FULL SPECTRUM
By Sfumatosoup1
Beta(s): siggyunlimited and onawingandawear
Translation quality-control: laurazel, siggyunlimited and litania87
Special Thanks: (for random assistance and original prompts used within) inhereisatragedy, siggyunlimited and lilith-the-ancient
Also, thank you to all the rest of you whom offered assistance and supported me these past few months, keeping me inspired and motivated with all your support, generosity and enormous amounts of talent.
Word count: 93,000
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst, Action, Intrigue, Romance
Warning: explicitly graphic details of sex between men. mm. Sex in general is a thing here. Also, there is a very minor, insignificant part in which there is some dub-con between two original characters.
Summary: Bond needs to save the world and whatnot. Silva volunteers to help out. BUT WHY? Bond is occasionally dense but always looks sexy, Silva is an adorable bamf. There is sex, feelings, men being dumb, heh. All of it.
00
Culiacán, Mexico
Beneath the unrelenting rays of the hot summer sun, James Bond considered this was not his greatest moment.
Laying in the dirt, chest heaving, groaning in pain from having been caught off guard by a gang of thugs; he was barely coherent enough to notice the tip of a boot come flying through the air.
Connecting solidly to his skull, the Agent's world went black.
00
Paris, France, 03:50, the seemingly placid and cloudless night sky melded seamlessly with the gloom that emanated from within the palatial Avenue Montaigne penthouse.
Cloaked within the shadows, Raoul Silva topped his snifter and carefully returned the bottle of Courvoisier to its spot above his new one-of-a-kind Kuhn-Bösendorfer grand piano.
Not that he played, but it lent a certain... finishing elegance to the whole assemblage of furnishings.
He took a slow, satisfying sip of the amber liquid, feeling its pervading warmth flow through him as he leaned against the window overlooking the city; the gleaming electric lights sparkling like stars from below.
A twinge from that old scar between his shoulder blades pressed Silva into recalling his old raison d'être. A smile crossed his face and he laughed, letting it echo against the vast high-ceilinged séjour. It was poetically ironic that he should be alive and well when Bond was, evidently, rather damaged from his latest excursion.
"Reckless," he huffed with amusement. One does not simply tango solo with a gang of Cartel brutes and expect to end up the unscathed victor.
He turned to the glowing computer display before him and admired the snapshot ID of 007 that flickered on screen. He clicked his tongue, it was such a shame to imagine anyone marring that handsome face.
Of course, that face belonged to the very same man who had quite literally stabbed him in the back with a 7-inch bowie knife. Nevertheless, Silva considered he could understand, better than anyone, the man's actions had not been ill conceived. The call of duty was an enchanting mistress.
James, whether he knew it or not, blinded himself to M's true objectives, his faith had been misplaced and disappointing with its regularity…so tedious…so dull.
Silva could have done so much more with such loyalty.
So, very much more.
Days flew by one after one like a blur until he realized it had been nearly two-years since they'd last met within Bond's ancestral home upon the Scottish Downs. It was with a certain amount of obsessive greed which found Silva monitoring the Agent. Months prior to Bond's most recent excursion, in a pique of boredom, Silva had infiltrated the double-oh database.
Oh, how unashamedly he'd sift through the droll section bulletins, eagerly awaiting with bated breath any sliver of information made available on his erstwhile... 'brother-in-arms'.
And that was a whole other brand of nostalgia in and of itself.
Pulling a hand through his slick blonde locks, the length nearly grazing the top of his Prada clad shoulders, he sighed listlessly and reached out to touch the screen; to touch the image of that man's face, unattainable and intangible, merely a pulsing electrical signal through liquid crystals. Without any sort of self-consciousness, he traced along that masculine jawline.
"What would you have me do, 007?"
"Meu rato solitário... meu pobre querido destroçado...meu James. " The name rolled from his tongue like quicksilver, possessive and perfect.
Without rhyme or reason, an idea crept into his head; manifesting with a sort of poignant clarity as the hours passed, he sat, neglected drink perched upon his knee as the shadows stretched up the length of the wall with the rising sun behind him.
'Perfect', Silva thought, eyes shuttering closed, infused by a sudden breathlessly wonderful, aching, inner thrill, it would be a crime to disregard such inspiration.
Gazing out across the room at the projected image yet glowing on the screen, a slow grin spread across Silva's face and he downed the rest of his drink.
"Shall I, perhaps..." He asked aloud, "Move the stars for you?"
Yes, he mused, perhaps in this particular instance the cosmos would require some realignment.
00
"What the hell were you thinking?" Mallory chastised over the monitor, raising a hand before Bond could get a word in edgewise.
"No, I don't want to know."
"No more explanations. No more excuses. I am at my wit's end. Do you understand how very close I am to stripping you of your status, let alone your job? Do you fully appreciate the strings I've had to pull to even keep you on this assignment? I have superiors I must answer to, and you answer to me. Is that anything you ever even consider, 007?"
Battered and bruised as he was, and feeling sort of ridiculous with the overly large bandage taped across his temple, Bond stiffly maintained eye contact with M.
"I understand. We were misled by our informant. My men weren't in the right place."
"No, they weren't."
"The Cartel has disbanded their base in Culiacán. After you're debriefed, I need you to get back to Chihuahua. We may have a potential lead."
Bond's eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"What's the source?"
"I think it's best if you await Q-branch's report on the matter. We've had an interesting day," the MI-6 director explained, wearily pulling a hand down his face, "I'll transmit you in a second."
M paused for a moment before he looked directly in the eyes of the reckless double-oh Agent that stood before him.
"007, you better know what the hell you're doing out there. I've had it up to here with your continual non-compliance to protocol. This continued arrogance. We cannot have you cavalierly running amok, putting our positions in jeopardy simply because you are unable to reign yourself in."
"Understood, M."
Bond raised his hand to the bridge of his nose and rubbed it lightly. He was tired, and his head ached where that shoe had connected with his skull.
Three days prior, a British consulate in Nairobi, Kenya, had been infiltrated. As a result, a single volatile jump-drive, that contained delicate information on several covert operations throughout South America, was now drifting around somewhere in Mexico.
Tracing the path was simple, discovering whom the drive had been sold to, however, was proving to be more difficult. NATO Agents embedded throughout the tropics would be eaten alive by the widespread Cartel should they not retrieve it in time.
The Agent sighed audibly.
Q blipped into transmission, standing in the bunker below the London headquarters, computers and wires and screens whirring behind him.
"We've been hacked again," he announced cheerily, mug in hand.
Bond blinked slowly.
"Did you hear what I–"
"Yes, I heard you clearly," The Agent snapped back.
"So as I said," Q continued, gesturing to the large computer screen over head, "our system was hacked at 3:15 from an unknown location and with an untraceable ID."
Bond gaped at Q in dismay while he looked over the computer monitor.
"Before you say anything more, it's a good thing, actually! It's how we got the inside scoop on our Cartel's operations."
"Elaborate," The Agent directed.
"Our system was undermined by a superior polymorphic engine that mutated the code and breached our fire wall. Ring any bells?"
"Not specifically."
"In any case, it was more of a flashy ploy for attention. You see, our mystery friend hacked our system in order to provide several encrypted files through cache poisoning, which upon reconstruction conveyed some rather fascinating messages and vitally significant information, including IDs on Cartel Kingpins as well as specific coordinates for narcotic operations."
"That sounds wonderful for the American DEA, but how does that help us locate the jump-drive?"
"According to our friend's eye on the global satellite system, the scan indicated the buyer had already attempted to decipher the access code thereby enabling a read on coordinates on our end."
"So, what you're telling me, is that our Intel comes from some glorified jumped-up hacker, and we're just going to go with it for lack of a better option?"
After M had chewed him out for essentially being a testosterone-fueled, wild card rebel standing on his last leg at MI-6, Bond was displeased to find the department head was evidently more lenient with other divisions. MI-6 systems had been breached for the second time in less than two years and this was somehow excusable.
The world has no sense of justice.
"It's the better option. The best option, in fact…actually, it's our only option, but the point of the matter is that it's reliable!" Q defended.
"Right. Explain this to me again in words I can understand. None of that techno-babble you're so fond of using."
"Techno-babble?" Q admonished, "007, you realize you're becoming quite stodgy and cantankerous in your old-age?"
Bond glared at the screen as the young man continued to cajole, "as you may or may not know, this new-fangled device you're using to communicate with me is called a 'computer'–"
"Business, Q, if you wouldn't mind. It's been a long…" Bond frowned as he glanced at the time on his wristwatch, "16 hours."
"Simply put, remember the Rubik's Cube hack in 2012?"
"That sounds vaguely familiar," Bond intoned, recalling the face of a man he'd put to rest approximately two years ago.
"I thought so as well, only, this one is by far more complex. The coding is…elegant," Q marveled with quiet excitement. He was far too enthused for someone who just had his personal pet-project broken into and played with by a potentially malevolent mystery hacker.
Bond raised an eyebrow, amused by his colleague's reaction, the bandage wrinkling with the stretch of skin, "do I even want to know why you look like someone who has just been asked to their first formal?"
The bespectacled young Quarter Master bestowed him with an unnerving, toothy grin through the screen, "Our lovely hacker-turned-informant clued me into just what procedures he'd taken to override the system. In response, while you were busy getting your brains bashed in, I designed the most advanced and impervious security firewall to date!"
"Father must be proud," Bond muttered.
"Singing praises, 007, singing praises," Q retorted with a cocky grin.
"Why would he...or she…or they," Bond amended, "break in only to show you just how to prevent them from doing so again?"
"That's the crux of it – I have no bloody clue!" Q continued, "It's a double-edged sword. Here we have a grandiose display of technological superiority cluing us into our deficiencies while serving us up a solid lead. It's a strategic move either to impress us, or validate their genuine desire to take down the Cartel, or–"
"Or, much more likely, an attempt to intimidate MI-6," Bond finished.
"It's madness or genius or both, I suppose," Q sighed with a small shrug, "I'll be the first in line to shake their hand, either way."
"Stop looking so star-struck, Q. It's unbecoming of you."
"You're just jealous."
"Obviously," Bond groaned, kneading his brow to alleviate the growing tension between his eyes.
"You don't know the best part yet, 007, you'll want to sit down for this one, alright? Our hacker wasn't out to impress me. This…this was about you."
Bond squinted at the devilish glint in the Quartermaster's eyes.
"What," he deadpanned.
"Exactly. Once I decrypted the code, this was the message left at the tail end of it: Hello, James. Here's to your health. I can only hope this returns you to our Queen and Country, safe and sound."
"It's a trap for me, then."
"Initially, that's what we'd conjectured, however, we were assured otherwise with the following message detailing that, upon news of your secure return from Culiacán, we will be issued a follow up list of coordinates of the Cartel's syndicate Ops in Brazil."
"You've got to be kidding."
"Someone out there has a soft spot for you," Q teased, "which is lucky for us since your secret admirer seems to think the best way to win your esteem is by helping you with the mission."
The young man paused with a momentary thoughtful expression before shrugging, "Not a bad idea if you think about it. Better than flowers or chocolates at any rate."
"So basically, we're just going to take some deranged hacker's word based on their supposed interest in my personal well-being?"
"I'd say 'eccentric' seems a more fitting description–"
"For all I know I'm walking my men straight into a trap."
Q frowned, "I understand your hesitation, but M issued the directive three hours ago. The informant may have played this strangely, but the leads are real, 007. We're going in."
"By 'we', you mean 'me'," Bond corrected tiredly, "…send me the coordinates from your precious lead and get off my damned computer."
00
Silva leaned forward at his desk, fingers interlocked beneath his chin as he considered his next move, glass of Veoh at his elbow.
The resulting sweep from MI-6 and the US Feds had taken down the largest Cartel west of Guadalajara rescuing the jump-drive from the consulate before it could jeopardize MI-6's foreign operatives.
Quite the familiar stunt, Silva considered with wry bemusement.
The fate of the Cartel was inconsequential to him; however, the individual whom had arranged the infiltration of the Nairobi Embassy was a client. Silva had only to make one phone call and that dangling thread had been snipped clean. It was an unfortunate loss as the man had been a reliable connection, however, it was far cleaner to simply eradicate the threat than have the man end up in Guantanamo, or worse.
'Once a shark tastes blood...' Silva considered, tapping his stylus against the glass monitor.
Well, he'd known that from before, of course.
Back then, his name had been Tiago Rodriguez, or perhaps more simply, 001.
Of course, there had been 001's before and sure enough after, but those were the glory days. He'd been the star of the show, the dangerous, well-kept secret of their division, and Bond, the promising new recruit.
Their trajectories had little chance to intersect, however, Silva had discreetly followed the other's career, intrigued from the very start. His fascination with the Agent did not subside with increased time or familiarity. Their missions orbited around each other for months with increasing pull of gravity, and then, all at once, his world crumbled to the ground when M sold him out in Hong Kong. It was a travesty to come so close. Bond had so much raw talent and potential; Silva had wanted to mold and sculpt and claim that potential into equitably valuable worth.
More than anything of late, Silva had found himself worn down by apathy. The world was his oyster and amidst the variety and freedom he was lost. He reigned as Lord atop a vast empire, and with leisure he could pick and choose whatever endeavors amused him, but what he wanted, no, needed was someone to stand at the line of horizon, looking over the precipice by his side.
Silva was self-aware enough to admit he wasn't born for the isolation of command. Once upon a time, M had filled that role in his life with her sparing efficiency and clever mind. But he had only been a tool for her to utilize in the field. Another blunt-instrument for her to use at her disposal.
In his admiration- no- his adoration, he'd assumed his value to her was greater than what it truly was. But then, he was younger and far less cynical in those days and to be fair, he had never been dissatisfied by their arrangement. M was his Queen and he her vassal.
He was at his best when he'd been given a project, a mission, a purpose, which M had provided him.
And curiously enough, upon reflection, he had also been at his best… at least in the field- paired up with a partner.
'Professionally,' he corrected himself of his straying thought.
That was something, wasn't it? His sheets were awfully cold these days.
Silva's preference leaned decisively towards a desire for the strong hard lines and athleticism of the male physique and parallel acuity of mind. He accepted there was a degree of narcissism to this theory, yet even so, he was not explicitly homosexual. As an equal opportunist, his standards, however, were exacting. His innate charisma drew to him willing partners like moths to a spotlight, but he batted them away with exception for only the very few with the brightest of wings.
Sévérine was a diamonte em bruto, her damage increasing her allure, yet she had fundamentally lacked any real, enduring substance.
Granted, she had been a convenient transitory accessory, and he'd taken his pleasure in her nubile form for a time before his apathy had led him to a sort of 'avec le temp' asceticism. Of course, at the time, he'd had more pressing priorities to attend.
Silva sighed as he swirled the liquor in his glass, the ice clinking delicately against the crystal.
To be fair, she had served her purpose well. The seductress had effectively lured Bond to him, unwittingly over-estimating her value to the Agent; secured to the man with false intimacy.
'Ahh, that's a waste of good Scotch,' How…cold, Mister Bond.
It was to a great degree, his fault for having spoiled her so. She had outlived his curiosity and he'd grown complacent. In his distraction with other matters he'd let her run rampant and the woman had become far too dangerous in her own right. He'd allowed her ego to become inflated and go unchecked for far to long, and Sévérine defied him incessantly with a chafing sort of arrogance.
Within his fixation, she'd seen an opening to take advantage of, and Silva knew if he would not be her end, she'd inevitably, ultimately be his.
With the completion of her purpose delivering Bond to his island, Sévérine had become unnecessary.
'There's nothing...nothing superfluous in my life. When a thing is redundant it is, blip, eliminated.'
Silva inhaled deeply, pressing the glass to his lips.
What had at first been a mere power-play; a ploy designed to throw the Agent off-kilter, to Silva had become something else; as a seed was planted into his mind.
Closing his eyes, he could still feel the lingering phantom warmth through the tips of his fingers where they'd stroked the Agent's chest. If only he'd had more time to explore that warmth before MI-6 had descended upon Gunkanjima.
Well, in retrospect anyway.
Now with the flex of luxury he could liberally afford himself, the idea was a tantalizing one.
Such a magnificent physical specimen; a true 'Vetruvian Man' made flesh and blood; in equal parts passive and passionate, reserved and fierce. A perfect yin and yang, a gentleman by blood and a soldier by circumstance.
Of course, Silva was a perceptive individual, and when Bond had been bound to that chair, the wear and tear was evident in the hard lines of his face and the defiant set of his chin. Yet... he looked tired and tired equated with malleability.
The consummate MI-6 machine had been flawed since their battle at Skyfall, perhaps even before, damaged by a veteran's wisdom of years dodging fists and bullets, lying and hiding, seducing and bedding, killing and watching as one-by-one his colleagues continued to fall, names collecting, as years passed, on sterile memorials carved into cold stone.
James Bond was invulnerable to persuasion yet perhaps, Silva considered, the man would be open to an evolution of perspective.
In his estimation, the financial ramifications of his most recent loss were minimal compared to his newfound priorities. Silva understood well the value of making small sacrifices to secure larger investments.
00
Adherence to protocol be damned! What could he do?
The new mission was a tangled, hairy, disaster from the very start. MI-6 intelligence had inferred the new threat to be the work of a widespread international freelance terrorist organization; notorious for causing chaos to governments from the inside out. Their dossier boasted everything from arranging high profile assassinations to large-scale coup d'états.
They were of particular interest of late due to their sudden merger with a discreet and efficient cyber terrorist cell that claimed the ability to conduct large-scale operations, which could wreck havoc on a global scale. Correction. Had wrecked havoc – past tense. Bond reminded himself frowning at the sheets tangled at his ankles.
The group's latest conquest was the New York conEdison power grid. In a display of casual rodomontade they simultaneously disabled security checkpoints at JFK and Heathrow, shut down traffic control at Times Square, and managed to siphon billions from a major Japanese account paralyzing the global stock exchange for nearly two days. The CIA was working tirelessly with MI-6 and MI-7 to track down the rogue organization.
But the whole operation was like a herd of elephants chasing after spiders.
Their original plan was unfeasible.
Bond could see the mission would require a special sort of 'outsourcing'. What he needed was a foot soldier with Q's brain and a bona fide web of shady connections. What he needed was apparently 'unattainable', at least according to M.
Bond stared vacantly upwards as the ceiling swam fluidly above him. He downed the last of his drink, reaching over he set it down with a clank onto the unfamiliar nightstand in the unfamiliar room, and lay back down by the unfamiliar, ginger-haired vixen, naked and pale and gloriously asleep beside him.
They were all more glorious asleep, he mused cynically as he faded from consciousness.
00
MI-6 was getting sloppy, and as days wore on it was clear Bond's impotence in achieving any headway in this mission would lead him down the road to disenfranchised cynicism. The man could not sit still. If he wasn't jumping around and shooting things the complacency would drive him mad. How could he be expected to succeed if he wasn't provided the instruments with which to do so?
Silva merely had to step in, a knight in shining armour, to save the day with the answers only he possessed. He couldn't fathom a more perfect opportunity to secure his acquisition.
'We can either eat each other…hmm? Or everyone else.'
'We.' The nominative plural had never sounded so desirable as it did right now.
00
From the granite counter tops of his apartment's kitchen, a porcelain bulldog, decorated with the Union Jack, surveyed a hungover and gloomy Bond as he scanned through his briefings.
The Agent groaned, cradling his throbbing head, vision blurring as he struggled to discern how he could feasibly comply with these new orders. The whole thing would be voluntary suicide, he, as the sacrificial tribute of Her Majesty's Royal Secret Service. M may as well have personally signed his death warrant.
Not that Bond wasted his days by trying to prolong them. Life was running and jumping, throwing fists and taking punches, emptying clips and dodging bullets... The only thing he feared now-a-days was becoming obsolete; a useless relic unable to perform. Purpose was the essence of survival and in turn it had a minimizing effect on fear. In addition, his training had been arduous and unforgiving; consequently, Bond himself was severe and merciless.
Especially with himself.
He put his reflections aside as he got up to pour hot water into his mug in order to steep some Earl Gray. With a yawn and a stretch, he opened his shades, and stood beside his window, basking in the warmth from the unseasonably bright sun and cloudless morning.
The Intel itself was vague, Bond sensed, though the dots more or less connected themselves. The assignment had such maddening potential to be interesting. Something a younger 007 would have jumped at earlier in his career, but at this juncture, he was under no illusions that his obscurity had evolved into infamy among the criminal contingency.
This mission was a footwork masquerade and he had no mask to wear to the party, his usual application of methods would prove ineffectual unless he could somehow convincingly abdicate his known allegiances.
A short rap at the door jolted him from his thoughts. Securing his robe about his waist, Bond grabbed a gun off the table and quietly made his way to the door, flipping the remote to switch on the camera in order to verify the identity of the individual.
"Parcel delivery," announced an innocuous sounding voice muffled through the door.
Bond peered out through a slim crack from the entryway into the hallway, frowning suspiciously at the courier, "Yes?"
"Package must be signed for, are you Mister Bond?" The Agent nodded abruptly, wary of the small box between the man's hands. "Right then, sign here," he passed Bond a small receipt.
"Thank you and have a good day, Sir."
He glanced about the hall as the man departed and shut the door behind him, heaving a sigh as he voiced the code resealing the electronic locks. He'd have to move again it seemed. Sitting down at the table he stared across at the package. The sender was infuriatingly presumptuous to assume Bond wouldn't simply turn it over for inspection.
He sipped his tea slowly, still debating whether to open it or alert MI-6.
Though, he considered, all parcels went through a security screening process anyway, so there couldn't be anything overtly treacherous waiting to snap his hand off the second it was opened. Curiosity ultimately made the decision for him.
Tearing through the brown paper package Bond lifted the cover easily from the box to inspect its contents, which appeared to consist of a hermetically sealed mobile and a handwritten letter.
His unfolded the letter carefully, pushing aside his mug, as he was instantly struck by the strange yet unnameable familiarity of the script.
[ I find it so much more elegant to communicate the old-fashioned way, paper missives, brown paper packages, tied up with string…so simple. No ribbons of digital information flying through the air easily intercepted by anyone if they have the means. ]
Bond cautiously removed the mobile from its plastic encasing and glanced at it carefully before setting it aside.
[ Of course, James, this is no ordinary mobile, it seems so obvious to explain its necessity, but yes, this is your permission to contact me. It's like that game we played as children. Circle the 'YES' if you like me, or…well of course you wouldn't circle 'NO'. Let us face facts, James, you're lost and you need me.
I am willing to bail you out – consider this round two.
I know you must be asking yourself 'why?' A good spy knows that trust is never an advantage; even so, try not to look this gift horse in the mouth.
Simply text 'YES', and I will send you an address and a time and a place to go. No traps. My word is my...bond. Ha ha ha.
Do not inform MI-6 of this arrangement, believe me when I promise you, I will know. CCTV's are everywhere and I have many 'friends'.
Of course, as much as I would love to trust you, I feel I must also forewarn you. I am a very dangerous and powerful individual. I don't mean to boast, I merely must point out that it would be extremely disappointing for all concerned if you were to involve your friends in high places.
This is not about helping them, James. This is about helping you.
Just as an extra precaution, I must warn you from dissembling your new mobile. You won't find anything really special inside other than a microchip programmed to run interference against tracking, using my own personal network, and a small explosive device that will trigger if you attempt to bring this within the coordinates of a One Kilometer radius surrounding any MI-6 related facilities, and trust that I am aware of every last bunker and tunnel, so don't get inventive.
I wouldn't want to risk you losing any of your appendages.
We'll need them for that little PPK of yours with the microdermal sensor.
Q-branch gives you such fun toys!
Here is the part where I sell you on why you will follow my orders and accept my assistance, of course, recall, it is entirely your choice, there are no threats and there will be no consequences if you decline.
Obviously, you are now aware that I know to the last detail every bit of what your current mission entails. You need an inside man. You need to be able to go undercover. Convincingly.
You need me for the introductions. After all, how can the known double agent James Bond, glide safely and effectively through the underworld with such notoriety? You would need a powerful ally with a sterling and established reputation to vouch for you. One whom, by your side, none would ever have cause to doubt that you would never settle for selling out to Queen and Country. I would lend you the credibility. I can make you important enough by association that none would dare touch a single hair on your pretty head.
Here's the game. You must play the rogue Agent spurned and salivating for a chance at burning MI-6 to the ground. Easy sell.
Now your hackers need a mastermind for hire, one more formidable than the entirety of Q-branch, with an impressive resume and hands in all the jars. Their good fortune is that I'm on the market for clients! What serendipitous convenience! What a grand way to make friends and influence people.
We'll tear them down from the inside out.
And what more could you ask for than a partner who is a better shot than yourself?]
Bond bristled at the thinly veiled insult, desperately curious to discover just how this person could know so many particulars, let alone presume to infer superiority in the field.
[ So, James, what will it be?
YES or YES?
Lucky you, I offer my services free of charge. Consider it a courtesy from an old, mutual friend.]
Bond knew himself to act rashly, but he'd typed out 'YES' and sent it before he'd even paused to consider the ramifications. He'd deal with them later, if need be. He knew an opportunity when he saw one, and this had been hand-delivered.
If Q only knew he'd be shortly setting out to shake the hand of their mysterious ally from the Nairobi case he'd be frothing with envy, Bond imagined, grinning into his mug.
00
The location of their rendezvous point was, in a word, discreet. The back alley entrance seemed almost cliché with its non-descript sign and open door. Once inside the establishment, Bond observed a number of booths and tables lined against the long narrow stretch of wall opposite the bar. The dim lights cast a soft glow of red and black over the patrons, immersed within their own worlds.
Bond felt strangely at ease and with a subtle glance around the room he took his seat, noting a party of several men in expensive tailored suits, cast in the shadows toward the back.
One man in particular caught his eye. Unlike the others, this gent resounded of poised power beneath a barely tamed flare for the dramatic. His insouciant sense of self-awareness was achieved through his choice of a fitted designer sport coat that contrasted nicely with an ostentatious oxford shirt, that all together made him appear undeniably handsome, bordering on devil-may-care.
The other fellows continued to converse amongst themselves, oblivious to their companion's sudden shift to speechless captivation, his eyes dark beneath tinted glasses found Bond's own and faceted to them with surprised pleasure.
The man humoured him from afar waiting patiently for Bond to connect the dots; he snapped his fingers for the bartender's attention and whispered quick orders before waving him off. His full lips spread into a greeting smile that stretched the scape of his face, highlighting the masculine cut of his cleanly shaved jaw and dimpled chin.
Bond let his eyes travel up to the familiar sweep of stark, nearly white, bottle-blonde hair, an unusual contrast to the man's tanned face. For an endless second he forgot to breathe, the cogs in his mind whirred, spinning rapidly into motion as they began connecting fragmented whispers and shadows together to inevitably transpose the result upon the stranger before him. Then, with sudden breathless recognition, in spite of the impossibility of it, he knew.
"One Vesper Martini, courtesy of a friend," the bartender announced as he set down the champagne goblet interrupting the Agent from his startling revelation. Bond sucked in a sharp breath. Vesper. He closed his eyes as the name pulled at a part of him he couldn't afford to think about at that moment.
Collecting himself, Bond glanced up to find the man had risen from his seat, and with a casual, inimitable swagger, was heading directly toward him, grinning broadly.
"I don't typically accept drinks from strangers."
"Ah, but we're not really strangers,"Silva corrected, sidling onto the stool beside him, "Are we?"
He savoured the taste of his cocktail and studiously ignored the heat of Silva's eyes as they shamelessly swept over his seated form. The drink was perfect, down to the type of vodka.
"Tom Ford has always flattered you, 007," Silva whistled approvingly under his breath, "James."
Bond's answering smile was wan and did not meet his eyes.
"Jonathon," Silva spoke, alerting the bartender with a wave of his hand and a wink at his companion, "I'll have what he's having."
"It seems you've adopted my hobbies," Bond stated laconically.
Silva propped an elbow on the counter to rest his head in his hand. As he leaned in closer, he swung up and across a companionable arm to rest atop Bond's back-rest.
"Now which could you mean, the drinking or the resurrecting?"
"Both."
"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery," the blonde responded coyly when his drink was placed in front of him.
"And the lemon-peel, too, nice touch."
"The devil is in the details, as they say," he quickly checked his mobile before slipping it back inside his vest pocket, "very good, I see you've followed my orders."
Bond schooled his features as he stared stiffly ahead at the glistening liquor bottles reflected in their mirrored encasement, "It appears I've walked into a trap after all."
Silva laughed. It was short, sharp, and empty.
"Just look at yourself, James. Look at that ugly purple lump on your forehead…it's pretty transparent that you seem to have a certain predilection for living life on the wild side." He paused with a toothy grin as he ran a hand up the Agent's back to smooth out a wrinkle in the collar, "wouldn't you say so?"
Bond remained stoically dispassionate as ever, much to Silva's enjoyment.
"Oh, I'm teasing you. Don't be so tediously dense, if I wanted you dead," he said with a snap of his fingers, "like that, you'd have been dead ages ago."
Silva tilted his head to the side, gazing at his companion fondly, "There are no hard feelings between us, James, I've let bygones be bygones."
"How generous of you."
"No, not generous," he responded with a swift wave of his hand, "reasonable. My letter was very genuine. I am here to help you."
"Yes, you seem to have taken a rather keen interest in helping recently," Bond acknowledged, "you're practically Mother Teresa."
"What a marvelous comparison," Silva said, bowing his head graciously.
"You know my Quartermaster is rather taken with you?"
"Oh, is he?"
"He wants to 'shake hands' if I recall," Bond said with a bemused smirk while lifting the drink to his mouth.
Silva chuckled, "is that all he wants to shake?"
Bond stared at the other man humourlessly, the innuendo falling flat.
"I bet he found my assistance rather invaluable with regards to MI-6's fancy new firewall."
He watched with mild fascination as Silva traced the rim of his glass with one finely manicured fingernail before dipping inward to snare the lemon-peel. Bringing it to his mouth, he caught a droplet of alcohol, and provocatively licked it from his bottom lip.
"Your hack bypassed his last one, you could do it again," Bond said with a shrug of his shoulders.
"True," Silva nodded, wrapping the peel in a napkin before tossing it into an ashtray, "if I had the inclination. I am rather proud of my latest code. It's like an all-access-pass, a key to the kingdom, if you will."
"It's remarkable how you managed to reassemble more than a decade's worth of network in under two years, I was under the assumption MI-6 had been thorough in its deconstruction of your headquarters."
Silva leaned back in his seat and crossed his ankles.
"Did you ever hear the story of the solar-powered PC tablets that were left in the hands of destitute children from an Ethiopian refugee camp?"
Bond shook his head, peering interestedly at his companion.
"Within minutes of them being dropped off, one child not only opened the box and pulled out the tablet, but found the on/off switch. He powered it up."
"Within five days, the children, whom had never been privileged with an education and had never seen a computer before, were using apps."
"Within two weeks, they were singing ABC songs in English. Soon after, they figured out the camera, circumvented the security, customized their own settings and disabled hardware…and within five months, they'd hacked the company's system."
Silva paused, gauging his companion's look of interest and smiled.
"It's staggering to think what man is capable of when he has the means, a little ingenuity, and just the right amount of," he leaned in and pressed his lips against Bond's ear, "…motivation."
Under the counter of the bar, Silva brazenly slid a hand up Bond's thigh, his small finger lightly tracing circles along the inner seam.
The Agent glowered, resisting the impulse to push the intrusive hand away.
Somehow, no one paid them any mind; it occurred to Bond that perhaps the crowd here knew better. He swallowed, pressing his lips together as Silva kept his mouth just near enough that he could feel his warm breath and hot lips graze the helix of his ear while Silva hummed to the tune playing through the speakers overhead.
'I was so scared you were what I feared,' the music played, immersing the room within its gentle melody.
'And though I never dared...'
"'With you I somehow did,'" Silva sang along, smirking at the Agent's more than obvious discomfort.
'I was alone, I was alone.'
"Such a sour face, my dear, you don't like this song?"
"Stop it," Bond demanded in a quiet, clipped tone.
"Or what? Oh, come now, I didn't think you'd be such a spoilsport," Silva admonished, his wandering fingers remained on their path slowly trailing up his companion's inner thigh.
With great effort, the Agent suppressed a shiver as the light touch sent pleasure sparking upward and blood coursing downward, stirring him with a conflicted cross of nervous lust and repulsion.
"Is this your price?" Bond inquired, regarding the hand in his lap before looking up at the man with a raised eyebrow.
Silva tossed his head back and laughed in genuine delight, "Perhaps if I were to let you name it!"
"You flatter yourself," Bond rebuke, inhaling sharply through his nose.
He would not give the man the satisfaction of seeing him lose his composure.
"Well, of course I do. A man should always be aware of his gifts, but, I do think you protest unfairly, you see, I am fluent in your language, James, and where your tongue tells lies, your body," he squeezed Bond's groin to illustrate his point, "…simply cannot."
Bond jerked away, nearly upturning his drink, his face heated with anger at the loss of control of his traitorous body mingled with the flush of arousal.
"Relax…" Silva directed, his eyes wide with amusement betraying some small amount of either feigned or genuine concern, "you need to relax."
He flattened his hand against the Agent's back soothingly, "I really had no idea you were so easily riled. I recall our previous encounter differently, I suppose. What's changed, my dear? You used to know how to play this game."
"This is beyond a game."
"Is it?" Silva queried curiously.
"It really doesn't do much to convince me that you're doing this out of friendly courtesy," Bond pressed.
"So insistent! One would think you want me to charge for my services after all."
"Your actions speak clearly."
"Mister Bond!" Silva exclaimed, scandalized, "are you implying that I'm trying to seduce you?"
"Trying, being the operative word," Bond smirked.
"Now, now, whosoever you choose to warm your sheets is not what we've come here to discuss."
"Isn't it?"
"Tsk tsk, naughty boy."
"Your flirtation is unusually aggressive for one who claims to be above all that dull physical stuff."
"…You have an intriguingly eidetic memory for words, haven't you?" Silva raised an eyebrow suggestively, "we can always try and have you prove me wrong."
"What exactly do you get out of this arrangement," Bond asked, running a hand atop his short-cropped hair as he relaxed back in his seat.
"Entertainment, exercise, the pleasure of your company... take your pick."
"Your reasons are your own, fine," Bond accepted, "but precisely how do I fit in this equation? I am not underestimating myself, but if you had a legitimate reason for doing so, you could conceivably work as a one-man operation. What sells anyone on why you'd even partner with me?"
"Is this truly a valid concern of yours? I can't imagine anyone would be overly suspicious of your motives if you're with me. We play our roles. It isn't complicated. Now shake my hand, James."
The Agent extended his hand warily, "I don't trust you."
"The beauty of it is," Silva grinned, sealing the deal with the firm requisite handshake, "you don't have to, I wouldn't expect you to! I'd be surprised if you did, frankly…I don't trust me."
"That's reassuring."
"But you do need me, regardless of your suspicions."
"For lack of any better option," Bond agreed reluctantly.
Meu rato solitário.. Meu pobre querido destroçado: my lone rat, my dear, my poor injured darling
diamonte em bruto: diamond in the rough
avec le temp: momentary
The song is Of Verona's 'Castles'.