A/N: So. Not my usual fare but I stumbled upon this little shipdom not long ago and have fallen in love with the quality stories. So I'm throwing my hat onto the ring. I'm not sure I've got their voices 100% down but I'm happy to hear about it either way.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Where the hell have you been?
The words reverberated in his head.
Every waking moment he heard them.
It's why Madeline had left. It's why he'd left the Walther on Tanner's desk a year to the day he buried her. It's why he was sitting in the flat that used to belong to her, drinking vodka, of all things.
She'd be disgusted in him. But he couldn't bring himself to drink her Scotch, or really any.
Her every waking moment was spent devoted to the cause. But she'd missed something. Something important that he, himself, hadn't realised until she'd given her last breath.
She was the cause.
He'd have done anything for that woman. Kinkaide had called her Emily, but in his head, he knew her name. Had from the start, since she'd come home to find him shuffling cards on her side-table.
Olivia.
She'd pushed him to be the best. From the minute they'd met and she'd never let up. From the bullet that nearly took him out, to Silva, to Blofeld. That had hurt the most.
He thought he could move on. He thought that he might be happy with Madeline. He was. For a time.
And then the nightmares had started.
They'd been nothing at first, just something that woke him and drew him from the bed where she lay curled up around him.
And then, they'd been something. Drenched in sweat, screaming. Calling her name.
It hadn't taken Madeline long to throw in the towel and he didn't blame her, not one bit. He couldn't love her.
Tanner had notified him about the apartment. He didn't have to, but he had and James was thankful for that, at least. He'd purchased it, well above market price and left it exactly as it was. Except for one small corner of the living room, where he slept on the floor. It was stupid really, but he knew she'd be pissed if she caught him on the furniture.
Like a dog.
He didn't know how long ago it was that he'd moved in. The days turned to weeks but it could have been months. It didn't really matter. Time had no meaning anymore. Occasionally, he'd wish he'd kept the Walther. It would have made things easier, undoubtedly. It would certainly be less long-winded.
The bottle he'd been drinking from was empty and he threw it. It bounced off the wall and landed with a thunk on the floor. It was only then that he heard the liquid inside sloshing and realised it hadn't been empty at all.
He was losing his mind.
He slid onto the floor and passed out, wishing for death but knowing that the sun would wake him in a few hours and it would all start again.