|Cold Armour, Ice Heart
Author: pottered PM
After the events of Casino Royale, Bond reclaims his armour. Thank you to Your Favourite Oxymoron and for or all the help!Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - James Bond/007 & Vesper L. - Words: 571 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 3 - Follows: 1 - Published: 12-06-12 - id: 8769592
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Her kisses were molten metal, burning and silky smooth. They filled me to the top, yet always left me hungrier than before. She balanced nimbly on her toes, as her arms wound around my shoulders. Mine enveloped her tiny waist, tracing patterns on ivory skin. My fingers teased her inky black curls bouncing down her back. They were the epitome of her, arranged differently every day. I gazed into her eyes and saw a mirror of myself. Two sharp blue green swirls, both fascinated and fascinating.
I kiss her airless lips, but they don't kiss me in return. I hold her to my chest, her dress wilting against her limp figure. My hands won't still as I stroke apologies on her cheek. Her saturated hair weeps water on my skin. I wish to hold her eyes with mine, reveal the secrets I never uncovered. But I can't, I never will. Hers are now forever shut from life. They see no more and without them mine see even less.
Those piercing eyes stripped me of my armour as her elegant fingers deftly removed my clothes. Her warm hands held my cold heart and thawed it. The worst was that I gave it to her, with barely a moment's hesitation. I can easily repair armour, but can never reclaim my melted heart.
Cold anger makes the strongest armour. It can withstand the force of bullets, knives and death. But even my shield has a weak spot. It is midnight curls and a mesmerizing gaze. Bullets and knives, not even death can cut through those enthralling illusions.
She is just the midnight curls and bloody lips every woman owns. Her painted lips kiss me on my cheek and never on my neck. Her husky voice torments me in my drug-induced hazes. I'm aware that I'm hallucinating. But the faster I run, the closer she is, torturous because she's never quite tangible. Desire is at battle with rationality and I'm rooting for my wits.
Her shadow at the door haunts me, as I fuck another nameless figure in a dress. I growl as I try and remember to whisper the right name. The feeling of real skin is not enough to keep me completely sane, but adequate to evade insanity. A familiar sigh and a shake of her dark hair follow me as I leave the others without a word and a complementary glass of champagne.
She was the first and only woman to bring me to my knees. The first to show me happiness and the next to snatch it away. The bitch who laid me bare and vulnerable, in the end she was another who betrayed me and my dreams. Yes, the lies and deceit were true enough and I hate her for it all. Yet, I know the last kiss on my hand, as water filled her lungs was a reality too.
My name is James Bond and thanks to Vesper Lynd, I am only the number 007. I am no longer a man who can love or be loved. I may not even be considered a man. Vesper had me flying and falling into lust and love. It was the latter which broke the both of us and sent her to her grave. In that cold abyss is where my heart rests, Vesper Lynd carved in elegant hand deep into my flesh.