fic: the iron curtain had nothing on this
casino royale, M and Bond, 362 words, he’s not laughing at all.
notes: I meant to write gilmore girls, and then I meant to write bones. Instead I wound up with bond!fic. I really don't know how.
007.
Double. O. Seven.
Zero. Zero. Seven.
The last man who held the title died in underground cell somewhere in the south of Syria with two bullets in his skull and enough scar tissue to coat his body three times over. The last man who held the title serves as a testament to what can and will happen in this line of work.
But it won’t happen to Bond.
He’s not like the others, she can see that already, can see that now, as he stands too comfortably in her home.
Two years of combat training. More languages than women at the tip of his tongue. A half-decade of on the job experience. And Bond is still resplendent with boyishness. And Bond still smiles with his eyes, instead of his mouth.
This will get him into trouble. This lack of charm, or maybe it’s too much charm, will find him trouble.
His eyes sparkle as he turns to go.
Your mistake will be short-lived.
He’s blasé. Nonchalant. Indifferent.
He will learn.
-
He saunters into the office, suit more finely cut than before, eyes harder.
It’s the first time she’s heard from him since that phone call.
The job's done and the bitch is dead.
And the bitch is dead.
The bitch is dead.
His eyes are harder and she knows he’s seen tragedy. Knows he loved her, no matter what he says.
She’d like to offer sympathy, would like to feel sympathy, but he chose this path, somewhere along the way, without bothering to examine the choice.
He needed this pain, needed it to make him into the man she needs. The man the country needs.
This pain has smoothed his planes and sharpened his edges, and he’s not laughing at her anymore, he’s not laughing at all.
He knows now. Maybe doesn’t understand, but he knows and that’s all she expects, all she needs from him.
She passes him information, the sort that shouldn’t be spoken of in office buildings, even in this office building, and watches as he collects his gun.
He calls her M on the way out, with less and more familiarity than before.
He knows now.
notes: I meant to write gilmore girls, and then I meant to write bones. Instead I wound up with bond!fic. I really don't know how.
007.
Double. O. Seven.
Zero. Zero. Seven.
The last man who held the title died in underground cell somewhere in the south of Syria with two bullets in his skull and enough scar tissue to coat his body three times over. The last man who held the title serves as a testament to what can and will happen in this line of work.
But it won’t happen to Bond.
He’s not like the others, she can see that already, can see that now, as he stands too comfortably in her home.
Two years of combat training. More languages than women at the tip of his tongue. A half-decade of on the job experience. And Bond is still resplendent with boyishness. And Bond still smiles with his eyes, instead of his mouth.
This will get him into trouble. This lack of charm, or maybe it’s too much charm, will find him trouble.
His eyes sparkle as he turns to go.
Your mistake will be short-lived.
He’s blasé. Nonchalant. Indifferent.
He will learn.
-
He saunters into the office, suit more finely cut than before, eyes harder.
It’s the first time she’s heard from him since that phone call.
The job's done and the bitch is dead.
And the bitch is dead.
The bitch is dead.
His eyes are harder and she knows he’s seen tragedy. Knows he loved her, no matter what he says.
She’d like to offer sympathy, would like to feel sympathy, but he chose this path, somewhere along the way, without bothering to examine the choice.
He needed this pain, needed it to make him into the man she needs. The man the country needs.
This pain has smoothed his planes and sharpened his edges, and he’s not laughing at her anymore, he’s not laughing at all.
He knows now. Maybe doesn’t understand, but he knows and that’s all she expects, all she needs from him.
She passes him information, the sort that shouldn’t be spoken of in office buildings, even in this office building, and watches as he collects his gun.
He calls her M on the way out, with less and more familiarity than before.
He knows now.