This is a short one-shot about Vesper and James...based more on the recent Daniel Craig movie.
Rosa
He admires the rose that raises its dainty head so surely in the breeze. The striking blur of red in the pale, monochromatic existence of his life. Bond touches its fragile petals lightly, as if he's scared that they will bleed redness like the blood he's spilt before with his bare hands and a black gun.
The petals are soft, a velvety texture tantalising to the touch. Its perfume hangs, suspended in the cold air, immortalised for a morsel of a second before the wind wafts it away.
He is inexplicably reminded of the woman who wore precisely the same shade of red as she walked towards her demise, and his heartbreak. The woman he has sworn not to think about, because it hurts and it causes that armour which he has rebuilt, tiresomely, piece by piece, to shatter once more and lie worthless on the floor beneath his feet.
He can't bear to think her name. But it comes to his lips easily. Vesper, Vesper, Vesper, as dark as her namesake, yet as bright as the stars in the night.
He remembers every crystalline facet of her, her touch, her smile, her kiss, her perfume which hands in the air like the roses', and her red dress.
"James...." the wind seems to sigh breathlessly, "James...."
The air wraps around his muscular physique, swirling upwards. The wind's as silky as her touch, and it swirls upwards, into the sky.
It feels cold now, that the wind's left. Bond wraps his arms around his chest, and shivers slightly, an involuntary movement.
His gaze shifts to the rose once more, as red as the blood which stained his skin, which ran, runny, off his hands, mixed in with the water of the tap after a murder. Which never truly ran off Vesper's hands, but stained her conscience for the rest of her life...a life which did not deserve to be that short.
He remembers so clearly, sitting in the shower and kissing her hands to make her feel better, the water running cold down their backs, ruining the dress which made her stunning, and the tuxedo. He remembers her eyes, the dark chocolate irises melting in his deep gaze.
He only realises it's raining now, he feels the water running down his shirt, causing the fabric to cling to his back. He feels the water dripping off his short strands of hair, the coldness it brings. It is just like he is under the same shower-head, but there's no Vesper there, and he just feels colder.
It was her decision that she made on that day, when she waltzed away in that little red wraparound dress, carrying the steel suitcase in her soft hand. It was her decision, and James hated her for it, hated how she not only destroyed herself, but also him.
He hated her, but he loved her too. He had felt so hateful and spiteful when he killed all those people in the crumbling Venice building, yet when she locked herself into that elevator and drowned, all hate and spite faded away. He had dived down, and had tried to break that lock, tried to break that lock which prevented him from eternal happiness. She drowned herself and broke his heart at the same time, she broke his heart when she took the large gulps of water to try to drown herself faster, and when she wouldn't breathe no matter how many ribs he cracked in a valiant attempt at CPR, a valiant attempt to try to bring her, who was already too far gone, back, she broke his heart like he broke her bones.
He hated her for loving him, and hated her for making him love him. Yet he loved her, still, no matter how much he denied it, no matter how much he said that she was a 'traitor' or a 'bitch', and he hated her for it.
The rain dribbles rapidly down his back, and he turns to leave for shelter. Yet he stops and he turns back to the rose, which is no longer proudly swaying in the breeze, but soggy and drowned by the onslaught of water.
Just like Vesper.
He turns away once more.
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