Epilogue: Hell to Pay
Someone in the hospital administration of the medical school at Marseille had a sadistic sense of humour, James Bond had decided.
The surgeons had been quite adamant about what he was to do, and not to do, in order to facilitate the healing of his wounds. They'd done what they could, spending hours picking through and removing the shards of glass from his skin, flushing and sanitizing the wound to his groin, and then performing the basic surgery needed to piece his arm and the rest back together. The more complicated and cosmetic repairs were to be performed back in London.
"Try to avoid any unnecessary excitement," the small, pinch-faced French doctor Pierpont had told him. Bond had wanted to laugh out loud, remembering how Che Che had given him a similar warning just a few days before. But as he found with most Frenchman, this man spoke in a condescending tone of voice, almost as if he found Bond's injuries to be self-inflicted, and something more than an inconvenience to his valuable time.
Back then the idea had seemed ludicrous. He was going to be relieving himself through a tube for the next several weeks, and this man was warning him not to become aroused. But on his first morning in his semi-private ward, nurse Angelette had walked through his door to help him with his morning routine of bathing and changing his wounds' dressings.
Che Che, who was the reason for the "semi" in his accommodations, had been in the next bed, snickering from beneath his mountain of casts and bandages, as the aptly named Angelette had gone about her business.
Bond had to wonder, and not for the first time in his life, why French women were wasted on Frenchmen. As a people, he still found them aloof, and lacking in the cultural humility they'd certainly deserved over the years, but there were inner and outer beauties to the women that couldn't be hidden, even for all the pretentious worship to glamour and the bombastic, ridiculous fashions.
She had glided into the room, greeted the men in French with a soft, breathy voice (the only words either man would hear her speak for more than two days), and quickly pulled the privacy curtain about Bond's hospital bed. Angelette was quick and professional, sparing Bond any pretence at bedside manner, or mock sympathetic overtones. She didn't gasp when she removed the dressings, and her gloved hands, although gentle when necessary, did not betray their purpose.
But Bond's sedated mind wasn't nearly as professional. The words "any unnecessary excitement" were quickly swept away as his eyes carefully assessed the astounding woman wrapped in white before him. Her skin and eyes were dark, possibly betraying a little Spanish or Portuguese blood, and yet her face still maintained the translucent glow French women were known the world over for. Her figure was a little slighter than what he would normally would have been attracted to, but from what he could see of her arms and calves, she was trim and muscular beneath the uniform. Most likely it was from tennis, or possibly running.
The sedatives took some of the subtlety off Bond's game, but the uncomfortable quiet of the woman as she went about handling him was unnerving. He had to speak to her.
"Do you play sports, Nurse…. Facet?" he asked as he clumsily read her nametag.
His awkwardness was rewarded with a titter from the direction of Che Che's bed beyond the curtain.
Thankfully, Angelette pretended to ignore the laughter, but she didn't verbally respond to Bond's question either, she just offered him a small, warm smile that did more for Bond's mental health than all of the doctors he'd seen over the past day and a half.
After she'd finished and left, Che Che had been merciless on Bond.
""Do you play sports?"" he had mocked Bond's accent in French. "Good God, James, I know some of these people. You're going to destroy my perfectly good reputation if you keep carrying on in this manner."
Bond suggested that Che Che should do something that was physically impossible to himself, even when healthy.
"You would think," the agent continued. "While the bastard was breaking everything else, he could at least have broken your jaw."
Che Che had found out her name through one of the orderlies he knew, but the girl herself remained silent on her second shift with the two men the following morning.
On his first day out of surgery, Bond had been limited to official guests only, and he wasn't entirely surprised to find Bill Tanner had been the man to show up at his bedside. The Chief of Staff had been limited in what he could disclose, with Che Che being within hearing range, and the doctors had left no room for argument with their assertions neither man should be moved or disturbed in any fashion.
After some small talk about the quality of food in the hospital and the extent of his wounds (conversations the two men had shared more than a dozen times, in similar circumstances and surroundings over the years), Tanner had gotten down to details.
"I'm afraid we've caused a little bit of a stir," Bill had begun. "When we requested clearance for French airspace for the Apaches, we were supposed to keep a low profile. Even with the new attitude of co-operation, they didn't want to let it get out to the press we were conducting any kind of operation on their territory. And then we land one of our units on top of this hospital during the dinner hour in the middle of Marseille. The old man has taken some gruff on this one."
Bond could imagine M waiting patiently for his return: yet another international incident that was not his fault that would certainly be his fault.
Tanner had continued for nearly half an hour, giving him the unclassified version of events. So far, the IRA hadn't made any noise regarding Donn, although certainly Feale would have forwarded her version of events to the appropriate parties by now.
"If she comes to see you, try to feel her out on what she may have said to them. They're not going to clear the two of you for guests for at least another day."
Bond tried to picture her frame of mind, knowing he'd been the one to disable her, and deny her.
"Could you do me a favour, Bill, and make sure she gets scanned before putting a foot inside this room?"
Tanner had frowned at this.
"I'm sure we'll wait with bated breath for your initial report on this one, James."
The "we" would be M, and Bond was certain he was going to be hearing about his dalliance with an IRA operative the very moment he was done hearing about the incurrence into French airspace, and probably just before he would hear about how M's fears regarding his father-in-law had not only been justified, but may have been a gross understatement.
Tanner placed his hand on Bond's shoulder.
"Quit looking like an old man planning his funeral. I think you've done a pretty good job of callusing M up over the years. I seriously doubt if there's anything you could do that would surprise him, and yet he keeps sending you out in the field. A few months of transitional duty…"
Bond groaned; more deskwork, more boredom, no assignments.
"… and you'll be on your feet again. Moneypenny has taken over the preparations for your cosmetic work. She's done her homework, and made sure the best in the field are going to be placing you back together. You could say she's taken a personal interest in your case."
"I'm sure she has," was all he could say. Their flirtations were the stuff of legend around the office.
There was a brief knock at the door, and Angelette scooted into the room for her first visit of the day. Tanner paused a moment to look her up and down, and then glanced back at him, before standing to leave.
"Either way, I'm sure they'll have you back up and at them in no time at all," he said with a grin.
Funny, Bond thought about his current condition, as Angelette began to go about her routine and he began to go about the torturous process of trying not to respond to her touch, it was funny as hell.
* * *
Visitor hours began at seven a.m. the next morning, and through the doors like a race horse out of the gates came Marie. Her face flushed and life leaping out from her every move as she skirted across the floor to Che Che's bedside.
"Do you know there are guards outside your room, and they accosted me with a metal detector as if I were going to …"
A gasp escaped her throat as she took in the extent of the giant's injuries.
"What have they done to you?" she cried in what must have been her best B-actress voice. Bond braced himself for the wailing to come, and this time, there would be no escape.
"Shut up and kiss me," Che Che told her in a voice that held strength the body itself was surely missing. Marie fumbled for a few moments, sucking in tears, trying to find the best way to perch herself next to the man so she could reach his mouth with her own, and yet not cause him any further pain.
His eyes, and his lower jaw, were about the only skin visible to the open air, but he made fine work of the latter as the two consummated their reunion with the joining of their lips.
Bond had second-guessed himself a few times for passing on Marie's affections before he'd come to know Che Che better, but seeing the two of them together drove any lingering thoughts away. The chemistry was obvious, and he was certain if the casts and bandages were not between them, the biology would have been just as apparent. The kissing lasted for quite some time, and Bond was tempted to clear his throat, or offer them the use of the privacy curtain, but he still felt guilty for Che Che's current state, and the least he could do was tend his own business. James Bond did the only thing he could; he turned his head and averted his eyes as the two lovers whispered to one another about recovery and nuptials, and somewhere in the process he slipped off to sleep.
And soon a hand was shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to find the smiling face of Marc-Ange looking down on him.
"I hate to wake you, but I am afraid, James, that I cannot stay too long. My face is well known in France, and I am none too safe here."
Bond turned his head back to Che Che's bed. Marie was gone, now, but her place had been taken by what appeared to be half the population of Monte Paese, gathered about his bedside so thick that Bond couldn't even make out the form of his friend laying there. There was, however, one noticeable party missing.
"Where's Feale?" he asked his father-in-law.
The old man's smile faded.
"Perhaps it would be best not to dwell on her, James. She is a very divided, and dangerous, woman. When I saw her last she was preparing to leave the compound, and I think it would be intelligent for all of us if we just let her walk away."
He reached out and grabbed the aged hand, giving it a firm squeeze.
Draco shook his head.
"I feel like such a foolish, old man, being used so. A young man would have looked upon the scars on his lover with more suspicion, but an old man is told some feeble story about a car accident in her childhood, and he blindly is led along by the lies, just to be allowed to be next to such a beautiful thing. Even if others are unaware of what happened, the shame will be there within me until the day I pass."
So much the Corsican, Bond thought. He wasn't worried about Feale, or Bond's injuries, he wasn't worried about any moral ramifications of having been duped into making love to what had been a man, nor was he concerned about the bodies littering his home the past few days. No, Marc-Ange was worried about saving face, his reputation. Bond didn't habour these thoughts with any ill feelings, however. This was who the man was, and Bond respected and loved him for it.
They spoke for a few moments, sharing the kinds of things that those who are close, but only see each other once in a great while, do.
Finally, Draco gave a sharp whistle, and the assembled villagers made their farewells to both men and left the room. Now, it was only Marc-Ange and the two of them.
"I brought someone special with me," he said.
Into the room strolled Curtuis, Emiliano's son, looking about as devastated as a young man was capable.
"I wanted to leave him with his mother, she will need him more than ever now, but he insisted on coming," Marc-Ange informed them.
Bond looked over to Che Che, who over the past day and a half had informed him of the depth of Emiliano's treachery, and how the other man had met his end. The giant was obviously having a hard time finding his voice. Bond knew from their conversations that Che Che was like an uncle to his friend's children.
Bond used the finger pad attached to his bed to painfully raise himself to a near-seated position.
"Curt," Che Che began awkwardly. "What brings you here?"
The boy, who possessed the bluntness of all children, did not hesitate.
"How did my father die?" he asked in Corsican. "I need to know." Some of the words were lost to Bond, but the general idea was plain enough.
Marc-Ange stood silent in the background as Bond once again turned to Che Che in deference. Bond knew there must be a fairly good reason the boy was asking; he was old enough to suspect something may have been wrong in his father's dealings with the foreigners, and maybe, much like his older Corsican counterpart, Marc-Ange, he was worried about his family's face if his father's treachery became known. Or, much more likely, Bond realised, maybe he had the beginnings of his own vendetta forming in his heart.
After a few more moments of silence, Bond decided he couldn't let Che Che answer the child. What might have been a cathartic unloading for the giant may have been the beginning of another life of hatred for the young boy.
"Your father died fighting a monster," he blurted out in French.
The boy, who must have been eleven or twelve, turned to Bond as if insulted.
"A monster?" he continued sarcastically in French. "This monster wouldn't happen to be "the bitch" Marc-Ange keeps cursing, would it?"
Bond laughed, despite himself, and Draco looked even more embarrassed than he had a few moments before.
"Yes," Bond informed him. "It most certainly would."
There was some more talk, and a difficult goodbye when Marc-Ange lightly hugged Bond and kissed him high on both cheeks. And then the two of them were alone again.
* * *
During their afternoon session, Angelette finally spoke to Bond after two days of silence.
"Your wounds are beginning to heal," she told him, in very passable English, shocking him out of his state of painful concentration.
"You speak," he said to her incredulously.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I was raised to only talk when I had something to say. People tend to listen more carefully when you don't fill the air with useless words." Then she was silent again, but it was too late, the spell had been broken. And her touch had brought him to painful life.
"Oh," she muttered aloud, as he grimaced in agony. "Didn't the doctor tell you, avoid…"
"Unnecessary excitement," he grunted in reply. "But, I assure you, Nurse Facet, this was very necessary."
The girl smiled, and then blushed deeply at his words, remaining quiet throughout the remainder of her work.
Soon, the evening fell, and Bond knew he'd be back in England by the next nightfall, in yet another hospital. Che Che was snoring loudly through his re-broken nose.
"I might have a straight nose for the first time since I was eight," he'd confessed to Bond over their respective dinners (Che Che had to have his fed to him by one of the orderlies).
Bond, however, couldn't bring himself to doze off. He'd abandoned the hope of seeing Feale again, and yet her beautiful face haunted his memory in the long shadows of the hospital ward at night. These thoughts, combined with his concerns about returning to England, had created a surreal mishmash of a sleepless evening.
There was a window near his bed, and from what he could tell; they were several storeys up, with some kind of courtyard down below. The light shifted constantly through the window, and he'd decided there must be trees out there, waving back and forth in the moonlight. This rocking, combined with his sedatives, was weaving him into a dream.
In the dream, there was a figure at the window; a figure of a woman dressed entirely in black. Bond smiled at the image, she had a quite fetching body, although her features were still in shadow as she began to work at the window frame from the outside.
The glass eventually slid upward, and the beautiful girl slid gracefully through the opening. Her shoes made soft tic, tic, tic noises as she crossed the floor to his bed. James Bond continued to smile in his near dream, as the woman bent to him. She wore no scent, but as her lips came to his, he could catch the brief aroma of rich, vanilla-laced coffee, the taste of which followed as their mouths met. He reached behind her head with his hands, running them through the short hair that would have been dark red if not for the disguising moonlight, as he continued to work her mouth with his own. Finally, after several minutes, during which his senses returned to complete wakefulness, some painfully so, their lips parted.
"I thought you would hate me," she said to him softly as Che Che continued his sleeping serenade from the next bed. "You have to believe me, I didn't know what he'd do to you, I told you to come back with me."
There was honest distress in her hushed voice, and he kissed her again to drive the fears away.
"I'm no more angry than you appear to be. I denied you your chance at getting back at Peter," he said.
She pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, now running her own hand through his hair, absently playing with the comma that always insisted on falling above his eye.
"I was angry, still am, to tell the truth. But when I calmed down, I figured you were only trying to protect me. It may piss me off that you would think I would need protecting, but I appreciate it all the same." She leaned into their next kiss, as if to demonstrate that appreciation.
Bond stirred, and fresh pain greeted him.
"I'm afraid things aren't going to end properly. That is what this is, isn't it? An ending?" he asked.
She nodded. She'd been kneeling on the floor, and now Feale laid her head on Bond's chest, being careful not to brush up against his wounded arm. Now, she was looking up at his face.
"I'm going back to Saint Pete's," she told him. "With Tom gone, Maelisa won't be able to handle it by herself. I figure there's still a place, and a cause, for me there."
This troubled Bond, and he made no attempt to conceal it.
"And will Saint Peter's continue to be what it was?" he queried.
She kissed him again, but failed to remove the look of concern on his face.
"I haven't asked you to turn from your country, James," she told him. "I know you're not going to abandon Mother England to run off with a poor slip of an Irish girl, so don't expect me to do the same for you."
She was right, he knew, and it may have been hypocritical of him, but he still had difficulty thinking of this warm, beautiful woman in his arms as a killer. For a brief moment, there was a flash of duty in his mind, a thought saying he might be better of snapping her neck right here. He might save countless English lives if he did so, possibly the lives of his friends and colleagues, perhaps his own. But the murderous idea quickly burnt itself out. There was little doubt in his mind she would have weighed the same concerns regarding him, and yet, here she was.
He just hoped her face would never show up in a file before him on M's desk, nor in front of any other 00.
They kissed once again, this time with the hunger and passion of two people who knew their time together was passing.
"Thank you," she whispered to him as she stood.
He remained silent as she turned away.
"You won't have to worry about reprisals from us," she told him while walking back to the window. "I get the idea the Sein Fenn aren't interested in advertising how their poster child met his end."
He started to say it didn't surprise him, but she was already gone.
"So, you will come to the wedding then?"
Che Che seemed ungodly cheerful for someone who would remain in the hospital for the next several months, with the spectre of years of painful physical therapy looming in the distance.
Bond had been switched to a gurney that was being wheeled, much to his pleasure, by Angelette Facet. Tanner, and several other agents, were waiting just outside the door for him. They'd collected his few personals from Marc-Ange Draco, and now a transport helicopter was waiting on the roof of the hospital; waiting to whisk them all to the airport, and then back to grey, old London.
"Six months? I'll be there. By then, maybe you'll be ready to give me a rematch with the chicken."
Nurse Facet frowned at this, as if both men had gone briefly mad.
"But what will I do for a date?" Bond asked his friend.
Che Che thought for a moment.
"I'm sure Marc-Ange could find someone," he said.
Bond looked back at the beautiful nurse whose face floated above his own. She'd always worn her hair up before this, but today it was down, a glorious dark brown wave flowing from her scalp to her mid-back.
"So, how about it, Nurse Facet? Do you have any plans six months from now?"
There was little surprise for either man in her silence, but then she bent forward and lightly brushed her lips against Bond's. There wasn't nearly the heat there had been the night before with Feale, but there was the promise of passion to come.
James Bond glanced back for one last look at his friend. Much of Che Che was hidden, but there was shock in his eyes, and his mouth stood open in disbelief.
As she began to wheel him forward, she cooed softly.
"I wouldn't miss is for the world."