patheticvillain | twenty-five ➢ private + spam

twenty-five ➢ private + spam

private } chris

Hey.

private } vesper

sorry i scared you

spam } open. eeeeesh.

[Cassel spends the weekend and the first couple of days after Elena's outed pretty much just hiding in his room. He'll open the door to some people right away, some after a little persuasion, and completely ignore others.]

[After that, he starts picking up his shifts in the gym again, although he tends not to do much looking people in the eye. He can also be found scuttling away from social interaction in the dining hall.]

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[He wishes for half a second that he hadn't come here. That he hadn't her that. People that I care about. He doesn't want to be one of those people. He does. He doesn't.

Shit.

This was supposed to be a bloody necessity, he was supposed to get out, leave with Vesper, but then six fucking years passed, and then it was just supposed to be for Ronson, to fix M's bloody mistake, to fix his own for ever listening to her, and here he is, with a teenager caring about him, turning him into a rat and shoving him in a box in a cage and his skin is crawling again.

He's never been that helpless. Never been so at the mercy of - anyone. Anything. Not Le Chiffre, not fire - but Cassel Sharpe. That had been it.

James locks his jaw for a moment, forces himself to exhale. He wants to lash out, but it's not Cassel he wants to hit.]

Have you spoken to her since?

[He closes his eyes again. Rests his forehead on his knees. And rocks back and forth just a little, because it's instinctively soothing in a way he doesn't understand. (He was never rocked. He was never held.) He doesn't look at James. He doesn't, can't.]

Not in person. But I did. Speak to her. She said it wasn't about me - who I am, who I remind her of. But she's lying.

[The memory is resonant in his mind. It stings him: the similarities between himself and Damon, the painful selfishness on Damon's face that he's seen in the mirror. Anything, anything at all, as long as it gets him what he wants. And then lying - for your own good. For your own fucking good, I deserve it.]

[He shudders.]

It was about me.

[There are a dozen things he feels here, and he's compartmentalizing, pushing away, reaching for what's actually useful. It's not easy to sort out, not at all, and ultimately it's Cassel that helps him decide.

Helps him exhale slowly and move forward (it feels like Kazakhstan felt), to put his hand on Cassel's shoulder and not hold too hard or squeeze too tight. This wasn't his fault. He was just the face that Bond associates with being trapped, and that's not fair to either of them.

He doesn't want to be kind, he doesn't want to forgive or understand, he wants to stay away from this teenager until he feels less like putting his hand through a wall. But being the adult here, not being the teenager here means he can't be that selfish, no matter how badly he wants to be.]

It was about who you remind her of.

You don't have to touch me.

[It's muffled, in part because he's still talking into his knees and in part because his throat feels like it's swelling up. He just wants to never have to look James in the eye ever again. Fuck, it hurts, it hurts knowing how cruel he can be, how much suffering he can impart. That Lila saw him like that, once.]

You don't have to. It's fucked up, I know it's fucked up. I know what you remember. I remember it too.

[For a moment, his grip loosens, and he shifts his weight as if he's about to move away.

Then it shifts back, and he takes both of Cassel's shoulders in hand now, holds too tight and bends forward, because he's going to make Cassel look him in the eye if he has to.]

Yes, it's fucked up. And it wasn't your fault. If you think for a moment it was, then think about what you feel right now. What do you feel, Cassel?

[He knows. He doesn't have to think. He's been thinking about it for days and days, he knows what he feels for once. Kon was right, anger's a cover for everything else, and he's--]

Guilty.

[That's all he's got, it's all he is, he's broken and damaged and if someone can take control of his mind and make him do this shit again he's--]

Not good enough.

[And he looks up but won't look James in the eye. It hurts. Doing this again, it hurts. Worse than before, maybe, because Lila never trusted him, not really, but he did.]

Cassel.

[He wants to break Elena's jaw, and that's not something he's at all used to feeling about an eighteen-year-old girl. There's only so much he can say, do, to make Cassel feel anything. Sometimes they just have to figure it out themselves. Bond certainly knows that from experience.]

Look at me.

[The only reason, the only reason he does is because right now, at this moment, James sounds exactly like his father. When he looks up, it's instinctive, and he swallows in fear even though he knows rationally he doesn't need to be afraid.]

[He looks, though. It hurts and he doesn't want to, but he looks.]

[He has to breathe in, because the anger is tight in his chest, waiting to burst. His skin has stopped crawling, and he though he's aware of their surroundings - he's always aware - he concentrates only on the boy rocking himself on his bed.

He considers the things he could say, and he has the breath to say them, knows how to form the words. Instead he holds Cassel's gaze for a long moment, then leans in to hug him. Hearing it's not your fault does nothing. They're both liars. They know how easy lying is. And they now how difficult contact can be.]

[This is better.]

[It's worse, too. It scares him more than words could, because yeah, words are easy. But once he gets past the breath-tight-in-the-throat fear of touch, he feels safer, stronger, more secure - that even having betrayed, he can be loved.]

[Maybe this was what it was like for Zane, Cassel thinks, when he was forgiven for the first time - which lets him relax wholeheartedly, letting himself be pulled close. He's tiny and pathetic but maybe he can be weak without being hated. Maybe he's forgivable for some things. Not everything.]

[Some things take effort to forgive, and some things never can be. Bond wonders, distantly, if M is someone he can forgive or someone he can't. He thinks he knows the answer already, under all that anger, and he doesn't want to think on it too hard. So he focuses on Cassel, holds him close with a hand on the back of his head. It's a protective, paternal instinct that he doesn't recognize, wouldn't want to. It's easier, always, to just act.

Cassel is someone he can forgive, James doesn't even need to think about that. Things have changed, he knows, because years ago he might not have been able to do it. He'd have held a grudge, no matter that Cassel had no say in it. It's a wonder he can forgive at all after Alec's knife in the back - but it's not that difficult, to look at this situation and convince himself that this boy wasn't at fault.

Patting Cassel's back, he pulls away to look down at his face again.]

All right?

Yeah.

[He meets James's eyes this time, even though it's a lie. Or - not a lie, a prediction. He will be okay. Right now, he can at least hold himself together.]

[The thing is that he doesn't understand what's just happened. His father so rarely held him that all his signals are crossed. He thinks again of Zane, of Vesper, of Barbara, and he looks at James in quietly pleased confusion.]

Are you? Don't lie.

[James speaks a language reliant on predictions; he understands. The question finds his mouth curling at one corner, a wry, almost-smile. Is he all right? It's a good question.]

Will be, [he finally says, and sets himself down on the bed beside Cassel, hands linking between his knees.] Suppose that will have to be good enough.

[His mouth curls a little harder, and it is a smile now, even if it's not entirely pleasant. He has a meanness to him that comes through even when he doesn't mean it to.] Didn't bite you too badly, did I?

[Yes. It will have to be good enough. There's no such thing as an easy fix, especially not for something like this. A loss of control. It's not right.]

[James is allowed time.]

Not too badly. [He nearly smiles, although it doesn't quite happen. He appreciates the mean.] Next time, give me stitches.

[That is entirely genuine. He deserved them.]

If there's a next time, [he drawls,] that's a promise.

[Elena deserves them more. If, somehow, this is allowed to happen again, he's going to find her first thing.

Sitting quietly for another moment, James pats Cassel's knee as he rises; it's subconscious, but something his father used to do to him. A silent chin up and keep going.]

If you haven't come out by the end of the week, I'm coming back to drag you out.

[He'd like to say there won't be. But there's no way of knowing, especially here. He loves the Barge, it's his home, but there's always someone angry. Always someone trying to get revenge, even if it's misplaced, and floods and breaches and ports. No way of predicting.]

[It's times like these that Cassel really does hate what he is, for how it can be used against other people.]

[He looks up with a touch of surprise when James gets up to go. The gesture of comfort is brusque and shocking in its unfamiliarity. This is what fathers do, he thinks, and ducks his head.]

I'll come out before then. I promise.

Good.

[He's not one for sentimentality and reassurances; no doubt they would both balk at it. So he doesn't linger, doesn't ask if Cassel is sure he's all right, doesn't ask if he needs anything. He pats his knee, stands, and heads for the door.

James doesn't know if that's what fathers do, but it's what he does. They live on a basis of finding what's enough.]

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