I really shouldn't be starting another story but I saw Skyfall and it's just... wow! It's eating my brain.
I though I'd share this fic I've been writting. There'll be at least one more chapter, which will have m/m themes.
Warnings for this chapter: torture, 'off-screen' violence, Silva (just in general)
If you want me to keep writting please review as it encourages me.
James Bond - 007 was struggling to remain conscious as he hung from his wrists in the centre of an empty room. He had been hanging for hours, the pain having long since passed agonizing to reach the level of excruciating. Silva's men had strung him up after his reinforcements had failed to materialize. His shoulders had dislocated a short while ago. He hadn't been able to keep from screaming when that happened. He was silent now though.
Outside the door, behind his back, he could hear raised voices but could not focus enough through the pain to make out what was being said. There was a gunshot. Bond tried to ready himself for whatever might be coming but it was getting increasingly difficult to draw enough air into his lungs. Suddenly strong arms were wrapped around his thighs, raising his body and relieving the awful pressure on his screaming joints. He gulped in oxygen as the man beneath him repositioned himself so that still supporting the secret agent's weight he could reach up to sever the rope from which he was suspended.
Silva - for who else could it be with that colour hair? - stumbled a little when the rope was cut and Bond dropped against him but he managed to lower the other man to the floor without jolting him. "There, there," he cooed, stroking the agent's face with bizarre tenderness. "I didn't know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"Why?" James gasped as he caught his breath.
"My dear Mr. Bond..." Silva sighed, still with his left hand on the other man's face as his right held him in a seated position, "I may be quite happy to kill but one thing I cannot abide is torture."
"Seems-" He drew a long shuddering breath. "Seems strange."
"Not at all," Silva replied. "Would you like to know why I'm doing all of this, everything?"
Bond nodded, wincing at the pain the small movement brought. Yes he wanted to know, if only because it might help him to stop this maniac. Silva stared at him for a moment. "Come on," he said, pulling James to his feet, "over here." He guided him to a bench that ran alongside on of the walls. "Sit," he instructed before going back to fetch the knife. James drew back when the blade approached his chest. "Oh hush," Silva admonished as he gripped the collar of the spy's shirt and started to cut away the garment. He tossed it on the floor then carefully untied the ropes still binding Bond's wrists. Dark bruises already encircled them, while others were forming on his shoulders. Taking tight hold of James' right arm the blonde haired man twisted it out up and back, efficiently popping the joint back into place. It hurt like hell and 007 swore. "Now, now, it's worse the longer you leave it." Silva quickly repeated the maneuver with the other arm.
"Thanks," Bond said, only somewhat grudgingly. He was still in pain but a lot less than before.
Silva slipped of his suit jacket and draped it over the other agent's shoulders. "Much as I enjoy the view," he said with a suggestive smile, "I've no desire to see you hypothermic."
The situation seemed to James faintly ridiculous but he decided it would not be wise to voice this thought. Instead he said, "You were going to explain why you're doing this."
"Yes, of course." Silva settled himself down on the bench, sitting so close to Bond that their legs met. "I used to be in MI6," he said, "a double 'O' agent like yourself. But surely you've figured that out by now, no? It was like one big happy family, with M as the mum, the matriarch. Then one day she sold me to the Chinese and they hurt me for a long, long time."
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"
"Not really, no," the brown-eyed man replied, "but it's the truth."
"I don't believe it," James stated. "For all I know this is a messed up game of 'good cop, bad cop'."
Silva laughed. "I am not a 'good cop'," he said. "As for the men who did this... well I have already dealt with the ringleader though I am beginning to question their character as a whole. They were rather rough with Severin."
"You shot Severin."
"Well yes. She betrayed me. But I never hit her."
"And that makes it better somehow?"
"Quite probably," Silva agreed with a nod. "Get up, I want to show you something."
James found himself being led from the room. Just on the far side of the door was the body of one of the mercenaries, dead from a bullet to the head.
Bond found himself brought to what appeared to be Silva's bedroom. "Have a seat," the deranged man invited. James settled himself into an armchair, then noticed that Silva appeared to be undressing. "What are you doing?" the agent asked.
"Showing you what they did, what she did." He stripped off the last of his clothes. He was covered in scars. They were the marks left by cuts, puncture wounds, burns and scalds. Wide rings of scar tissue around his wrists and ankles showed where he had been repeatedly bound. Some of the wounds James could not even imagine the causes of. There were surgical scars too, where damage had been repaired and a feeding tube taped in place on the former agent's abdomen.
Without speaking, Silva reached up and took hold of his upper row of teeth. Bond had already noticed that they were fake. He had not realised that the other man's left cheek bone was also a part of the prosthesis until it came away with the teeth and palate, causing his face to sag. "The cyanide capsule did this," he said, indicating his ruined face, words slightly distorted, "and necessitated this." The feeding tube. "Do you believe me now 007?"
James hadn't been able to answer. Silva had slotted his fake jaw back into place and gotten dressed. "Get some rest," he said, waving towards the large, comfortable looking bed. "I promise not to shoot you." He mimed a gun with his hands, slid the two extended fingers between his lips, smiled, then threw his head back as though he had pulled the non-existent trigger. "Not while you're asleep at least," he added.
Silva sat down and started to work at a rather ordinary laptop and James could honestly think of nothing to do other than follow his suggestion. He sank into the bed, satin sheets soft against his bruised skin. The light was dim. The clack-clack-clack of callused fingers dancing over a keyboard was almost like a lullaby.
When James woke he could tell from the colour of the sky beyond the window that it was shortly after dawn. He sat up and stretched out arms that he was quite sure would be sore for weeks. Silva was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring up at him with a too-wide grin. He showed no signs of having slept. "The bathroom's through there," he said, tilting his head towards a door on the far side of the bed.
Stepping through into the other room Bond found a basic metal basin and toilet along with an old-fashioned porcelain bathtub which looked quite out of place. It had no taps but turning a valve on a pipe protruding from the wall James was pleased to find a stream of warm water pouring into the tub. As the bath filled he relieved himself and washed his hands and face. The mirror above the sink was broken.
"I take it you are refreshed?" Silva asked with his trademark sardonic grin when Bond emerged some time later. James said nothing but slipped on the jacket the other man had placed on him the night before. Silva was unfazed by the lack of response. "Time for breakfast!" he announced happily.
They ate breakfast on the roof or rather Bond ate and Silva watched him. It was disconcerting, made more so by the fact that James knew the other man couldn't eat, but he refused to show any sign of being ill at ease.
"Do you like the view?" Silva asked.
"This place is dead," Bond replied.
The blond-haired man dipped his fingers into the jug of orange juice and proceeded to lick them clean, a look of rapt pleasure on his face. "We're not," he said at last.