Disclaimer: Obviously if I owned James Bond I wouldn't be here (blank look)

Song: Skyfall by Adele


For this is the end

I've drowned and dreamt this moment

So overdue, I owe them

Swept away, I'm stolen


The room went quiet a moment when the bullet purposefully broke the chaos, sliced through a guard's shoulder and lodged itself solidly in a woman's forehead. M took a deep lungful of air, her eyes wide and mouth comically slack. She fell, lifeless, into Mallory's arms.

Bond watched the only person to even remotely define "family" in his long life of unattached loneliness, fade before his eyes. Fuelled with rage he jerked his head in the direction of the assailant, and would have shot. Should have shot. But the indescribable expression on the other mans' face stunned him into paralyses and stayed his hand. Silva was not smiling, held no gloating gleam in his eyes, nor did he hold the impassioned, crazed valor so often seen on the faces of victors. No. He just watched, glassy eyed and stony faced, not blinking once as he mechanically dropped the gun and marched out of the courtroom. His madly firing lackeys covering his exit at the cost of their own lives.

Granted after the initial shock wore of, Bond should have gone but found himself unable to leave M's body in order to pursue the ex-agent, and by the time the ER pronounced the elderly woman quite dead (as if that wasn't obvious with the silver of metal lodged in her forehead) Silva was naturally long gone and his trail was announced cold from the get-go.


A year later, when no more undercover names had been released, the MI6 announced the terrorist "Silva" to be of low priority and cut the funding. Manpower soon followed. Mallory once confessed in the confidence of his parlour, that no real effort was ever truly made.

"You see 007, the lead…or I suppose I should say lack of one, was clear to this department two weeks after the incident. We cannot perform miracles, you understand? Although we probably could have pursued harder, when two weeks went by and Silva released no names to the media, it was mutually agreed upon that his intended target was and had always been M. From his history, you can see why he would cease to pursue the termination of undercover agents, when it no longer benefited him. I'm sorry. I know it's hard to hear, but with the Algerian's getting rowdy and that hot mess in the Palestine's, I'm sure you can understand where I'm coming from."

James skulled his two-fingers of scotch like a shot and banged the glass down on the mahogany table.

"I understand. I understand you jelly-balled shits don't want Silva getting itchy hands and maybe pulling the trigger on the hard drive out of some final act of desperation. I understand that a valued leader of this organization with more loyal service under her belt than any of you is worth jack now that she's gone."

"Now hold on a minute Bond, that's not what I meant and you know it."

"I don't want to hear it. I'm on leave Mallory, as of now. Enjoy your succeed into power," he snarled and promptly left the office, never looking back. Outside the rain poured in rivulets, as did Mallory's scotch.


Bond rolled off with a grunt, panting into the pillow. He was getting too old for this many rounds in one hour, not that he'll ever admit it mind you. Beside him the wiry youth, with bird-nest hair and cheeky eyes, turned leisurely on to his side and observed the still panting blonde with blatant amusement.

"What did you say to me when we met? "Youth is no guarantee of innovation". Forgive me if I'm wrong but I recon I just gave you one for the books."

"Little…shit" Bond mumbled, voice labored and muffled by the pillow pressed firmly against his nose and mouth, eventually air became a necessity and James rolled on to his side, facing his smirking quartermaster. Two pairs of hands, one callused and one smooth, one gentle and one assertive, traced mindless patters on the other's body, hands never straying bellow the belt. They've played the game. Now it was time to talk business.

"You're going to pursue him aren't you?" Q stated more than asked, aimlessly tracing one spiraling scar between the top row of abs.

"Yes," James answered and proceeded to play 'God Save the Queen' on protruding ribs, humming softly. Q attempted to stifle a chuckle.

"Then I'll help you."

"You shouldn't…"

"I know, but I will. Can't let you out there without your trusted eyes and ears."

"You are aware that mine are still quite sharp, are you not?"

"Yes but you're getting old, plus I can get more info at home in…"

"Your pyjamas than I can ever get out in the field." Bond finished for him.

Q smiled and the blonde took the time to appreciate the genuine kindness in the expression. The playful twinkle of chocolate eyes, the slightly furrowed brow and winking dimples, the cleft in the chin that seemed to perfectly complement the plump rose lips and perfect teeth.

'Teeth.' He promptly cleared his head, letting one hand cup the baby soft skin. 'Smooth' he thinks, even with the barest trace of stubble breaking anew, like spring shoots on a freshly shorn field.

"Thank you."

Q let his smile fall and turning his head, pressed his lips against the callused palm.


"Japan. Can't let go of the Asians can he?"

"Yes James Japan, but not quite Metropolitan. It looks like he's sailing somewhere off the southern islands, some 30km of the coast of Kagoshima. I booked you a flight from Laos to Tokyo for tomorrow night and a train ticket from Tokyo to Kagoshima, from there I hired you a boat under the name Timothy Sandlewood."

"Really, could you be any more gay?"

"Shut it double-oh, or I'll change that booked fully functional speed boat for two paddles and a plank.

"Terrified," Bond drawled.

"Or I'll never let you touch me again..."

"Ok don't do that." The voice was all business. Q smirked, warm in his pyjamas on the other end of the world. Empty threat, but what a reaction.

"Ok your tickets will be available for pick-up at the front desk tomorrow morning. Take everything, but the boat will also be equipped with some of my newest gadgets. I had them delivered last night and all the set up instructions are inside, translated to kindergarten ABC's so you should have no problem old man.

"You little…"

"Password is 'I 'heart' Q 4 Ever'. Cheery-oh!" The dial tone interrupted Bonds well thought out, string of expletives.


It wasn't that he was hiding. In fact far from it, he was aiming to be caught. As the saying goes "there are only two tragedies in life; one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it." That was precisely how he thought of it. He was in plain sight and he loved it. No effort was needed to hide. He could probably march into MI6, plonk Mallory on the nose and still walk out of there scott free. Not that he would. He had other plans. If he was lucky, (and he was always so lucky with his plans) he'll go down in a hail of fire from his favorite double-oh seven. Quick, clean and that sexy view would literally be to die for. Naughty boy. As he steered, he remembered how often he played sailor at the orphanage, using an old fridge cardboard box for a boat. The nuns considered his good behaviour a blessing (mindful of how scarcely it showed itself) and made a deal with the 'devil' so to speak. Of course Silva was nothing if not a man of his word (even at 8) and the fretting nuns experienced a blessed month of peace. Than the box tore.

Another wave crushed against the side of the catamaran and somewhat violently tipped the vessel to the right. 'Must be a storm coming' he thinks idly and continues to navigate. So what if he capsized; not quite as charming as being shot down by a hot stud, but twice as charming as being tortured and publicly executed at Barmouth. Another boat was some distance away, jumping erratically as it sped full throttle against the waves. No one else came out here. He would know after 8 days of solitude. 'Finally', he thinks and lets the wind guide him towards his most awaited finale.


"Double-oh seven" he bellowed in a cheery tone, watching the agent climb aboard, wearing a wet, see-through, white shirt and yummy, black denims. James reached behind himself and pulled free his 9mm. Silva didn't bat an eye.

"I found you, you son of a bitch."

The blonde smirked and effortlessly spun the steering wheel to the left.

"What makes you think I was hiding?"

"Shut it."

"Manners Mr. Bond, didn't our mummy ever teach you…"

"I said shut it!" Bond shot and missed by a metaphorical mile.

"I see your aim never quite returned," Silva commented and turned to glance nonchalantly over one shoulder at the cabin door. It now sprouted a silver eye. "Looks like mummy, don't you think?"

Bond snarled, "I won't miss again."

"No", Raoul sighed, "you won't"; and resigned, drew his hands of the steering wheel. He watched it spin a minute; the boat turning before coming to a standstill, drifting peacefully on the heaving waves.

"Go on than," he prompted.

Bond narrowed his eyes and felt his top lip twitch. Can't be this easy. Couldn't be.

"Why?"

"Because," Silva proclaimed with a manic, over dramatic humor, raising both hands in exasperation, "I want you too."

"Bull shit."

"Ah whether you choose to believe me or not is up to you James…"

"I don't care if you want to die, I don't care if you don't. I saw you kill M in cold blood. With nary a blink…"

"You would have preferred I tortured her? Made her suffer? Suffer for her sins."

Bond remained silent, but his silence spoke volumes of curiosity.

"I didn't want her to suffer James, or I would have made this entire experience allot simpler. It is much easier to kidnap an elderly widow in her sleep than it is to storm a highly secure government building. I simply…needed to make a statement."

Silva's eyes dulled in memory and his entire face changed tragically to resemble nothing more than a plasticine mask, so thinly stretched over bone that it barely held from tearing.

"I wanted her to think on her sins."

A clap of thunder dramatically accompanied the statement, encouraging Bond to look away from the ex-agent and to the east where a flash of lightning lit the sky, followed shortly by another roar of thunder. The sky above them had too grown considerably darker. How had he not noticed that? Tearing his eyes away from the overcast he leveled his target with another threatening look. But Silva paid him no mind; blonde head tilted back as he studied the sky. Hands stretched out at the sides with palms facing upward to greedily catch droplets of water.

"How appropriate," and James barely heard him above the rising wind. Blue eyes narrowed as he once more took careful aim, choosing to center for the chest instead of the head allowing for a larger target. Just as he was ready to pull the trigger another clap of thunder, this time much louder, shook the sky.

"Oh, oh!" Silva was looking to the east, clapping his hands in excitement. Against his better judgment Bond followed his gaze. A good mile away, a small white mark, roughly the size of a dove jumped hazardously on the waves. His boat.

"First rule of sailing James, 'always draw anchor'," Silva laughed heartily, though sobered to easy chuckles when Bond waved his gun at him.

"Get behind that wheel and start steering or so help me I'll kill you right now."

"No James, you'll kill 'us' right now," Silva corrected and watched as realisation struck the younger man like a pile of bricks.

"Get…get behind the wheel and steer. NOW!"

"Are you going to shoot me later?"

"Yes."

"Good," and with no further ado the ex-agent elegantly stepped behind the wheel, completely unfazed by the aggressively swaying vessel. Bond on the other hand was quickly loosing his sea feet, sliding precariously from side to side in his new pair of boat shoes (ironic isn't it).

"James, be a dear and go untie that rope over there," Silva off-handedly waved to a high-strung line that was holding one of the sails against the wind. As James moved to comply he was shoved roughly by the force of the wind and knocked into the side railing. The force of the hit made him drop his gun into the water. Shit.

"James," Silva sing-sang, like he might if they were at a picnic and Bond was tardy with the wine, instead of fighting a storm in the middle of Japanese waters.

He swore under his breath and grabbed hold of the rope hook, beginning to loosen the knot. Another burst of icy wind nearly threw him overboard and the entire catamaran tilted comically onto one side, than fell back with bone shaking force. Suddenly Silva was beside him. Cutting the rope with a hunting knife, the blonde Spaniard pressed one hand against James's head, forcing him down while screaming, "duck" as the sail rail flew past them with astonishing velocity. Letting him go, Raoul moved cautiously to the cabin door and with the force of all his weight forced it open. He stepped in and turned to offer his hand.

"We can't just do nothing. We can still save her."

"Too late for that. Inside James. We can't beat it. All we can do is wait it out."

Looking defeated and weary beyond measure, Bond grabbed onto Silva's arm and let the serpent pull him into the pit.


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