Work Text:
There is...
A house...
In New Orleans...
Sweat was dripping down from his brow on to his thigh.
They call the Rising Sun...
His mouth and throat were dry as the desert. As thrilled as he had been to be sent somewhere warm, that sentiment had left him a good twelve hours ago. The humid warmth was suffocating him alongsaide the makeshift gag made from a rag that was soaking up even the last bit of sliva.
And it's been...
The ruin...
Of many a poor boy...
New Orleans was too nice a city to die in.
He didn't know why, but especially when it came down to missions in American cities, James liked it here. He'd liked the weather the few times he'd been before, the people, the food, and moving around the city set him at ease in a way. Some cities simply had an aura to them, like he could just blend in and make himself at home without much effort, while others made him permanently suppress the urge to look over his shoulder. New Orleans fell into the former category.
And God...
I know...
I'm one...
It would be an awful shame to die here.
Rather anticlimactic, too. He had no doubt the dehydration would be the thing to do him in. His captors had scattered after some shots were heard outside, and they hadn't returned since. By this point, he wasn't even sure anymore it had anything to do with his mission.
My mother was a taylor...
She sewed my new blue jeans...
Maybe they had just seen a white man who was dressed a bit too finely for the area and had hoped to make a nice bit of money with him. Wait for his phone to ring and ask ransom of the first person to miss him.
Only that his phone wasn't supposed to ring any time soon. Or at all, really.
He wasn't wearing a three piece suit. He'd have stuck out like a sore thumb, but he did wear chinos and a button down made of very light fabric that was unbuttoned just enough to be tastefully enticing. Fitting right in at a bar for a night of games.
My father was a gambling man...
Down...
In New...
Orleans...
They didn't seem to be coming back for him. If those had been the right people, they would have. He was worth more to them alive than dead, and right now he was more the latter than the former.
Now the only thing a gambler needs...
Is a suitcase and trunk...
And to add insult to injury, he'd been drugged.
Theyd spiked his drink, grabbed him, and that was that.
And the only time he's satisfied...
Is when...
He's on...
A trump...
He had drunk his drink and flirted with the right people to wind up exactly where he was, tied to a chair that was fucking bolted to the floor in a mostly empty room. Sunlight was still filtering in, the sun was slowly setting again, and he tried to do the math again, but the music was too loud. He had been here for going on twenty four hours, though, that he could say. He had gotten water in the... morning?
Oh mother...
Tell your children...
Not to do what I have done...
He couldn't get out of his binds. There was nothing he could reach, and even after dislocating his thumb he couldn't slip out of them. Now all he had was a dislocated thumb he couldn't set. It was quite vexing.
Was the music growing louder?
Spend your lives in sin and misery...
In the house...
Of the Rising Sun...
The sun had wandered a bit lower, and his pulse was picking up a bit. Had he heard something? The music was almost deafening.
Well, I got one foot on the platform...
The other on the train...
His head felt like it was wrapped in cotton, which was vastly preferable over the horrible pain he'd felt before. It was at the same time sharp and pounding and even though he couldn't think further than the tip of his nose, he was glad for it.
I'm going back to New Orleans...
To wear that ball and chain...
There was a circular wet patch on his thigh where his sweat was dripping on his thigh.
Well there is...
A house...
In New Orleans...
He could feel his heartbeat flutter in his throat and he looked expectantly at the door, waiting for it to open. He might not have control over all his faculties anymore, but his subconscious was better than that. If his heartrate was elevated, he had probably heard something.
They call the Rising Sun...
Now that he had raised his head to look at the door, sweat was dripping into his eyes and it burned. He was tired.
And it's been...
The ruin...
Of many a poor boy...
It was a miracle his body could still sweat at all.
And God...
I know...
I'm one.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the last note of the song rang out. The door, against all hope and expectations, remained closed.
There is...
A house...
In New Orleans...
Bond wanted to scream, but even if he tried, not a sound came out.
There sure as hell was a bloody house here, and he was sitting right in it, and he'd really rather not, if that was all the same to whoever was playing that blasted song.
They call the Rising Sun...
He was really rather sure it was setting. Or was it rising again? It shouldn't be. If the sun was rising, it was a miracle he hadn't indefinitely lost consciousness. Maybe if he dislocated his thumb... A clumsy attempt followed by sharp pain made it abundantly clear that he'd already tried that trick.
And it's been...
The ruin...
Of many a poor boy...
And God...
I know...
I'm one...
He was neither prone to religion, nor to self-pity, yet he couldn't help but agree.
My mother was a taylor...
She sewed my new blue jeans...
Someone was kneeling in front of him, but he couldn't make out who it was. The gag was removed and he tried to cough, tried to swallow, but all he did was convulse and threw up all ofer himself.
The other man grunted.
"At least you waited with that until you got someone to make sure you don't suffocate on it, brother."
My father was a gambling man...
Down...
In New Orleans...
A hand, warm like a branding iron, cupped his cheek, something was set against his lips and blissful water was slowly poured into his mouth. The bottle disappeared way too soon.
Oh mother...
Tell your children...
"Spit out a few times first, or you'll just throw up again," the voice murmured. Bond knew the voice, but he hadn't been able to see clearly for a bit now, no matter how much he blinked. He did as he was told, though most of it landed on him again because moving his head any further felt impossible.
Not to do what I have done...
Water was poured over his face, and it felt like a waste but it felt too good to object. Once the bottle had run empty, he tried to blink his eyes open once more. It still wasn't all clear, but he could make out shapes, could see that there was a man kneeling in front of him, cracking open yet another bottle of water and raising it to his mouth.
Spend your lives in sin and misery...
He drank in careful sips, his throat aching with every single one, but it felt good, so good, even with the headache making a comeback.
The only time he's satisfied...
Is when he's on a trump...
"Felix?", he managed to croak.
James could see the mirthful smile on the man's face. "One and only. Here to save your sorry ass. Your Quartermaster sends his best, by the way."
What did Q have to do with anything?
Not to do what I have done...
The bottle was tipped against his lips again and in small sips, he drank a bit more, though he could already feel his stomach revolting.
Well I got one foot on the platform...
The other on the train...
He groaned, and the water stopped.
"What?"
He tried to form an answer, but it came out slurred and croaked and by the end of it, he himself wasn't sure anymore what it had meant to mean.
Well there is a house in New Orleans...
They call the Rising Sun...
He tried again, with more success:
And it's been...
The ruin...
Of many a poor boy...
"Turn off th' music." He could barely hold himself upright. He hadn't had to, the last few hours, but now it felt prudent.
And God...
"James,"
I know...
"there isn't any music."
I'm one.
After that, it was a good thing that consciousness didn't hold on to him too tightly.