Welcome to my 30th fic! (she says all the while knowing there are others still due to be updated)
It's James Bond, a mash-up between the novels and movies, and is told in the 3rd Person POV. The plot is centred on Bond, obv., and his life if things were just that *little* bit different and resurrection really was a hobby of his. So I guess you could say he's almost a Timelord? Sort of? I don't know, the point is, he regenerates in his own unique Bond-ish way, and I hope you guys enjoy and hit the subscribe button!
James Bond was born on the 11th November 1917, a stormy Sunday in the highlands of Scotland exactly one year after the Canadian forces captured the last of the Regina Trench from the Germans, and one year before the First World War ended, leaving fourteen million dead and over twenty million injured.
He always found that rather fitting, considering what he could do.
His father, Andrew Bond of Glencoe, took one look at the silent bundle and sneered. His mother, a beautiful Swiss woman named Monique Delacroix, held him even tighter and cried.
It wasn't until he was much older that he realised he had been stillborn.
Not that he ever let that stop him.
James Bond was never quite sure what he was; he only knew that his mother was the same and everyone else was not, and that despite all of her accidents when his father was around, she never quite stayed dead. Not even the time she supposedly fell off the roof and her son spent an entire week by her bedside before she woke up, her eyes a darker colour than before, something entirely different about her nose, and the blonde locks he had inherited from her nowhere in sight. She was still beautiful, though, was always beautiful to him, no matter how many times she transformed. She was still his mother no matter what, and promised to never leave him even when mangled and unrecognisable and bedridden for months on end.
When he turned eleven years old and was told that his parents had been killed in a freak climbing accident, he waited… and waited… and waited…
But she never came back.
The maids and servants took pity on him, watching as he stared out the window day after day, and told him that it was okay, that she was in a better place now, that everything would work itself out.
He couldn't tell them the truth, of course not, his father had long since drilled into him never to let his ability be found out, so he nodded and smiled and cried and waited.
Then their bodies were recovered.
And James Bond wondered, for the first time ever, if perhaps there was a limit on this whole regeneration thing.
Either way, it allowed him to fight for King, Queen, and country without the fear of being found out. Double 0's had a notoriously short life expectancy, after all, but when you were just a title and not a name... well. No one really noticed the similarities. But that wouldn't happen for another decade yet.
Back in the present, his parents are dead, he's now an orphan, and isn't that just wonderful?
It didn't take long to find a relative, his father's sister, an aunt he had never even heard of before currently living in Kent. Miss Charmian Bond was strict but kind, and never questioned why he flinched every time she rose her voice, though she did take to speaking in softer tones soon after. He completed his early education, got accepted in Eton College at age 12 on a scholarship where he was mocked and bullied by two future prime ministers and a prince. He lasted two halves before getting drunk on cheap whiskey and kissing a maid in a broom closet. They got caught, of course, and while she was given a harsh scolding, he was told to pack his bags. Aunt Charmain had picked him up without a word, though disapproval marred her pretty features, and he was told he would be attending Fettes College in Scotland, his father's school, and if he got himself sent down she would personally skin him alive herself before sending him back.
He wondered briefly if she knew of his ability.
But James Bond had learned his lesson. He kept to himself, established some firm friendships among the traditionally famous athletic circle, and threw all his excess energy into wrestling and judo. He was smart, having being fluent in English, German, and French by age 10, and he studied enough to keep himself in the Top Five of his year.
He was 16 when Aunt Charmain was killed in an automobile accident.
He attended her funeral, completed his final exams, hung around just long enough to tell his friends not to expect contact anytime soon, and then used some of his inheritance to buy a one-way ferry ticket to France.
It was there that he first learned about love.
He knew from a young age that while his mother cared deeply for his father, his father did not feel the same. Asides from them, there was the head maid who had a husband though he never saw them together, and Aunt Charmain, who had remained single until her death, so he had never really thought about love and relationships until suddenly there was a beautiful blonde standing in front of him in a café and asking in lilting French if he wanted to buy her a coffee.
It was also in Paris that he learned about heartbreak.
So, he packed his meagre bags once more and left, catching the first train he saw.
He ended up in Geneva, Switzerland, of all places, and immediately his thoughts turned to his mother and of her life here before he met that bastard of a man who called himself her husband. He wandered the city, taking in everything, eating authentic Swiss cuisine and speaking fluently in both German and French with the locals. He found a small apartment with cheap rent in a bad side of town, but that didn't bother him because he was well-versed in martial arts and knew how to handle himself. He explored every place he was allowed into, and even a few that he wasn't, before finally coming to a halt in front of a large peach-coloured building with stone bricks and large windows and even taller pillars.
The University of Geneva.
James Bond didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, he honestly didn't think he'd make it past childhood between his father's heavy hand and his own penchant for finding trouble. But now, here he was, 16 years old in his mother's hometown, older and taller and curiouser that he ever thought he'd be.
He decided to enrol.
University was both exactly like and nothing like he'd thought it'd be. He attended every lecture he could, psychology and law and world languages, made his way through the college library at a terrifying speed, and could usually be found collapsed on top of a textbook or downing coffee underneath the old marble arches in the courtyard. He found new friends, though never got quite as close to them as he used to, and made a name for himself on both the rowing and fencing teams. He had lost his Scottish accent many months before, could pull off being a local with some concentration, and lived life to the fullest.
As with everything else, however, he soon became bored.
When summer arrives and his exams finished, he contemplated returning to England, but the thought of that dreary familiar place depressed him. Scotland was no longer his home, he had been quite turned off France for some time, and Geneva was slowly beginning to lose its charm. He decided to head east instead, into Austria.
It was there that he met Hannes Oberhauser.
Initially weary of the man, they soon bonded over their shared love of sport and danger, and James Bond couldn't help but see him as a sort of father figure. The older man, in turn, treated him like a son. He was a realist, like himself, and had lost many friends in the Great War, and even more because of mountain climbing. But still, he continued to do what he loved, and his zest for life was undefeated.
On the mountainside of Kitzbühel, Oberhauser taught him how to ski.
He took to it like he took to all sports; quickly, obsessively, and perilously.
He started opening up to the man about his life, something he'd never done before, and found himself talking of his childhood as they sat out in the cold sun with blistered hands and aching legs. He told him of his father, of his aunt, of France and his new start, of heartbreak and Switzerland, and of here, now, as he chased his latest adrenaline-packed adventure, needing the rush, the pleasant buzz, the hazardous danger in order to feel something, everything, anything at all.
The Austrian remained silent during his tales, understanding and sympathetic, but never, not once, ever pitying. He told him to learn from the past, to embrace his mistakes and study them, to never forget but to move on nevertheless.
"Do you intend to live your life out with a load of guilt?" He asked one night, passing him the bottle of Jameson's, "Will you continually blame yourself whenever things go wrong? If you go on like this, son, the past will finally destroy you".
"What do you suggest I do?"
Oberhauser caught his gaze and pointed at the mountains in front of them.
"Climb them" He said, "and don't ever look back".
James Bond became quite proficient at skiing. He was good, really good, and Oberhauser was an even better instructor. He entered a few small league competitions and won, entered a few more important ones, and won those too. He was teased and taunted by fellow skiers, skiers with fancy equipment and designer sports gear and names and titles he couldn't pronounce. He put up with them, for the most part, reminding himself that the last time he'd taken on his bullies he'd gotten himself kicked out of school. He was better than all of them put together, anyway.
But still, they made fun of his skis and clothes and his style, or rather, lack of it, and he resented them for it. They, in turn, took every opportunity to make a fool of him.
It all came to a head one faithful morning at the end of summer when they dared him to ski down Harakiri.
And like an idiot, he accepted.
Having spend a few months practising, James Bond had gotten cocky. And despite all warnings from Oberhauser to keep his cool and ignore the taunts, despite his own past experiences with giving into his anger and lashing out, he arrogantly believed that he could not only best his tormentors, but he could take on the steepest skiing slope in all of Austria in the process.
They met him at the base of the mountain, so early it was still dark, and laughed and jeered as he made his way to the lifts.
By the time he reached the top, they were no longer laughing.
The Harakiri ski slope had gotten its name for a reason, after all, as anyone who risked it without the proper training were indeed suicidal. It had a vertical drop of almost 400 meters, had a length of more than three times that, and a bad reputation that was known by every professional skier in the world.
A thick blanket of snow had fallen during the night, and as James Bond trudged through it in order the reach the highest point of the mountain, he couldn't help but admire the spectacular beauty of the death trap before him. The sun was just beginning to rise over the valley, and white speckled evergreens glistened along either side of the trail.
Once in position, the no-longer smiling group of teens begged him to turn around, to come back, to stop, man, for the love of god, stop!
He put on his goggles, and without looking back, pushed himself over the edge.
He knew immediately he'd made a mistake.
Flying down the trail, the wind bit into his skin and burned his cheeks while the sun reflected off the snow and half-blinded him. For the first hair-raising mile of the descent, he maintained control with nothing except a cheap pair of skis and the will to stay alive. His mind was clear, very clear, every fight of flight instinct he had kicking in and screaming at him to stop. The closeness of death sharpened his reactions, adrenaline pumping through his veins, the absolute terror feeding him like a drug as he passed the half way mark and narrowly avoided a large fir. He began to grin, despite it all, thinking that he was right, he could do this, he was going to win the dare and he was going to wipe the grin off of their smug faces!
It was far too late when he saw the clump of trees directly in front of him, half-covered by the snow and too close for him to stop, his skis slipping in the fresh ice and spinning and his hands quickly coming up to protect his face and a startled yell bubbling its way out of his throat and-
James Bond didn't remember much, after that.