He doesn't throw away the broken hard drive case.
It rests innocuously beside one of his favorite jerry-rigged mainframes, the rusty brown discoloration of the plastic a silent shrine to James' passing. It has no meaning, Silva tells himself. He just can't find the time to dispose of the damn thing.
It's a week before Sévérine finds the cracked pieces of plastic. She gives him a simpering look and chucks it into the bin with a sneer.
"Out with the old," She says, like the phrase should set right so many broken promises, and settles onto his lap, legs spread wide.
"It is only you and me now."
He doesn't correct her.
He sequesters himself and spends weeks fine-tuning his plans for London. To test his system he destabilizes the security protocols regulating leak containment at a chemical plant off the Chinese coast. The facility is state-run and isolated on a hideously urbanized slip of island; it's ugly, overpopulated and reeks of desperation. Nothing like his grandmother's small paradise and Silva suddenly wants something ugly to call his own, seeing as he can't have beautiful things anymore.
Sévérine is horrified when he announces him plans to relocate for the foreseeable future; she even has her men set charges all across the island, blowing holes in every standing structure. The place is a wasteland when she's done and the act does nothing but annoy him. He has her personal guard reassigned and gives her a new staff, this one unquestioningly loyal to Silva. This doesn't stop Sévérine from being a right terror; ordering up executions like the Red Queen and Silva does nothing to stop her.
Truthfully he doesn't care. She can do as she wishes as long as she's his at the end of the day.
A part of him recognizes, however, that the status quo will soon change. It has to. She has too much power and he's too apathetic to deal with it.
She'll end up killing him at some point. It's almost inevitable. He just hopes he is able to exact his revenge on M first.
So for the moment her punishment is lacking, but he has the bigger picture to worry about. When the dust has settled - literally and figuratively - he breaks into MI6's security mainframe and blows M's office into the Thames.
The act isn't as satisfying as he hoped it would be.
His little game flushes more than just M out of the grass.
Bond is alive.
Silva's mole in Q branch confirms the report, even sends a grainy surveillance video of a decidedly worse-for-wear 007 in the shooting range.
The man looks so old. So tired. Nothing like the James he once knew, instead like death warmed over.
He laughs until he can no longer breathe, vision blurred from tears.
He wonders why he finds that thought so funny.
His mind recalibrates in minutes. Acceptance replaces disbelief and Agent 007 takes his place on the playing field.
Silva bursts through firewalls, decrypts state communications and piggybacks every transmittable frequency in MI6's emergency facility.
What he finds does not surprise him.
Bond woefully underperforms on all of his tests. His psychological evaluation is terrible, his stamina nonexistent and his aim shit. He can barely pass for a decent drone, let alone a highly trained double-O.
Silva is certain that M won't allow her precious Bond back into the field just yet, not to face an unknown enemy and certainly not after Bolivia.
Without fail, Mummy surprises him with her cruelty.
It makes him cringe. She killed Bond once and she's prepared to do it again.
He is fully aware that MI6 has no idea of his true identity, or even an inkling of his current one, and yet they send Bond scurrying after an invisible man.
It's deplorable.
That said, he doesn't expect Bond to find Patrice in Shanghai, and he certainly doesn't foresee Bond killing the man while the assassin is still on Silva's payroll.
None of his men recognize Bond, this includes his darling Sévérine. However, being the cautious genius he is, Silva immediately starts planning for every possible contingency.
The most likely of which being that Sévérine will intercept the man she knows only as an MI6 agent and try to hand over Silva. He gets his just desserts and she gets an empire; it's the kind of poetic justice that she so adores.
While everything is simply speculation on his part, her future insubordination can not be tolerated. So he sends Sévérine to Macau to intercept Bond. He places her in the casino, knowing her doe-eyed pleas for freedom will draw James like a moth to a flame. James will try to help free her, because somewhere down deep the man still thinks he's a white knight. For Sévérine he'll be equal parts savior and saboteur; only Bond's actions will decide her fate.
How he wishes he could be there, to see the dawning realization on her face.
She's a smart girl, but he's the one that trained her. This will be the last time she plays him for a fool.
He taps into the closed-circuit surveillance system of the Golden Dragon and just watches. He can't hear what Sévérine and Bond discuss, but he doesn't need to. She's trying to save herself at his expense.
He sees her tell, plain as day through the monitor.
She's afraid.
He's mildly surprised to see his men attempt to kill the agent, but he can't feign ignorance. He's been indisposed for too long and Sévérine is too attractive. It's a problem that will soon be rectified.
Bond escapes the Komodo pit and disappears.
Silva is far from worried.
He cannot sleep.
He concocts scenario after scenario in his mind of how the next day should go.
How should they meet? What should he say? Should he restrain Bond and play the quintessential villain? Should he drug the agent only to have him wake vulnerable in Silva's bed?
So many options that fly out the window when he receives notice The Chimera has docked.
He'll go with the chair. A classic standby and one James will appreciate.
Bond does not recognize him.
Silva realized years ago that his appearance would never be what it once was. The stresses he'd endured had turned his hair a patchy white that necessitated regular bleaching because the uneven tone bled through every colored dye he tried. Hydrogen cyanide had eaten away at his admirable bone structure and years of surgery had followed to restore any hint of his former visage. His vocal cords were so damaged his voice is now largely synthesized.
He can barely tell he's a Spaniard himself, anymore, but he must look a mess if James can not see even a shadow of his former lover in Silva's face.
The disappointment compounds because he does not expect James to have forgotten him entirely. Even after the story of the island. Even after the gentle caressing and playful chiding.
What had M put him through to make him forget Tiago Rodriguez so thoroughly?
"See what she's done to you." He bemoans, and Bond assumes he's talking about the scars.
He keeps pushing, hinting at their shared past when he realizes what 007 must think this exchange really is. A power play to turn him, to lose faith in MI6 and his beloved M; which, honestly, is true. Silva does want Bond to turn rogue, to have the agent defect right back into his bed.
"It is about you." A small part of him wants to say. "It was always about you."
But there is no joyous reunion this day, no passionate embrace, and Silva takes out his anger on his dear Sévérine, as promised.
He leads Bond into the courtyard, the intercom plays their song. Well, in all fairness, it's a song. Silva can't remember details so well anymore, and it has been a very long time for both of them.
"Darling, your lovers are here."
Sévérine stares at him with outright hate as he approaches with the shot glass, recoiling in revulsion when he tries to give her one last kiss, but he can only smile. Silva leans in close, glass delicately pinched between his fingers.
"When anything is redundant, it is eliminated. You have become redundant, love."
"You'll burn for this," she hisses at him through bloody lips as he turns away. "Your precious little Corazón is going to see right through you and he's going to know there is nothing left inside but the putrified rot you call a soul. He will never love you."
He places the shot glass squarely on her head as a response.
She knew the stakes long before James was even a player in this game. He gave her fair warning, and she ignored him; used him like so many others had used him.
He forces Bond to take the shot when he can barely steady the pistol. Taunts him. Questions if he's still an agent, still the man he once was.
Understandably, Bond misses.
Silva is not surprised. Bond carries himself like a newborn faun on unsteady legs, forcibly brought into a world he does not yet understand.
Sévérine stares at him, unblinking. Silva does not miss his shot.
She drops and he has flashes of M and her wretched dolls.
It's cruel. It's disturbed. It is also, indeed, a waste of good scotch. In the moment he can't bring himself to care.
He recognizes that this will only hurt James' perception of him when he finally realizes that Raoul Silva is Tiago Rodriguez, but it's a bit late for subtlety. Fifteen years have passed since M left him to die. Time enough for James Bond to forget Agent 009.
He's played his hand and lost.
So he lets Bond have his little radio. Lets him believe he's captured the head of a deadly terrorist organization. MI6 will cart him back to England, and all he has to do now is wait for the pieces to come together. He always has a Plan B, and he may not have James, but M is close second.
He'll take what he can get.
He's restrained on the flight back to England. Bond just watches him from across the cabin. The man looks focused, but Silva can see the exhaustion creeping in.
He wonders if death broke James the way it broke him.
Mummy won't say his name, and perhaps she knew about his and James' little affair from the beginning. Likely used it to mold Bond into the agent he is today. He wouldn't put it past her. Not now. Not after everything she's done.
Still, she tries so hard to dismiss him as a psychopath, to color her sins as his own, and James stands there all the while, dutifully listening to every word spoken.
He's suddenly furious. She'll be dead soon enough, but to stand here and explain himself is beyond degrading. All he wants is for M to admit fault, any fault, enough to spark the growing doubt in Bond's mind.
He removes his prosthesis, not so much for her witness as for Bond. When the double-O cringes slightly, something akin to hope bubbles in Silva's chest.
Sympathy can be manipulated.
It's a start.
A short time after M's attempt at grandstanding she must have informed Bond about Silva's true identity, because not ten minutes later 007 is there, waving off the junior agents with false nonchalance.
The doors lock and the glass goes opaque and they are alone for the first time in over a decade.
Bond just stares at him. Eyes scanning Silva's body, lingering a beat too long on the left side of his face. Surveillance must still be in place for the agent to be acting this cautious, so Silva elects to make the first move.
"I was hurt you didn't recognize me."
"So you killed Sévérine." It isn't a question.
"I was upset, you understand."
"You died."
"So did you. What was it you said your hobby was? Resurrection?"
James remains unmoved, but his eyes are shining in the dim light.
"We always did share similar interest, James."
"I-" Bond starts, but stops abruptly, refusing to continue. Silva watches as his counterpart turns on a heel and swiftly from the holding cell.
"Corazón." He says softly to James' retreating back.
If Bond's step falters, Silva doesn't catch it.
His precious Quartermaster trips the failsafe.
The doors slide open so swiftly and he's free.
007 chases him through the underground and Silva hasn't been this happy in years. When Bond finally 'corners' him, gun steady, Silva slides down the iron ladder and lands with a splash into stagnant water.
"I won't miss next time, Mr. Silva." Bond calls, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. "You had a good run."
Silva clucks sadly and pulls off his cap, running a hand through his hair, feigning defeat.
"I did didn't I?" He says mournfully. "But you did too."
He starts walking toward Bond and the agent falters.
"Say my name. I have waited so long for this moment, and now you've finally caught me. Do what she could not and say it."
Bond's face is a mess of conflicted emotions, but he lowers his gun and doesn't pull away when Silva presses flush against his rigid body.
"Tiago," Bond says, disbelieving.
"I missed you." Silva replies, bringing a hand up to stroke the other man's cheek. "I am so very glad she couldn't kill you."
James looks stricken as he presses a hand to Silva's chest, feeling warmth and the dull thud of a heartbeat beneath his bulletproof vest and horribly out of place police uniform.
"There is my James," Silva grins, bringing his hand up to trail his fingers through the other's short hair. "Hiding under all that double-O mess. I thought I'd lost you for good."
"How did you survive?" Bond asks, eyes sharp with the barest hint of desperation in his voice. The first crack in the agent's facade that Silva has personally witnessed, and he wants to be gentle, so gentle, with his James in that moment.
"I could ask the same, but that is a story for another time, Corazón."
Bond is so different, physically and mentally, but all Silva can see is the man he left in his bed so long ago.
A small part of him is screaming that this is it, this is what he wanted and it is time to stop, but Silva does as he has always done since Guangdong: he ignores whatever fragment of his conscience survived his own death.
James takes a step back and clears his throat.
"Macau, the island, those were your men trying to kill me."
Silva huffs a breath, shaking his head and contemplating Sévérine. He can't explain now, not when the wounds are so fresh.
"I would never do anything to you that I am not certain you will survive. Call it a personal exercise in futility."
James looks doubtful, but Silva has run out of time.
He has a plan, he has a mission that has taken so much of him. A month ago James was dead. The man is an outlier; a contingency Silva planned for but never expected to encounter. James is not his target, as much as Silva might want him to be. He almost feels remorseful when he sees the hope in James' eyes fade. The calculating flinty gaze of a double-O slipping in to replace it.
"Regretfully, I have rather serious business to attend to, so this conversation will have to wait."
He swipes Bond's feet out from beneath him and shimmies back up the ladder while James scrambles for his gun.
"A parting gift, my love," Silva smiles cheekily, staring down at Bond. "The latest thing from my local toy store. It's called radio."
He blows a hole in the celling and 007 looks decidedly unimpressed. The moment is gone and Silva mourns it briefly.
"I do hope that wasn't for me."
"No," he laughs, breathless, knowing exactly what is to come. "But that is."
Silva hopes that Bond recognizes how loved he is, for Silva to throw a tube train at him.
After MI6, and more accurately Agent 007, foils his plan to murder M before god and country, Silva goes into Scotland guns blazing. The cyber trail Q branch had cooked up was adorable, so quaint in design and function, but Silva knew where Bond would take Mum from the start.
He'd lead her right to where it all began. Skyfall. The ancestral Bond estate.
One of Silva's shelf companies purchased the property after James' apparent death months ago and he really doesn't want to see his drones destroy something that may even distantly have meant anything to his tortured James.
This does not mean, however, that Bond does not need to be taught a very painful lesson.
M still needs to die.
It's so fitting he could weep.