beingdifferent | Seventeenth little lie ♰ I got no one left to mourn for me

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[These last few weeks have been grey and listless for Esther, and today is no different. Still debilitatingly self-conscious, she saves her showers for the strangest possible hours, waking at three A.M. to bathe; she keeps her head down during the dinner shift and follows orders directly; she haunts the art room, both painting pieces (these are skilled, furious, sexual, distinctly adult, with nothing childish at all about them) and playing the piano (she has been perfecting her Rachmaninoff obsessively); and wandering through the gardens or hanging around the door to the CES hoping for access.

She hopes for solitude, but many hopes don't pan out.]

[Private to Lydia]
[After the pairing is announced Esther briefly reviews Lydia's posts to the network and steels herself, slipping back into, if not a childlike role, at least a gentle one. There isn't a real point to denying her age with Lydia, though she still presents herself with an infantile appearance; she knows or she doesn't know, and Esther is not worried about either option. When she contacts her new temporary warden, she's sure to be demure and agreeable, making a neutral observation.]

Your name is Lydia? That's very pretty. I'm Esther; pleased to meet you.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There's nothing left to measure.

[He steps past her, letting the weight of the gun swing with his gait.]

I'd say the sooner you stopped thinking it was a game, the sooner you'd graduate, but we both no I don't believe you can.

My point exactly.

[The weapon does little to intimidate her. If she riles him enough and he shoots her, so much the better; it will almost guarantee demotion for him, lowering him nearly as far as she hopes.]

Finally; something you're right about.

[In another life, had their interactions gone differently, maybe he could have helped her. He's very good at finding a way to trudge through the hopeless: he's practically the poster boy fro Churchill's if you're going through Hell, keep going.

But this is the life they have, and this is the place they've come to, and he would be more inclined to watch her burn than help her find her second chance.

Bond doesn't bother to acknowledge her. He keeps going, leaving her to con someone else to let her into the CES. He owes her nothing.

[Esther would not have it another way. On the Mirror Barge, perhaps they could have been friends. Here? Well, perhaps he should have some respect for her machinations, but his disdain is understandable. If she has her way, it will grow exponentially.]

Do you really believe you've bested me? [Her voice is quiet and placid, like the beating of a dove's wings.]

[He pauses and turns: the expression on his face is about as far from doubt as possible. Disdain, yes: disdain and disregard. He knows better, now, than to write her off completely, and he isn't - inwardly. What he projects, though, is the opposite. Let her think he's grown comfortable. The truth is, by now, he always expects something else down the road. It's a matter of how much he cares, at any given time.]

That's hardly a question anymore.

[Esther meets his eyes without hesitation, lowering her chin a little but never dropping the look. She doesn't believe him; she knows this goes on if she wants it to, when she wants it to, and so she smiles.]

Is that what you'd prefer, James? That we continue to lie to each other?

[His smile doesn't reach his eyes, and he sets his rifle down on the deck before closing the distance and crouching in front of her. It's closer than is wise, but he has always been too confident.]

I prefer that we never speak again, Esther. I prefer that you vanish before you take another breath and never reappear. So why don't you tell me what you prefer, and we can have it all out in the open.

[Esther doesn't flinch when he crouches in front of her, doesn't even rise to the condescending gesture. This time, she won't take advantage of it and attack him. Instead she smiles, and gently places her hand on his shoulder, just where it meets his neck.]

I prefer when you're honest with me. By all means, continue.

[He doesn't look at her hand, and he doesn't tense. He's had those reflexes tested, and Raoul Silva was more physically intimidating than she could ever be.

That doesn't mean he likes it. James matches her smile, and doesn't take his eyes off hers.]

Don't touch me. We're not friends.

[Her smile turns to something more genuine, still cold and sharp but true. Still, she doesn't remove her hand. Let him push her away or shove it off him; he can resort to ugliness. Now, she will not.]

Of course not. We both know we never could be.

Just like we both know that continuing this will get us nowhere.

[He shifts his weight, balancing between his feet. He doesn't shove her off, just shrugs his shoulder out of her grip.]

As much as I'd like to wring your neck - as much as you'd like to set me on fire again - everyone knows what you are, now. And they know how ugly I can be.

[They don't. He can be uglier. He knows it.] So lets not pretend this is still a game to be played.

[She withdraws delicately, allowing herself the liberty of gently stroking his shoulder before holding her hand in front of her.]

No, they don't. [She knows she's correct on both counts. They know some of what she's done, her age, but they don't know her. And conversely, she herself doesn't know how far he can be pushed.]

Don't pretend it isn't.

[He doesn't twist as she drops her hand. He finds it disturbing, certainly. But he has worse under his belt now, and it keeps him from reacting too much.

Instead of just pulling away from her, he shakes his head and chuckles under his breath as he rises, feeling the faint cracking in his knees.]

Agree to disagree.

[He backs away before turning, stooping to pick up his gun and sling the bag's strap over his shoulder again.]

You know, [he adds, pausing to look at her again.]

If you weren't so completely out of your mind, you'd almost be interesting.

Seventeenth little lie ♰ I got no one left to mourn for me

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