I don't own James Bond—but let me tell you if I did… Anyway, this little one-shot was sparked by Goldeneye, but it's really the result of watching a lot of Sean Connery and thinking too much. Enjoy!
Black and White
Every once in a while the lines blur. Every once in a while he sees red.
It's a black and white job, but someone has to do it.
White shirt—pressed and crisp—crackling even. Black jacket, black tie, black sunglasses—must look the part, after all. What is the artist without his costume and props?
It's black and white, good and evil—hero and villain. Except the black has faded into grey and my white is getting more stained and tarnished as the years go by. And they are going by...
Black gun, white face—red, red blood. Crimson and gushing—just like mine—I know; I've seen it. Black sleeve, white hand—a long, thin trail of crimson before one drop rolls off his forefinger, sparkling on the descent like a fine ruby—smashing and splashing on the clean white tiles. His. I think.
Vodka martini—shaken, not stirred—clear water to wash the sins away. Green olive—red, red center—like a goddamn accusation in my glass of absolution. The world is going black again, and all I can see is the red, red, red—staring, sparkling, winking.
And then it's twirling in long, white fingers—blood red nails—and light returns—white returns, just for a moment—then it's black. Black dress, black hair, black eyes—red, red lips—ruby lips—crimson, scarlet, blood red lips. But her skin's so white—so white, so pure—and the black—it's absolute—night without stars black—and the red, red, red—those pouted, red lips—like a prayer for the damned—for those already burning in the pitch black fire of hell.
And then the red parts and white, white teeth pierce through the olive—right through the red—and I can't look away—not now, not ever. In that moment she's judge, jury, and executioner—she's Eve and Mary and she's mine—my pardoner, my prayer.
And when the dawn creeps in on red, feathery wings, I can feel the white beyond the horizon. I turn back to the night and kiss red lips and white forehead one more time, resting my eyes in the dark for a moment before facing the light.
The crisp white shirt of yesterday's pretty wrinkled. It's got a few blotches that could be blood—maybe mine. It's worse for wear and soiled, but it'll do for my purposes—nothing a nice, black jacket can't compensate for, anyway…
It's a black and white job—except that I deal in red.
Totally random, but something I had to write. I hope you enjoyed my little foray into the James Bond mentality. Please let me know if you did by—wait for it—reviewing!