RPF: it wasn't my bullet
note: for Britta, on her birthday. And for being my partner-in-Casino Royale discussions. A+ This fic could potentially be the start of one, very epic monster of things. We shall see.
it wasn’t my bullet
as an actor’s actor, there are very little tricks that he doesn’t know. things still unravel quickly. rpf: daniel craig/eva green. 4,227 words, pg13.
--
There is a party, in the beginning, but he does not see her.
Daniel leaves the cause, the people smiling and saying things like after my own heart, for a drink outside and to hide. He was counting on her here. Or she was counting on him being there. Neither of which seems to matter as much, as he shows up alone and it is an array of bond, james bond jokes that seem to wait for him to snap.
“Oh,” she huffs. It is the middle of the week, and this is their phone call instead. He does not tell her, but she guesses. There is laughter on her line, and he expects it. “I am visiting my sister.”
“Sister?”
“Oui. My sister.” She is dry but offers nothing beyond that. Once, she told him a story about counts and the Italians. He does not put it all together though. There is his tie, wrapped tightly at his throat. He is outside and hoping none will see him staring at his drink.
There is this too: Satsuki is living in New York for work, at the moment. He goes to and from to see her, and listens to facts and gossips, eager anecdotes about her new film. He enjoys it, sometimes. He misses home, or needs it; most days, he is indecisive at best.
But Eva, Eva he likes to see, but time is never kind to either of them. He sees her here and there, but never enough. It’s been their relationship for the better part of these years. It fits them, and he is aware of how much it fits them. It’s unsettling, sometimes.
“Have dinner with me then.”
This is a bad idea, and a good idea, neither really that simple. He does not ask, but suggests. “I’d like a proper meal since you abandoned me.”
At his best, he is self-deprecating. And they have been here before. It might have been an event, somewhere necessary as always, where dinner was suddenly a plan instead of a suggestion. He cannot piece the conversation back together, but he told her that she didn’t have to. She insisted. He is apparently trying again.
“Dinner?”
“Yes,” he sighs. She is teasing him, or isn’t, he cannot see her and he is hopeless with that clutch. It is frustrating.
“When I come home, Daniel.”
The amusement is soft, and he is terrible at saying no to her; this is his fault, not hers, and he is giving into it without thinking.
“Fine,” he relents.
In a week, he cancels.
He calls her from his hotel room. New York city stands in lights at his window. There are clothes on the floor. Satsuki is in the shower. Her voice is muffled from the door, as she sings.
“Look,” he tells her machine, “I owe you, Green - and I’ll see you when I get back. You’re allowed to mock me then.”
He tries to imagine her laughing. It’s been awhile.
Then:
Alone at her door, he stands hand in hand with the odd box of chocolates. He’s forgotten the damn wine. He knocks twice, or manages. He does not remember how or why all of this came about. Somewhere else, another phone call; old plans, new plans - he is good at keeping things mixed. But his idea became her idea, and it is all some sort of history nonetheless.
But the door opens.
“You are late,” she frowns. She greets him in trousers and a buttoned shirt. The sleeves are rolled at her elbows, the cuffs puckering out as she leans into the frame of the door. Her hand is wrapped around the knob. There is music behind her, playing softly.
She studies him, eyes the box next. Her lips purse together.
Inside, her dog starts to bark. The corners of his mouth turn. “Five bloody minutes.”
He thrusts the box into her hands then. Their fingers brush. His hands shove deeply into his pockets. He is awkward without thinking. Dark chocolate, she had told him once. Just dark. He doesn’t know how, or why, or even what makes him remember that in particular. He’s forgotten his jacket at home.
“Chocolate,” she says.
She looks confused, and somewhat charmed, holding onto the box and shaking her head. Her fingers rap against the lid.
“You brought me chocolate.”
“I was late,” he offers. “Very,” he adds dryly.
She laughs. He likes it, he decides, when she laughs. There is always something to a woman when she laughs, few and willing sometimes. She pulls back too, tucking the box to her chest and stepping back to let him inside.
He has been here before, once. It might have been a long time ago. It might have been brief, as well. It is a memory nonetheless. There are stairs facing him at the door, as she closes it behind him. Books line the first few steps, and a painting leans into the wall. Somewhere, he remembers flowers but there is nothing near for him to see. She steps around him and to the hallway, not waiting for him to follow. But he follows.
“Marton?”
He is polite when he asks. The kitchen is small but warm. The stove is filled with various pots. On the counter, there are two peppers resting. They are yellow, and contrast brightly against a set of porcelain jars. There is a cigarette tray on the counter, by the window. She puts the box of chocolates next to it, and brushes her fingers over the lid. There is a hesitation, but she seems to leave it alone.
He does not smell smoke either. He notices that her feet are bare. And that she is comfortable, like this.
He leans into the counter. “How is he?”
“Working,” she shrugs. “As usual, we are having one of those months where we see very little of each other. Perhaps, this is why we work.”
Marton has only met him once too, or he has only met Marton once. He understands each as appropriate, and finds no ultimate need to befriend her boyfriend. He likes her, respects her, and cares very little for the other man. As long as you’re happy, he told her once. He had no business and she had laughed, almost delighted. He is protective, still somewhat driven by what connected them the first time.
Somehow, today feels like a first time.
He is not entirely sure what to do here; it’s not a place he should be, in the middle of her kitchen, but it’s a place that he wants to enjoy. They are not old friends, but odd friends or nowhere near friends. They are indecisive. There is trust, and it makes this something, something waiting for him to catch up.
“So you cook.”
He leans into the counter again, shifting his height. She rolls her eyes.
“And I smoke,” she says. Then, she laughs too, “and I watch Truffaut with Griffin - although, he is unimpressed, as usual, with our movie nights.”
“But you cook,” he insists.
“I like to cook.”
She looks at him strangely, amused again, and he cannot help but turn himself away. It is odd to see her like this and then it isn’t. He remains indecisive with the things that he’d like to see.
There is the soft, odd smell of rosemary and the stove in front of her is rumbling as she leans forward to check on dinner. She’s already worked the meal into the conversation, when this was planned. He does not remember. He thinks he should, but he’s distracted, and somewhat fascinated.
The light over her head sinks into her hair, coloring it brightly. She wears her hair loose; a few, long strands of hair slides against her jaw. He does not know what to think of the red, or that he likes it. It seems so insignificant. He wonders how she sees him now, even here.
He says nothing though. He prefers to watch her. She checks again on the food again, as if nervous, and moves around her kitchen with practiced ease. Griffin comes charging back into the kitchen, aiming for her legs. He skids into them and Daniel laughs, amused, as the dog turns, distracted again.
“You’re charming,” she murmurs absently. The sound of her voice is light.
The color of the kitchen is fixed then, somewhere between an unseemly glow and warm. It is too much like her, and too foreign to him. She isn’t watching him, but he is uncomfortable. Heat brushes against his cheeks and he pulls at his sleeves, starting to unbutton them at the cuffs. A button snaps.
“You flatter me,” he says quiet. Then, he frowns. He feels shy.
She smiles.
“It’s good to see you, Daniel.”
He says nothing back, once more. He doesn’t think that there’s anything, really. The comment lingers but softly, in his head. He cannot help but meet her gaze, then. She is genuine, as she’s always been - in her own way, of course, always in her own way. She is still somewhat shy and he thinks, remembers; it’s something that he adores very much about her.
Clearing his throat, he smiles a little. “You asked,” he points out.
“And so you are here,” she says.
The next time, he brings her to lunch.
It is a tiny restaurant, closer to her place, and they talk about the string of cameramen waiting outside her neighborhood. They do not talk about work.
“For a model,” she speculates. She shrugs, uncaring. “Or a rock star - I like living at the end of the neighborhood.”
He is amused.
“An escape route?”
“Anonymity.”
He laughs and shakes his head. Her fingers are wrapped around her fork. She picks it up, puts it down, and then turns the face onto its side. She is a display of small habits, he is beginning to remember, and there is something disconnecting and fascinating about that - as much as he’d like to assume he knows most things.
“I know very little about you,” he tells her. He is honest, without hiding. She smiles and he smiles back, ducking his gaze onto the tablescape. He tries not to study their drinks, but his stomach flips. He still doesn’t understand himself around her.
There are actors, and then there are actors, but he considers himself neither. She is in a different realm than he is altogether; they share that though, the insistence of remaining untouched. Perhaps, then, there is his answer. She was there when they were saying he couldn’t do it. He was there when they had no idea who she was.
She bites her lip. “You know more than most.”
“I do?”
He is surprised, then. When he looks up at her, she is watching him and her hand reaches for her water. Her fingers are long again and he remembers, somewhere, hearing her tell him that she plays the piano.
“Yes,” she says. She is thoughtful, adding. “I am frightfully shy, you see.”
“I remember.”
He laughs softly. The conversation is odd but they are odd, and he cannot help but wonder about circumstances. He keeps her gaze but her eyes wander then, turning off to the side. They are far from the window, out of habit. And he finds himself taken by the color of her blouse, white under a roll of crisp, red curls that rest against her shoulders.
It is an odd thought, and he reaches for his water as she continues.
“But - you know, I was a Bond girl once.”
“There was a rumor,” he murmurs.
He smirks. And she laughs too.
There is awhile, then, where he is back to seeing her as magazine covers and the few, random interviews.
He watches them all, and catches himself reading a few. She is dark, she is smoldering. He can hear her in his head when he thinks femme fatale, only laughing because she’s never been any sort of fan of the label. She still reveals everything and nothing, as he thinks to himself, “this is why she drives me crazy.”
She calls him one day from Russia, when it’s cold.
He is home. In London, the sky is gray and he is trying to forget that he has to board a plane in the morning. There are still wedding plans that haven’t moved and he listens to her breathe on the other line.
“I had a moment today, an ephiphan-ee,” she drawls. “I don’t ever want to be bored with myself - so I am learning Japanese.”
Around this time, he starts to think about returning to cigarettes.
He feels wistful.
The most dangerous thing about being an actor is that there is always a character that takes a little piece from you. It changes you, your relationships, and the people around you, how they perceive and envy you all the same.
You should understand this first.
There is New York then, the city.
He is here for Broadway, a last minute decision. There is script to be read in a couple of days, and Hugh Jackman who fancies himself overwhelming. He isn’t quite sure. But he wants to do it, he wants to do something, and no one, really can fault him for that.
But he is the one that calls her this time, and she meets him at the Met. It is raining and she keeps her jacket on as they start through the museum. He knows she loves them. This was his suggestion. He didn’t think to ask why she’s here too.
“I always come here,” she tells him instead.
She doesn’t ask about Satsuki. He doesn’t ask about Marton. It is their version of pleasantries, he supposes. He thinks about telling her, about the play - two cops, two friends, and the days that change them. She loves plays, but he nods.
“I should come here more.”
“I love the Egyptian collection,” she says wistfully. “The idea of life and death, birth, women and men - ying and yang, if you will. I think they understood the concept better than anyone else. The French, we are more romantic.”
She is calmer, inside. And excited; he’s seen her like this before, once or twice and maybe, it’s been more in spurts. She knows things that people would never guess about her. She holds herself as relaxed, her face bare and soft. She is open like this, and it’s almost intimidating to him.
“You missed your calling,” he teases.
She looks up, when they stop at the foot of a painting. It is the Renaissance and he watches her as she regards it in bemusement. She is surround by color, by god and man, and the only thing he can see her thinking about is humor. He thinks about all the things that she tells him she reads, the books that line the stairs in her flat. He feels affectionate; he knows her like this too, at the very least.
“As what?”
Her gaze meets his. He shrugs.
“A teacher.”
She laughs. “C’est terrible. I would be more interested in the books than children, you know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. I am awful.”
Her hands scramble around as she talks. He’s noticed before, but now and up close it’s somewhat charming. Behind them, there is a group of students entering the exhibit. There are whispers, and the guide stands tall, in a terse display of his knowledge. They get a few looks. Daniel is careful with what he wants to say.
“No,” he says, “you’re not.” And he means it, without being insistent. His hands feel heavy when they slide into his jacket. “I think you’re a bit like me, somewhat … wary. Wary of how people perceive you, and then not. It’s a strange way to look at life, but it makes you work harder.”
“And I would be a good teacher?”
“You would do wonderfully,” he corrects softly.
When they leave for the next room, she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. She doesn’t smile. He doesn’t think it necessary.
He keeps her close.
Once, he entertained the idea of having her over to his place.
“We could have them for dinner,” Satsuki suggests to him. It is his idea, but she takes it and stamps it with things like we instead you as if she were declaring her lack of trust.
They are standing in their kitchen though, his kitchen, and facing each other. He does not reach for her, and she picks up an orange from the fruit bowl, passing it from hand to hand. It should be funny, but neither of them likes to cook at home.
“It might be nice to see her, and Marton - right?”
“She’s working,” he lies.
He decides he is not good at this.
There is an event, finally, and she is there, finally - all so that he doesn’t have to go and entertain conversation alone. It’s ridiculous, and somewhat selfish; he could ask Satsuki but he doesn’t, he doesn’t even think to. She hates these events anyway.
This is his excuse.
“I am not an arrogant bastard,” he murmurs into Eva’s ear. His hand is around a scotch and her hip is turned into his side. They stand by a table, away from people fitting away to the dance floor.
She laughs though. Her smile spills too, into her glass of wine. He feels hopelessly out of place, for whatever reason; it is the collar of his shirt, fitted against his throat and jacket. He is trying not to adjust it.
“No, no,” she says. “You do have a few moments.”
“Moments?”
“Oui. Moments - I have them too.”
He eyes her and she shrugs.
“I do,” she insists. It is the same way her French will fall, here and there and very little at all. He likes the sound of her voice when the accent falls, or even word. He likes that she keeps to calling him Daniel. It feels predictable, but he does like it.
“You?”
She smacks his arm. Her mouth turns. It is red, bright, and her eyes are dark under the length of her lashes. And maybe, this is really just another terrible, terrible idea that he has. He is not a child, and these things happen, but he cannot help but wonder if something is trying to trip him up.
There is her dress too, always her dress. It is not red, or blue, or an array of colors that she always manages to provoke. She is black and it seems painted across her skin. When his fingers graze her hip, she doesn’t flinch and he tries not to think of wedding plans again.
“I am not James Bond,” she teases him.
“You’re incorrigible,” his eyes roll.
He feels the heat in his cheeks, like he’s sixteen and not an adult. It makes trouble for him. He hasn’t changed.
But she smirks back.
Then he is asked about the next film.
There are clips: Olga and himself, the hard kiss and Bond’s unadulterated anger pouring through the screen, and there is Eva, Eva and her smile, soft and coy. There is the shower, the suit, and her laugh.
“I am contractually obligated to not say anything,” he jokes and it is terrible, but the audience laughs.
The American audience makes him nervous. He tries not think of hotel rooms. The lights are high in the studio and he sits at the desk, staring at the host with somewhat of a smile.
He tells them everyone was wonderful.
She invites him again, for a second dinner.
He says yes. He isn’t late. She makes pasta, instead of chicken, and there are flowers on the table to keep them company. He remembers the wine too, and stands to pour her another glass as she lights a cigarette.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
He doesn’t answer, picks up her pack, and takes one for himself. There are three left and she raises an eyebrow, watching him as he slides it into his mouth to light it. He’s missed the taste and she shakes her head.
“I thought you quit.”
He is staring at his cigarette. “No,” he admits. He pulls the cigarette back, out of his mouth, and blows smoke in the air. “I am back to here and there. I should. My daughter hates it.”
She says nothing. He’s mentioned his daughter once or twice before, a long time ago and then recently. It feels odd. He offers nothing else, or at the very least, nothing too much. It’s either to keep some sense of control or in hopes, that he doesn’t scare her off. He doesn’t know why he’s started to think this way.
“No Marton again?”
Upstairs, Griffin is starting to bark. They hear laughter, outside, and there are no cameras today. There are no tabloids either and she still laughs, when he tells her, as if she knew that he expects her to say something finally.
“This is our dinner,” she says.
“Working?”
He is persistent because she avoids it, and he avoids it too; he wonders if he pushes long enough, he might get a declaration. It’s clearly selfish but he has no reason to be sure of the things he’s starting to want. He wants to know more of her and that scares the hell out of him, more than anything else.
“I suppose,” and she shrugs, “we are taking a break. Then again, I suppose you could call him working off somewhere taking a break too.”
She’s off-handed, and he studies her. His eyes follow the slope of her neck and he slips his cigarette back into his mouth. He tries to remember what it’s like to kiss her. He shouldn’t. There is no sense in pushing an affair with thoughts.
“He is angry with me.”
She sighs loudly. “I do not want to go and see him in Germany. I have a few weeks before I fly to Canada for filming. I want to stay quiet a little longer.”
“Oh.”
The smoke leaves his mouth, and she is watching him. Her eyes are soft. He shifts and his chair scrapes forward. His plate has already been pushed to the side. He feels nervous and he hates himself for it.
“I don’t know if I want to get married,” he confesses then. Blurts.
She frowns deeply. The corners of her mouth are marked and he looks away. He picks a corner of the wall. Griffin has stopped barking.
“You shouldn’t tell me.”
“I know,” he says. Then, as an afterthought, “but I am.”
She says nothing. She stands. Her chair kicks back and she is reaching for their plates. His fork falls and hits the table, and he reaches for it then following as she brings everything to the sink.
The weight of his nerves is growing. He can feel his throat dry and he takes his cigarette, putting it out in her tray. He watches as it breaks into ashes and she curses next to him, turning the sink water on.
“Eva.”
He is brave, or foolish, and either one is what leads him to reach for her. He doesn’t think film, or actor’s actors; he forgets obligation and responsibility. His hand cups her hip, his fingers pick themselves underneath her shirt, and they open over her skin. She doesn’t pull away.
Her shoulders slump, as if she were resigned. He kisses her then.
It is sloppy and unnerving, his mouth over hers. She tastes like smoke, warm and bitter, a mass of contradictions that make his head explode. He feels utterly lost as her mouth slowly opens against his. Her lips are wet, colored in wine, and are soft, softer than he really remembers them being.
His hand slides into her hair, and he buries his fingers into it. He shuts his eyes tightly and she is clutching fistfuls of his shirt. Her tongue slides over his and he growls, turning them into the sink. His teeth catch her lip. Her hand slams on top of the counter to steady them. Their hips press hard and his ears are starting to ring, as he forgets about everything else. He thinks about having her, not fucking her, and it’s all possessive and the same. It doesn’t scare him yet.
When he breaks away, her eyes are close.
She is breathing heavily and doesn’t move. He rests his forehead against hers and feels incredibly foolish. Upstairs, the damn dog starts again.
“I’ll go,” he breathes.
“I have coffee,” she says. Her voice hitches, but he tries not to notice. It is something, but nothing in particular. Somehow, he feels himself ready for her to ask him to stay.
She doesn’t offer.
It will entertain them again, full circle and on the red carpet.
A celebration of Bond proclaims the event.
He comes alone, she comes with Marton, and down the line, they stand side by side to smile into a camera. There are flashes, and he squints. He does not ask her, but lets her smile at his hip again as his hand takes hold of hers.
A reporter, next, laughs and asks Eva, “So how was he really?”
Here, he waits.
it wasn’t my bullet
as an actor’s actor, there are very little tricks that he doesn’t know. things still unravel quickly. rpf: daniel craig/eva green. 4,227 words, pg13.
--
There is a party, in the beginning, but he does not see her.
Daniel leaves the cause, the people smiling and saying things like after my own heart, for a drink outside and to hide. He was counting on her here. Or she was counting on him being there. Neither of which seems to matter as much, as he shows up alone and it is an array of bond, james bond jokes that seem to wait for him to snap.
“Oh,” she huffs. It is the middle of the week, and this is their phone call instead. He does not tell her, but she guesses. There is laughter on her line, and he expects it. “I am visiting my sister.”
“Sister?”
“Oui. My sister.” She is dry but offers nothing beyond that. Once, she told him a story about counts and the Italians. He does not put it all together though. There is his tie, wrapped tightly at his throat. He is outside and hoping none will see him staring at his drink.
There is this too: Satsuki is living in New York for work, at the moment. He goes to and from to see her, and listens to facts and gossips, eager anecdotes about her new film. He enjoys it, sometimes. He misses home, or needs it; most days, he is indecisive at best.
But Eva, Eva he likes to see, but time is never kind to either of them. He sees her here and there, but never enough. It’s been their relationship for the better part of these years. It fits them, and he is aware of how much it fits them. It’s unsettling, sometimes.
“Have dinner with me then.”
This is a bad idea, and a good idea, neither really that simple. He does not ask, but suggests. “I’d like a proper meal since you abandoned me.”
At his best, he is self-deprecating. And they have been here before. It might have been an event, somewhere necessary as always, where dinner was suddenly a plan instead of a suggestion. He cannot piece the conversation back together, but he told her that she didn’t have to. She insisted. He is apparently trying again.
“Dinner?”
“Yes,” he sighs. She is teasing him, or isn’t, he cannot see her and he is hopeless with that clutch. It is frustrating.
“When I come home, Daniel.”
The amusement is soft, and he is terrible at saying no to her; this is his fault, not hers, and he is giving into it without thinking.
“Fine,” he relents.
In a week, he cancels.
He calls her from his hotel room. New York city stands in lights at his window. There are clothes on the floor. Satsuki is in the shower. Her voice is muffled from the door, as she sings.
“Look,” he tells her machine, “I owe you, Green - and I’ll see you when I get back. You’re allowed to mock me then.”
He tries to imagine her laughing. It’s been awhile.
Then:
Alone at her door, he stands hand in hand with the odd box of chocolates. He’s forgotten the damn wine. He knocks twice, or manages. He does not remember how or why all of this came about. Somewhere else, another phone call; old plans, new plans - he is good at keeping things mixed. But his idea became her idea, and it is all some sort of history nonetheless.
But the door opens.
“You are late,” she frowns. She greets him in trousers and a buttoned shirt. The sleeves are rolled at her elbows, the cuffs puckering out as she leans into the frame of the door. Her hand is wrapped around the knob. There is music behind her, playing softly.
She studies him, eyes the box next. Her lips purse together.
Inside, her dog starts to bark. The corners of his mouth turn. “Five bloody minutes.”
He thrusts the box into her hands then. Their fingers brush. His hands shove deeply into his pockets. He is awkward without thinking. Dark chocolate, she had told him once. Just dark. He doesn’t know how, or why, or even what makes him remember that in particular. He’s forgotten his jacket at home.
“Chocolate,” she says.
She looks confused, and somewhat charmed, holding onto the box and shaking her head. Her fingers rap against the lid.
“You brought me chocolate.”
“I was late,” he offers. “Very,” he adds dryly.
She laughs. He likes it, he decides, when she laughs. There is always something to a woman when she laughs, few and willing sometimes. She pulls back too, tucking the box to her chest and stepping back to let him inside.
He has been here before, once. It might have been a long time ago. It might have been brief, as well. It is a memory nonetheless. There are stairs facing him at the door, as she closes it behind him. Books line the first few steps, and a painting leans into the wall. Somewhere, he remembers flowers but there is nothing near for him to see. She steps around him and to the hallway, not waiting for him to follow. But he follows.
“Marton?”
He is polite when he asks. The kitchen is small but warm. The stove is filled with various pots. On the counter, there are two peppers resting. They are yellow, and contrast brightly against a set of porcelain jars. There is a cigarette tray on the counter, by the window. She puts the box of chocolates next to it, and brushes her fingers over the lid. There is a hesitation, but she seems to leave it alone.
He does not smell smoke either. He notices that her feet are bare. And that she is comfortable, like this.
He leans into the counter. “How is he?”
“Working,” she shrugs. “As usual, we are having one of those months where we see very little of each other. Perhaps, this is why we work.”
Marton has only met him once too, or he has only met Marton once. He understands each as appropriate, and finds no ultimate need to befriend her boyfriend. He likes her, respects her, and cares very little for the other man. As long as you’re happy, he told her once. He had no business and she had laughed, almost delighted. He is protective, still somewhat driven by what connected them the first time.
Somehow, today feels like a first time.
He is not entirely sure what to do here; it’s not a place he should be, in the middle of her kitchen, but it’s a place that he wants to enjoy. They are not old friends, but odd friends or nowhere near friends. They are indecisive. There is trust, and it makes this something, something waiting for him to catch up.
“So you cook.”
He leans into the counter again, shifting his height. She rolls her eyes.
“And I smoke,” she says. Then, she laughs too, “and I watch Truffaut with Griffin - although, he is unimpressed, as usual, with our movie nights.”
“But you cook,” he insists.
“I like to cook.”
She looks at him strangely, amused again, and he cannot help but turn himself away. It is odd to see her like this and then it isn’t. He remains indecisive with the things that he’d like to see.
There is the soft, odd smell of rosemary and the stove in front of her is rumbling as she leans forward to check on dinner. She’s already worked the meal into the conversation, when this was planned. He does not remember. He thinks he should, but he’s distracted, and somewhat fascinated.
The light over her head sinks into her hair, coloring it brightly. She wears her hair loose; a few, long strands of hair slides against her jaw. He does not know what to think of the red, or that he likes it. It seems so insignificant. He wonders how she sees him now, even here.
He says nothing though. He prefers to watch her. She checks again on the food again, as if nervous, and moves around her kitchen with practiced ease. Griffin comes charging back into the kitchen, aiming for her legs. He skids into them and Daniel laughs, amused, as the dog turns, distracted again.
“You’re charming,” she murmurs absently. The sound of her voice is light.
The color of the kitchen is fixed then, somewhere between an unseemly glow and warm. It is too much like her, and too foreign to him. She isn’t watching him, but he is uncomfortable. Heat brushes against his cheeks and he pulls at his sleeves, starting to unbutton them at the cuffs. A button snaps.
“You flatter me,” he says quiet. Then, he frowns. He feels shy.
She smiles.
“It’s good to see you, Daniel.”
He says nothing back, once more. He doesn’t think that there’s anything, really. The comment lingers but softly, in his head. He cannot help but meet her gaze, then. She is genuine, as she’s always been - in her own way, of course, always in her own way. She is still somewhat shy and he thinks, remembers; it’s something that he adores very much about her.
Clearing his throat, he smiles a little. “You asked,” he points out.
“And so you are here,” she says.
The next time, he brings her to lunch.
It is a tiny restaurant, closer to her place, and they talk about the string of cameramen waiting outside her neighborhood. They do not talk about work.
“For a model,” she speculates. She shrugs, uncaring. “Or a rock star - I like living at the end of the neighborhood.”
He is amused.
“An escape route?”
“Anonymity.”
He laughs and shakes his head. Her fingers are wrapped around her fork. She picks it up, puts it down, and then turns the face onto its side. She is a display of small habits, he is beginning to remember, and there is something disconnecting and fascinating about that - as much as he’d like to assume he knows most things.
“I know very little about you,” he tells her. He is honest, without hiding. She smiles and he smiles back, ducking his gaze onto the tablescape. He tries not to study their drinks, but his stomach flips. He still doesn’t understand himself around her.
There are actors, and then there are actors, but he considers himself neither. She is in a different realm than he is altogether; they share that though, the insistence of remaining untouched. Perhaps, then, there is his answer. She was there when they were saying he couldn’t do it. He was there when they had no idea who she was.
She bites her lip. “You know more than most.”
“I do?”
He is surprised, then. When he looks up at her, she is watching him and her hand reaches for her water. Her fingers are long again and he remembers, somewhere, hearing her tell him that she plays the piano.
“Yes,” she says. She is thoughtful, adding. “I am frightfully shy, you see.”
“I remember.”
He laughs softly. The conversation is odd but they are odd, and he cannot help but wonder about circumstances. He keeps her gaze but her eyes wander then, turning off to the side. They are far from the window, out of habit. And he finds himself taken by the color of her blouse, white under a roll of crisp, red curls that rest against her shoulders.
It is an odd thought, and he reaches for his water as she continues.
“But - you know, I was a Bond girl once.”
“There was a rumor,” he murmurs.
He smirks. And she laughs too.
There is awhile, then, where he is back to seeing her as magazine covers and the few, random interviews.
He watches them all, and catches himself reading a few. She is dark, she is smoldering. He can hear her in his head when he thinks femme fatale, only laughing because she’s never been any sort of fan of the label. She still reveals everything and nothing, as he thinks to himself, “this is why she drives me crazy.”
She calls him one day from Russia, when it’s cold.
He is home. In London, the sky is gray and he is trying to forget that he has to board a plane in the morning. There are still wedding plans that haven’t moved and he listens to her breathe on the other line.
“I had a moment today, an ephiphan-ee,” she drawls. “I don’t ever want to be bored with myself - so I am learning Japanese.”
Around this time, he starts to think about returning to cigarettes.
He feels wistful.
The most dangerous thing about being an actor is that there is always a character that takes a little piece from you. It changes you, your relationships, and the people around you, how they perceive and envy you all the same.
You should understand this first.
There is New York then, the city.
He is here for Broadway, a last minute decision. There is script to be read in a couple of days, and Hugh Jackman who fancies himself overwhelming. He isn’t quite sure. But he wants to do it, he wants to do something, and no one, really can fault him for that.
But he is the one that calls her this time, and she meets him at the Met. It is raining and she keeps her jacket on as they start through the museum. He knows she loves them. This was his suggestion. He didn’t think to ask why she’s here too.
“I always come here,” she tells him instead.
She doesn’t ask about Satsuki. He doesn’t ask about Marton. It is their version of pleasantries, he supposes. He thinks about telling her, about the play - two cops, two friends, and the days that change them. She loves plays, but he nods.
“I should come here more.”
“I love the Egyptian collection,” she says wistfully. “The idea of life and death, birth, women and men - ying and yang, if you will. I think they understood the concept better than anyone else. The French, we are more romantic.”
She is calmer, inside. And excited; he’s seen her like this before, once or twice and maybe, it’s been more in spurts. She knows things that people would never guess about her. She holds herself as relaxed, her face bare and soft. She is open like this, and it’s almost intimidating to him.
“You missed your calling,” he teases.
She looks up, when they stop at the foot of a painting. It is the Renaissance and he watches her as she regards it in bemusement. She is surround by color, by god and man, and the only thing he can see her thinking about is humor. He thinks about all the things that she tells him she reads, the books that line the stairs in her flat. He feels affectionate; he knows her like this too, at the very least.
“As what?”
Her gaze meets his. He shrugs.
“A teacher.”
She laughs. “C’est terrible. I would be more interested in the books than children, you know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. I am awful.”
Her hands scramble around as she talks. He’s noticed before, but now and up close it’s somewhat charming. Behind them, there is a group of students entering the exhibit. There are whispers, and the guide stands tall, in a terse display of his knowledge. They get a few looks. Daniel is careful with what he wants to say.
“No,” he says, “you’re not.” And he means it, without being insistent. His hands feel heavy when they slide into his jacket. “I think you’re a bit like me, somewhat … wary. Wary of how people perceive you, and then not. It’s a strange way to look at life, but it makes you work harder.”
“And I would be a good teacher?”
“You would do wonderfully,” he corrects softly.
When they leave for the next room, she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow. She doesn’t smile. He doesn’t think it necessary.
He keeps her close.
Once, he entertained the idea of having her over to his place.
“We could have them for dinner,” Satsuki suggests to him. It is his idea, but she takes it and stamps it with things like we instead you as if she were declaring her lack of trust.
They are standing in their kitchen though, his kitchen, and facing each other. He does not reach for her, and she picks up an orange from the fruit bowl, passing it from hand to hand. It should be funny, but neither of them likes to cook at home.
“It might be nice to see her, and Marton - right?”
“She’s working,” he lies.
He decides he is not good at this.
There is an event, finally, and she is there, finally - all so that he doesn’t have to go and entertain conversation alone. It’s ridiculous, and somewhat selfish; he could ask Satsuki but he doesn’t, he doesn’t even think to. She hates these events anyway.
This is his excuse.
“I am not an arrogant bastard,” he murmurs into Eva’s ear. His hand is around a scotch and her hip is turned into his side. They stand by a table, away from people fitting away to the dance floor.
She laughs though. Her smile spills too, into her glass of wine. He feels hopelessly out of place, for whatever reason; it is the collar of his shirt, fitted against his throat and jacket. He is trying not to adjust it.
“No, no,” she says. “You do have a few moments.”
“Moments?”
“Oui. Moments - I have them too.”
He eyes her and she shrugs.
“I do,” she insists. It is the same way her French will fall, here and there and very little at all. He likes the sound of her voice when the accent falls, or even word. He likes that she keeps to calling him Daniel. It feels predictable, but he does like it.
“You?”
She smacks his arm. Her mouth turns. It is red, bright, and her eyes are dark under the length of her lashes. And maybe, this is really just another terrible, terrible idea that he has. He is not a child, and these things happen, but he cannot help but wonder if something is trying to trip him up.
There is her dress too, always her dress. It is not red, or blue, or an array of colors that she always manages to provoke. She is black and it seems painted across her skin. When his fingers graze her hip, she doesn’t flinch and he tries not to think of wedding plans again.
“I am not James Bond,” she teases him.
“You’re incorrigible,” his eyes roll.
He feels the heat in his cheeks, like he’s sixteen and not an adult. It makes trouble for him. He hasn’t changed.
But she smirks back.
Then he is asked about the next film.
There are clips: Olga and himself, the hard kiss and Bond’s unadulterated anger pouring through the screen, and there is Eva, Eva and her smile, soft and coy. There is the shower, the suit, and her laugh.
“I am contractually obligated to not say anything,” he jokes and it is terrible, but the audience laughs.
The American audience makes him nervous. He tries not think of hotel rooms. The lights are high in the studio and he sits at the desk, staring at the host with somewhat of a smile.
He tells them everyone was wonderful.
She invites him again, for a second dinner.
He says yes. He isn’t late. She makes pasta, instead of chicken, and there are flowers on the table to keep them company. He remembers the wine too, and stands to pour her another glass as she lights a cigarette.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
He doesn’t answer, picks up her pack, and takes one for himself. There are three left and she raises an eyebrow, watching him as he slides it into his mouth to light it. He’s missed the taste and she shakes her head.
“I thought you quit.”
He is staring at his cigarette. “No,” he admits. He pulls the cigarette back, out of his mouth, and blows smoke in the air. “I am back to here and there. I should. My daughter hates it.”
She says nothing. He’s mentioned his daughter once or twice before, a long time ago and then recently. It feels odd. He offers nothing else, or at the very least, nothing too much. It’s either to keep some sense of control or in hopes, that he doesn’t scare her off. He doesn’t know why he’s started to think this way.
“No Marton again?”
Upstairs, Griffin is starting to bark. They hear laughter, outside, and there are no cameras today. There are no tabloids either and she still laughs, when he tells her, as if she knew that he expects her to say something finally.
“This is our dinner,” she says.
“Working?”
He is persistent because she avoids it, and he avoids it too; he wonders if he pushes long enough, he might get a declaration. It’s clearly selfish but he has no reason to be sure of the things he’s starting to want. He wants to know more of her and that scares the hell out of him, more than anything else.
“I suppose,” and she shrugs, “we are taking a break. Then again, I suppose you could call him working off somewhere taking a break too.”
She’s off-handed, and he studies her. His eyes follow the slope of her neck and he slips his cigarette back into his mouth. He tries to remember what it’s like to kiss her. He shouldn’t. There is no sense in pushing an affair with thoughts.
“He is angry with me.”
She sighs loudly. “I do not want to go and see him in Germany. I have a few weeks before I fly to Canada for filming. I want to stay quiet a little longer.”
“Oh.”
The smoke leaves his mouth, and she is watching him. Her eyes are soft. He shifts and his chair scrapes forward. His plate has already been pushed to the side. He feels nervous and he hates himself for it.
“I don’t know if I want to get married,” he confesses then. Blurts.
She frowns deeply. The corners of her mouth are marked and he looks away. He picks a corner of the wall. Griffin has stopped barking.
“You shouldn’t tell me.”
“I know,” he says. Then, as an afterthought, “but I am.”
She says nothing. She stands. Her chair kicks back and she is reaching for their plates. His fork falls and hits the table, and he reaches for it then following as she brings everything to the sink.
The weight of his nerves is growing. He can feel his throat dry and he takes his cigarette, putting it out in her tray. He watches as it breaks into ashes and she curses next to him, turning the sink water on.
“Eva.”
He is brave, or foolish, and either one is what leads him to reach for her. He doesn’t think film, or actor’s actors; he forgets obligation and responsibility. His hand cups her hip, his fingers pick themselves underneath her shirt, and they open over her skin. She doesn’t pull away.
Her shoulders slump, as if she were resigned. He kisses her then.
It is sloppy and unnerving, his mouth over hers. She tastes like smoke, warm and bitter, a mass of contradictions that make his head explode. He feels utterly lost as her mouth slowly opens against his. Her lips are wet, colored in wine, and are soft, softer than he really remembers them being.
His hand slides into her hair, and he buries his fingers into it. He shuts his eyes tightly and she is clutching fistfuls of his shirt. Her tongue slides over his and he growls, turning them into the sink. His teeth catch her lip. Her hand slams on top of the counter to steady them. Their hips press hard and his ears are starting to ring, as he forgets about everything else. He thinks about having her, not fucking her, and it’s all possessive and the same. It doesn’t scare him yet.
When he breaks away, her eyes are close.
She is breathing heavily and doesn’t move. He rests his forehead against hers and feels incredibly foolish. Upstairs, the damn dog starts again.
“I’ll go,” he breathes.
“I have coffee,” she says. Her voice hitches, but he tries not to notice. It is something, but nothing in particular. Somehow, he feels himself ready for her to ask him to stay.
She doesn’t offer.
It will entertain them again, full circle and on the red carpet.
A celebration of Bond proclaims the event.
He comes alone, she comes with Marton, and down the line, they stand side by side to smile into a camera. There are flashes, and he squints. He does not ask her, but lets her smile at his hip again as his hand takes hold of hers.
A reporter, next, laughs and asks Eva, “So how was he really?”
Here, he waits.