't be much older than he'd been the first time he visited here. His stomach turned a little.
He said, softly, "and is Madame for sale?"
Laughing again, she took him by the hand. "Only to those who have the courage to ask."
On the way up the stairs, he kept his free hand in his pocket. Seeing this, Solange smiled indulgently.
"Don't worry, Monsieur. I turned out all the theives long ago."
Bond felt the chill again. Still - it could all be a coincidence. She couldn't possibly remember him. He watched with barely concealed delight as her backside sashayed down the hallway in front of him, and nearly forgot all about the history.
Her room was sumptuous and tasteless. Satin, mirrors, velvet - all in reds and pinks. She did not hesitate to shed her dress, and her body was almost as breathtaking as it had been all those years ago. Jaded since then, his senses dulled, Bond nevertheless approved.
She grinned. "Monsieur perhaps wishes to keep his trousers on so that his wallet will not go missing? I'll understand."
He realised he was staring. "You do remember me."
Delicate fingers worked at his trouser buttons. "Is that so unbelievable?"
"I thought -"
"You are unforgettable, Monsieur. Do you like me calling you Monsieur?"
"Call me whatever you like. Most people do."
"In that case, it pleases me to call you Lawrence. Like Lawrence of Arabia." She led him to the bed. "You are too dark for an Englishman. Perhaps you have a great friend who is a desert sultan and you visit him often?"
Bond laughed. "Every week-end. I fully intend to pay you extra for comedic value." He threw the sheet aside. "But for now, hush."
///
Initially bewildered, Felix had asked the redhead what she was doing there. "Compliments of the house," she had whispered, and he stopped caring. It occured to him later that Bond must have made quite an impression, last time he was here.
At sixteen!
Leiter chuckled to himself. Only James.
///
The cigarette dangled from Bond's fingers; he raised his hand up to his lips, took another draw, then let his arm go limp again. Ashes scattered on the floor.
"You didn't need to do that, you know," he told her.
She laughed softly. "Do what, Lawrence?"
This time, when he took a draw, he held the cigarette between his teeth. "I'm like an expert jeweller, Solange. I know how to spot a fake."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He handed her the cigarette; she shook her head.
"I don't smoke."
"You used to."
"I've quit."
"So've I." Bond stubbed it out on the ashtray. "A hundred times."
He sat up, reaching for his wallet. Solange shook her head.
"What?"
She slipped out from between the sheets and went to the small handbag on her bedside table, from which she drew an odd assortment of bills and change. She laid it on his chest. Bewildered, he stared at her.
She leaned in close and smiled.
"You leant me this when I was in a jam," she whispered. "I never paid you back."
He closed his eyes. "Solange."
"I haven't adjusted for inflation, but since Madame paid you already I suppose it comes out even in the end." She folded up her purse and began to slither back into her dress. "I must go and greet the guests. Stay for as long as you like."
When she was gone, he sat up abruptly; the money scattered over the bed and the floor. Naked, he took his wallet from the chair and yanked out a handful of bills.
He said, "silly bitch."
Then he threw the money on the bed.