The muffled pop-pop of gunfire shakes him from his concentration and the soldering iron burns right through the connecting wire he was trying so hard to avoid.

"Gilipollas!" He spits and rips off his safety glasses.

The gunfire continues, and Silva can hear distant shouting.

"God help you all if we are not under siege." He snaps at the dismantled circuit board and turns on the island's communication frequency. He hearsagent and MI6, before he's on his feet, Sig Sauer 1911 in hand.

The courtyard is a disaster area, even disregarding the remaining building debris, and in the middle of all of it none other than James Bond.

"Ah, ah, ah! No!" He yells at Bond, who has his Walther trained on another of his men. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to hire decent help? You are here for me, yes? So stop shooting those in my employ."

Silva crosses the expanse quickly but stops to nudge a body with his foot as he passes. He can't stop the soft sound that comes from low in his throat.

"Tomorrow was Kavit's birthday." He turns his gaze on Bond, who looks distinctly uncomfortable.

"See what you've done?" Silva asks, motioning at James with a flighty hand. "Everything you touch dies."

It's meant as a joke, but the truth rings through and the line falls flat.

"You don't seem to be dead." Bond throws back, still holding his weapon like it will protect him if Silva wants to try anything. His faith in the small gun is cute, if unrealistic.

"Not for lack of trying, hmm? Well if you are here to kill me, we might as well have a drink first." He turns on his heel, striding back to his personal residence as smoothly as he can with his back spasming at the movement. After a moment he hears a second set of feet behind him.

Silva smiles to himself.

They sit in silence for far too long. Bond sipping at his tea while Silva cradles his own cup, each assessing the other with fierce intensity.

Silva cracks first, not because this was ever a competition but because he's hungry and James has the tea cakes.

"Would you?" He motions to the tray and Bond reacts suddenly, reaching for his gun on instinct. Silva sighs, a great huff of breath, and brings a hand to his face to rub hard at his eyes.

"Put the gun away, James."

The agent slowly holsters his Walther, looking sheepish.

"The things I deal with," Silva sighs in exasperation, motioning at Bond with a stirring spoon. "You used to be housebroken."

James looks down at his drink and stays silent, clearly trying to formulate a response.

"I need not remind you that if you discharge a weapon at me, I will return the favor." The threat comes out dirtier than intended and he immediatley feels like a fool.

"You've redecorated." Bond says lamely, motioning around the room once home to Silva's mainframe and cooling system, where metal once stood there is now lush green. Valencia roses and red carnations interspersed among half-grown fruit and nut trees.

"MI6's little assault took out a portion of the roof and left something to be desired, so here we are."

Silva sees James' eyes linger on a weak sapling occupying a conspicuously large plot of ground and sighs.

"My Bedana Pomegranate. Or what's left of it."

Bond nods absently and continues to look at the tree, expression softening slightly.

"Why are you here?" Silva asks gently, in a tone far softer than his counterpart rightly deserves. "I assumed your little ultimatum extended to the both of us."

"I'm not here to kill you, if that's what you think." James replies at last, meeting Silva's gaze across the table. "I received your gift."

"Ah," He nods in recognition. "The Dalmore."

"You know me too well."

"I always thought so."

"You were in my flat." Bond continues

Silva sips his tea and smiles indulgently.

"Mmm, not me. One of my associates."

"And somehow that is so much worse."

Silva hums in agreement and the silence is back, settling over them like a toxic cloud. Bond picks at a spot of peeling varnish on the table.

"Perhaps," Bond starts, looking anywhere but at Silva, "we should rethink our arrangement."

He waves a hand to dismiss the guards. The men look recalcitrant, understandably wary of Bond, but do as instructed.

When they are alone Silva rests his cup on the delicately inked china saucer and moves to stand, slowly, given the ache in his spine, and motions for James to follow him.

"This is a conversation best had in a more comfortable setting, I think."

Bond doesn't disagree and follows him to the elevator, now not nearly as accessible as it had once been.

"Did you ever meet your predecessor, James? The last 007?"

He doesn't respond, which is fine because Silva already knows the answer.

"My predecessor, oof. The man died in a clown costume, but yours? A phenomenal agent."

Bond looks at him oddly, but doesn't respond, following him still along the path Silva has carved through the neatly trimmed gardens.

"Fantastic sense of humor, that one. I had the pleasure of working with him a few times in Southeast Asia before M had her little change of heart. Handsome, witty, toppled dictators like bowling pins, he was the kind of agent I should have been traded for."

The elevator doors slide open unheralded, and Silva holds an arm out for James to enter.

"Do you know where he is now?"

"I'd assume he's dead. Given that I bear his title." He sounds unimpressed, but the twinge of curiosity in his voice is tangible enough that Silva can only smile.

"Truth will out, Corazón. He grew old, so they found a replacement," He looks pointedly at Bond, "and they put one behind his ear."

"Double-0s don't have families. They don't have friends. They barely even have names. We are expandable for the very reason we are valuable."

"What is your point?"

"My point, darling, is that you come from a long line of great men that you will never know and the world will never remember. Someday very soon, sooner than you think, one of the nameless faces you pass everyday will become you; just as feared, just as respected, just as expendable."

His fingers dance across his thigh, tapping in a rhythm as erratic as his thoughts.

"I lost a great deal in China, James, not the least of which was my sanity. I am no fool, and I harbor no illusions about what I have become in the years since. I have harmed you in ways I once thought unfathomable, and I will continue to do so as long as we remain the men we are. The path we are on leads to ruin, but I care for you deeply and I would prefer it if we spent what little time we have left, together."

James doesn't respond, and when the lift doors open to his personal quarters Silva is convinced this will be the true, unquestioned end of whatever existed between the two of them. But no such revelation comes and Bond slides past him, exiting before Silva has a chance to move.

"I told you once, a very long time ago, that you were the only man that understood me. I believed that."

James turns slightly, looking back mournfully, and Silva can see Bond clutching the Walther beneath his jacket.

"Even after everything you've destroyed, the lives you've ruined and the people you've killed, you are the only man I will ever know that understands the complete -" Bond struggles to find the right word and lacking gives up, turning away.

There's a tightness in Silva's throat that he refuses to acknowledge. Something has broken James. He is man enough to admit this is likely his own doing.

"The one constant in my life is that I am alone. Completely and utterly and that fact will never change."

Bond's teeth clench and his lower lip quivers and he looks so angry when he meets Silva's eyes.

"We are cursed with the same malady, Tiago, and I do think you've infected me."

Silva closes the gap between them with two steps and takes Bond into his arms.

James fists his hands in Silva's suit jacket and presses his face hard to the man's chest, snarling wetly, "I hate you so much I can't breathe."

Silva nudges James toward the bed, intentions for once completely innocent.

"I felt the same way for a long time, James. I'd be worried if you did not despise me."

They sit together in silence for the better part of an hour before Silva finds himself pressed bodily into the duvet, braced between Bond's thighs. The agent leans in close to trace Silva's lips with calloused fingers, no doubt feeling the unnatural presence of plastic and metal beneath the deceptively soft skin.

He doesn't miss the way James' own cheek muscle spasms at the contact; Bond's quaint version of flinching.

A lesser man would take offense.

"Is it so terrible, Mister Bond? My condition?"

James frowns at the question, but continues on to trace the firm ridges of Silva's cheek.

"Take it out." James commands softly, reeling back and dropping his hand to his side.

"So you can stare a little longer, hmm?" He chides lightly. James makes a pinched face and the scowl is back. The look is mildly irritating and Silva grabs James' arm to flip their positions; Bond snarls but doesn't fight him. Instead James shifts and throws a leg over Silva's hip, holding the man in place so they're face to face; his hand twisting in Silva's hair, forcing his head back while James' fingers probe his mouth, grazing over the scarred flesh of his tongue.

"I want to see what you did to yourself. This time without the whole of MI6 watching."

There's something horribly intimate about the action, but he doesn't want to dwell on the thought too long and he bites down hard. Bond doesn't recoil as expected and Silva simply bats the man's fingers away. Bond falls back and watches him with calculating blue eyes.

It's a look he's seen before, one that came at great personal cost.

He removes the prosthesis slowly and does not relish the all too familiar sensation of his face collapsing in on itself. He presents the offending item to James but the agent does not look away from the gaping maw that is Silva's mouth.

"Now the outside matches the inside." James says blandly, though his eyes betray emotion that Silva long ago lost the ability to identify.

Instead Silva clasps a hand to James' cheek, feeling the strong muscle and bone beneath in a parody of the motions 007 had gone through only minutes before.

"I am what is left of me." He rasps, refusing to break his gaze. Without the implant his voice is almost nonexistent, and he's mildly surprised that he can force out the words at all.

James scowls at the reply and crawls out from beneath Silva before reaching for the prosthesis; plucking the item from Silva's hand with deft fingers to examine it closely. James' gaze traces the polished white porcelain of the false teeth, the delicate wiring that allows him to speak fluidly, the metal and resin and rubber that has replaced so much bone and muscle tissue.

"What kind of man would I be if I discarded those I cared for solely on appearance?" James languishes.

They both laugh at the statement - Silva's contribution significantly less pleasing to the ear - and James continues to turn the implant over in his hand, the skin of his palm shining wet with saliva. He finishes and sets the prosthesis aside to put damp fingers to Tiago's cheek, prodding at the limp flesh.

"Women are one thing, but I like my men like I like my martinis." James continues, voice firm and hands steady.

"Shaken?"

"Bruised. The finest liquor in all the world? Even better after it's been tossed around a bit."

The sound that rises from Raoul's chest is not entirely voluntary as James moves up to capture his unsightly mouth in a rough kiss. In response he can only push forward for traction, the paralyzed jaw muscles accomplishing little without the implant. He laces his fingers through James' short hair and feels a pressure along the inside of his mouth. He realizes lamely that it's James' tongue. He grimaces at that, knowing his lover's efforts cannot be reciprocated.

James finally pulls away, and they're both panting. Silva forces out the words that have colored this encounter from the start, the oily sick doubt that brings him right back to Guangdong.

"Proves nothing...only that...you can stomach...putting your lips...to mine."

James looks affronted and grabs Silva's hand roughly, shoving it between their flush bodies to palm the erection straining beneath the agent's briefs.

"Years I spent mourning you," James bites, bucking into the hand. "Time I spent wondering what had happened to you, wondering if there was something I could have done to keep you from leaving the flat that morning, from going to Section H at all,"

James rolls his hips roughly and meets Silva's growing arousal.

"After everything you've done, everything that's been done to you, your scars are hardly what will turn me away. Your psychosis, perhaps, but not your appearance, rough as it may be."

James grabs at Silva's face, hissing "Tiago", before pulling him down for another less than perfect kiss.

"Missed you, Corazón." He rasps when they part again, this time holding the agent at bay with a firm hand.

He appreciates the effort James has made at accepting his 'condition', he truly does, but he's spent good money to no longer look like a sideshow attraction.

James behaves himself and watches intently as he clicks the implant back into place and stretches his jaw, rubbing at the tight muscles to gain back his range of motion.

"There. Much better, wouldn't you say?"

"Well," James drawls. "It is something."

He can still feel Bond's hard cock and smiles to himself, victorious.

"Shall we continue?"

James only grins in response.

After that it's just mindless rutting.

He doesn't even make it out of his pants before James comes with a shudder, the tip of his cock smearing opaque white across Silva's expertly tailored Ermenegildo Zegna trousers.

James rests his head on Silva's shoulder and fumbles with the zip, but Tiago gently bats the hand away. The suit is ruined and he's still achingly hard, but he doesn't care. He wants to cherish this feeling, his Corazón sated and disheveled in his arms; he brings a hand up to cradle James' head to the crook of his shoulder and turns to press a kiss to the strip of skin below the agent's ear.

James doesn't move, but Silva can feel the soft bite of stubble where the man is trying to reciprocate the affectionate gesture.

Silva shivers pleasantly and realizes he's climaxed.

It's the best sex he's had in fifteen years, and he's still fully clothed.

"The cyanide burned through your lower mandible." James says starkly from where he lies disheveled beside Silva.

"Yes?"

"It destroyed the soft tissue on the left half of your face and neck, scarred your vocal cords and likely did irreparable damage to your internal organs, yet your tongue and voice remain intact."

"Purely cosmetic, I assure you." He pokes the tip of his tongue out from between his lips and wiggles the muscle at his companion before continuing. "Completely functional, but I can't taste a thing. Never will again."

James tenses and Silva can only assume the man looks stricken, so he laces their fingers deftly.

"And your voice?"

"Not all of these scars came from my time with the Chinese. Many came after. I have spent, and continue to spend, a great deal of the commonwealth's money on surgery."

"You always were too proud for your own good."

"James, darling, I had no face. For almost five years I walked this earth looking as though I had been skinned and left to rot in the sun. I could not get people to believe I was a human, let alone an expatriate."

"How did you convince people to help you?"

Silva can't stop the look of incredulity that settles over his features.

"I threatened them, of course."

James huffs a humorless laugh and Silva has to smile.

It's easy after that. James starts talking and doesn't stop.

"I order my drink, don't give it a second thought, halfway through the second hand my vision begins to blur, damn thing had been poisoned. Le Chiffre is just watching me with that sadistic little grin on his face, you know the one, and I am literally about to die-"

Silva listens to every word, absorbing even the most insignificant of details.

This is what he's missed. This is the man his lover has become in his abscence.

"I think I loved her." James presses his face into Silva's throat, lips whisper soft against rough skin.

"I know you did, James."

James is beside him, fast asleep, spread across the bedsheets like an offering and Silva has difficulty identifying if this moment is real or imagined.

"Corazón." He says softly, looking for any kind of response. "James?"

Bond grunts and rolls away from the sound, and a low snuffling comes from where the agent has buried his face in a pillow. Silva places a hand to his chest, throat suddenly tight.

"Ah, he snores."

He'd forgotten the little sounds James only made when he was convinced he was safe wherever he was sleeping.

He could cry.