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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: James/Alec
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, whatever.
Notes: Poem found at here.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Blame Fleming and his posse.
Summary: Alec deals with the consequences of his actions, and of James'.
***
and by that glare, my love will see
how I am still
blazing in my golden hell.
--From "To a Jilted Lover," Sylvia Plath
***
For once, something howled down the voices of the dead. His scars went deeper than the side of his face, deeper than his blood or bones or heart. They twisted every part of him, and made him want to scream.
Ourumov could've decided to betray Alec as well. The anesthesia in the dart might have been too strong. And Alec would have died, right there, in front of James. Even though it had all gone as it should-
--except for the fire and fury-
--he still had died for Bond. James had made sure of that, and then he hadn't even bothered to return the favor. Handsome, handsome James with his black hair and blue eyes and easygoing cynicism. So that was how 007 valued their years together. And Alec had thought that he was the only liar in their relationship.
Fair's fair, though. 006 had left his pathetic remains behind, and only Janus remained to animate the cold corpse. He would go to Russia and play his motherland for all the shiny black steel she could produce from her frozen womb, and then he would go to Cuba and plant his own seeds of the end. The inevitable finish toward which he'd been walking since childhood. A trench with walls that had only grown higher, and no way to escape. No offers, either, and now he had adapted to his surroundings. Learned to thrive. Revenge was his world now, and it would brook no competitors.
"Goodbye, then." Alec smoked the last of his cigarette and tossed the ashes to the winds.
***