James Bond (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doubleoohbaby) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2012-10-22 03:31 pm
doubleoohbaby) wrote in capeandcowllogs2012-10-22 03:31 pm
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WHO: Bradbury and Bond
WHERE: The fanciest of The City's suit makers
WHEN: Before the Venezuelan trip
SUMMARY: Bond teaches Bradbury the power of a well tailored suit
WARNINGS: These two
FORMAT: Words
[When in the public eye- and even out of it- Bond had always thought one should look their best. A good first impression is essential, and a good sense of fashion helped that along no end, and a fine suit? That was pretty much the high point of it all.
Bradbury had already proved he was capable enough at his job and honest enough for Bond to soon grow a fondness for him. James had a habit of deciding whether he liked a person within the first few minutes of an interaction, and somehow Rick had pulled through with high grades. James was thankful for it, actually, because if he'd hated the guy, he would have had to make his life miserable and he really doesn't have that sort of time. Lucky for both of them.
Trouble was, Bradbury had one fatal flaw. Suits. The suits were fucking awful to Bond's trained eye.
Which totally explains why he's managed to drag Rick out to some fancy area of the city. The shop they arrive at doesn't appear anything too special, a small glass fronted window with an indistinct sign. The interior isn't much better. Small, uncomplicated, with a few mannequins in suit jackets looking dapper, hands in pockets. There's one row of jackets hung up, along with numerous areas of fabrics and ties, but there's no suits one can pick off the rack and purchase.
The male that greets them with a pompous sounding, "Good afternoon, sirs," is elderly, suited, and staring down his nose through a tiny pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He's English, if the accent is anything to go by, and that might just be why Bond favours this place to some of the others. Nothing like an English cut.
Bond says his hellos and after that, seems quite content to go take a look at the latest fabrics on offer. Bradbury's left to his own devices. Bond might remember in a minute that the poor guy probably has no clue.]
WHERE: The fanciest of The City's suit makers
WHEN: Before the Venezuelan trip
SUMMARY: Bond teaches Bradbury the power of a well tailored suit
WARNINGS: These two
FORMAT: Words
[When in the public eye- and even out of it- Bond had always thought one should look their best. A good first impression is essential, and a good sense of fashion helped that along no end, and a fine suit? That was pretty much the high point of it all.
Bradbury had already proved he was capable enough at his job and honest enough for Bond to soon grow a fondness for him. James had a habit of deciding whether he liked a person within the first few minutes of an interaction, and somehow Rick had pulled through with high grades. James was thankful for it, actually, because if he'd hated the guy, he would have had to make his life miserable and he really doesn't have that sort of time. Lucky for both of them.
Trouble was, Bradbury had one fatal flaw. Suits. The suits were fucking awful to Bond's trained eye.
Which totally explains why he's managed to drag Rick out to some fancy area of the city. The shop they arrive at doesn't appear anything too special, a small glass fronted window with an indistinct sign. The interior isn't much better. Small, uncomplicated, with a few mannequins in suit jackets looking dapper, hands in pockets. There's one row of jackets hung up, along with numerous areas of fabrics and ties, but there's no suits one can pick off the rack and purchase.
The male that greets them with a pompous sounding, "Good afternoon, sirs," is elderly, suited, and staring down his nose through a tiny pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He's English, if the accent is anything to go by, and that might just be why Bond favours this place to some of the others. Nothing like an English cut.
Bond says his hellos and after that, seems quite content to go take a look at the latest fabrics on offer. Bradbury's left to his own devices. Bond might remember in a minute that the poor guy probably has no clue.]
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Shit, she'd do it too, wouldn't she? I'd ask for pictures, but he'd probably kill every camera you point at him.
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