bakerstreet | Mistletoe meme

[ hey bond. hey. look at your phone. no, not at the mistletoe, your phone.

because it's just got a text message from ░░▓▓░▒░▓░░▒░░▓ —

oh dear, technical difficulties. and this evening was going so well. ]

CAREFUL MR BOND

[ his expression doesn't lend way to the surprise this gives him. could be anyone, couldn't it. idly he swirls his martini slowly before deftly responding, a brow rising toward that very mistletoe. ]

Don't worry. My chastity is safe. Mallory is on the other side of the room. x

[ there we are.

silva's in the room, of course—well, he's everywhere, isn't he, in all the little nooks and crannies and webs and wires—but he's managed to stay out of bond's direct line of sight. which, of course, won't last very long. not in here. working in the shadows is all very well and good but it does get a bit boring after a while, doesn't it. ]

YOUR CHASTITY, YES, THAT IS THE PROBLEM IS THAT X FOR ME?

[ he seems to eye the text for a long moment, a telltale smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before he replies, letting the time it took speak for itself, ]

Depends who you are, doesn't it?

[ silva's answering grin crinkles his eyes, widens his mouth, bares his false teeth. waiting—he's good at it, makes the game a bit more savoury, all those little seconds stacking up like a poker player's winnings. waiting to be spent. or gambled. ]

YOU ARE AN INTELLIGENT MAN MR BOND I'M SURE YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER

[ silva peels himself off the wall, drifting away from a small little corner hidden behind the bar and into the mingling crowd. he can see mallory to his left, with his wife, pretty thing; not a problem at all, never has been. silva knows the identities of every man and woman in this room, but the only rodent he's interested in is bond.

he doesn't approach, not yet, but he's hard to miss. if you're looking. ]

[ and he could do with a little voice in his ear directing his attention right now. it's stubbornness that doesn't allow his mind to stray that way, to consider the reality that it was just who he knew it was and he toys with the idea of prolonging it still, avoiding the inevitable.

but that's just not his style, is it.

bond knocks back the rest of his martini and presses the glass away thoughtlessly, eyes quickly scanning the room. at some point people became names-- names that came and went with no skin off his back and he can see them all now, no faces, just names (a few more ???'s than he'd like to say, but he's been gone, they'll fill in in time) but there is one face there, he knows.

his height doesn't betray him, surprisingly. he fades well into a crowd and is distinguished only by hair, maybe, and his nose. the swell of his eyes there, far more intelligent than bond has ever appreciated. and silva is a threat simply by existing, james knows that. his typical method of shoot first and ask questions later is tempting but he tempers himself-- after everything and with everyone here, considering, he finds he must-- and texts back simply, like he hasn't noticed a thing, ]

There are several answers I'd like to know intimately. Give me a hint.

[ he's watching (obviously, always) in little side-glances, but nothing too apparent, nothing that'd mark him out as a fugitive on the run, a terrorist, planning the deaths of every civilian in the room. no no no, nonsense. he's here for the party.

it's harder to keep an eye on things when you're in the thick of it, threading through, offering smiles and nods and oh, don't you look lovely, pardon me—but he knows, like he knows himself, that he has been seen. this evening, he's wearing something sensible, fashionable. well-cut. it's not to his tastes, per se, but it is just the right shade of grey to slither in amongst the rest, blend, at least for a while.

he knows bond's got a sharp eye. to an agent, silva's mere presence is loud enough to compensate. he fires off another text, and plucks a flute of champagne off a passing tray. ]

TUT-TUT, CHEATING.

And here I thought you were fond of breaking rules.

[ he can't help himself, alright. the closer silva looms physically, the more he can fee it in him, that savage thing that gave him 00 status in the first place. it's protective and possessive all at once-- personal. he was always told never make it personal and here he is. james resists the urge to flag down another drink and responds again, instead, ]

I could say please x

[ a sip, a smile, a sultry glance that doesn't last more than a second (and their eyes don't meet). he begins to circle, to move in. ]

OH I'D LIKE THAT

[ he'd have to pry that word from him by force, honestly. he doesn't look now, because it's inevitable. either silva comes to him or he'll go to silva, it was just a matter of time. waiting was probably his least favorite activity but do what you must, god and country, etc etc. ]

How much?

[ if this were any other situation, he'd bring bond to him. lay some delicious bites of cheese. little packets of data. but they've done that before, out—there—and it's tiresome, to be the man behind the curtain, never drawing the curtain aside (only to peek out and laugh, sometimes). silva can afford to be proactive. he's not just some trapdoor, lying in wait; he's an ambush, a hungry animal with ideas that don't work so well in lines of binary.

his answer, when it comes, is near bond's ear, hummed out in a low breath. ]

Wouldn't you like to know.

[ he backs away, enough to put a respectable distance between them, but not enough to look harmless. he raises the champagne to his lips and smiles over the rim, eyes narrowed in charming assessment; bond's shaven, he looks good, looks presentable. every inch the double-oh status he hasn't technically earned back yet.

lightly: ]

You look nice.

[ by which he means not dead. ]

Likewise.

[ it's mild and polite enough, a smile turning the corners of his lips that is half mocking, half amused. it's his eyes though, intent and focused, absolutely predatory. a rat-eating-rat eying another rat. it really was an apt analogy, wasn't it?

and it was fair. silva, considering everything, looked dapper enough. he was blending, he was charming, and bond had the notion that if things were different, he might actually find silva good company. funny how things turn out. ]

I'm sure you're not just here for the drink.

[ he waves the bartender to bring another for his guest, ]

Watered down shite, but it'll do the trick.

[ silva downs the rest of his champagne in order to make room for bond's generous unspoken gesture, and sets the glass on the bartop with a tiny clink. his fingers remain loosely circled around the stem, faux-relaxed. the flirty grin drops slowly from his face.

he can see why bond is m's favourite. all tightly coiled, like a whip, ready to snap into action at a moment's notice. those eyes. what fervor and discipline.

well, for a given definition of 'discipline', silva muses. went a bit off the rails, didn't he. for a while. naughty, naughty.

his head tilts in mock curiousity. ]

No, but I suppose that's obvious.

[ glaringly. considering he'd seen fit to show himself in the first place. ]

And neither— [ he pauses, ] are you. Business? Pleasure? Both?

Both if I can help it.

[ it's not flirting but-- maybe it's flirting. he feels like he has the right after that intimate little session back on silva's island. he turns more toward him then and the space between them feels so little though they look like any other pair having a casual conversation at a party, ]

I'm guessing your answer would be the same. [ the corners of his eyes crinkle just so with amusement and he practically purrs in that low timbre of his, ] Maybe we can please each other.

[ like tell him why you're here, for one. ]

[ don't lie to yourself, james. it's straight-up flirting. ]

Ooh, Mr Bond. So forward.

[ the grin returns, full-force—a winsome gash of a smile that lights up his eyes, widening them with lavish reaction, teeth bared. are they to play that game, then? he likes that game.

though bond had moved forward, silva ups the stakes: one of his hands comes to rest hotly on bond's chest, utterly coy, and yet unmistakeably predatory—like he's about to dig in with claws. it's no longer casual conversation; nor even would it appear respectable, not when silva's dispensing with all pretense of personal space. ]

You want to know why I'm here?

[ it's almost like he can read your mind, isn't it. everyone always has to know. ]

[ he doesn't refuse him, neither moves toward or away, just simply accepts the touch for what it is. he half dares himself to return it, just a little brush of fingers against silva's wrist, the crook of his arm, but he knows he has an advantage (even just slightly) by refraining. his smile widens. ]

Of course.

[ silva blinks slowly, dropping his eyes to bond's throat. familiar. tempting. too easy.

they flick back up, the pads of his forefingers pressing against fabric. his eyes go dark. he echoes, in syrupy-sinister delight: ]

How much?

[ his laugh is low and lazy, casual-- friendly, even, considering and when the bartender brings silva's drink, he slides it closer as an offering, gives him a curious, challenging look, ]

Name your price.

[ almost disappointedly, he uses the hand that had been touching bond to withdraw his phone from own his breast pocket—while uncurling his other from the stem of the empty flute, brushing against bond's knuckles as he claims the new drink.

he holds the mobile up. one of the last messages is on the viewscreen: I could say please x

silva's gaze darts to it. ]

Oh, nothing terribly out of order.

Just one of those.

[ he considers the text carefully, ]

I could. [ but i wouldn't mean it, he wants to add but if anyone is capable of torturing one of those out of him, he has no doubt it's silva. instead, he presses, watching him still in that same predatory way, ] Come closer.

[ come closer, said the spider to the fly.

silva leans forward. he stops when his mouth's a scant inch from bond's, in his air, his face. in his mind, he sees razor teeth tearing into the soft flesh of those lips and jaw, leaving gouges, like streaks of cyanide; he could kiss this other rat bloody and then make him wear a shot glass on his skull, shoot him dead, but not before sucking the red from his teeth. and chuckling.

coulda, woulda, shoulda. well. there's time for that later. ]

I should mention, [ he purrs, suddenly, ] that if you try to kill me here, there will be no end to the consequences.

[ he resists the urge to reach out with his tongue and lick his warning into bond's mouth; caveats first, and all that. tedious. ]

But... I don't think you're going to be that predictable.

Hardly.

[ he says low, like the thought of being predictable was insulting. but he doesn't move, no, doesn't move a damn inch, just keeps his gaze there close and intimate, so very focused. and then it drops and when it does, his hand is rising easy to straighten silva's lapels, fingers curling into the fabric to pull him even closer as he tilts, cheeks brushing just a scant second as he speaks against his ear like it's a dirty little secret just for the pair of them. ]

Maybe somewhere more private?

[ remove the threat, isolate, act alone. it's something that was pounded into his head from day one and he's not too unaware to know that silva may know exactly what he's doing because he was taught the same. ]

[ silva lets out a breathy little hum, a considering noise, as his eyes slip shut—relishing the soft gust of breath over his ear, the one that stirs his hair and murmurs something about privacy. ]

Hmmm. [ he chuckles, like bond's just told him a very dirty joke. and it is, in a way. a joke. ] I don't think so.

[ silva draws back, just a little. enough for bond to see the expression on his face—it's subtle, but there. (do you think i'm stupid?)

james bond's charm is legendary, but silva's read his file. and the other file, as well. once you're a double-oh, you never truly leave the service, not until you're dead; even if you wanted to die. even if, for all intents and purposes, you are dead. you simply can't leave it behind. why try? ]

I thought you liked to put on a show, James.

[ and with that, silva's hand leaves his drink untouched. slowly, he slides it around bond's waist, behind his no doubt very expensive dinner jacket, and pulls until the tops of their thighs touch. ]

[ it's true, what he said to silva before, that that nor this was his first time. the first time seducing a man had been for work, the second time for pleasure, the rest-- why label things. none particularly stood out in his mind and he was sure for as formidable as silva was, that wouldn't change things and still, there's a thrum in him, power responding to power, the challenge laid and set and he felt ready to accept on a deeply egotistical level.

perhaps a lesser man would be intimidated or perhaps put off by the public display, but not bond. he's adaptable, easy, and just as much is the sliding of his hotel room key into silva's inner coat pocket. ]

Only one way to find out.

[ a smile warms his eyes before he pulls away completely, moving through the crowd untouched like some sort of specter. he doesn't look back but he does linger there at the elevators, wondering, checking that clever little watch q had given him not but a few days ago. funny how these things work out. ]

[ when bond moves away, silva wastes no time retreating. there had been stares, of course, but it was nothing if not normal behaviour at a party like this; two respectable-looking gentlemen with a vat of sexual overtones between them, speaking close and private, one leaving without the other—but leaving a promise of more to come. so stereotypically familiar, but it's that promise, it's bond's room key and his lovely smile that seals the deal. silva smirks blankly into thin air before he's up and away, moving easily through the throng of people until they part like water for him.

it's with jaunty steps that he walks to the stairs, not the elevator, passing his vantage point where he'd hidden a steyr m9-a1 and a supressor. he jogs one floor up, catches the lift in the far wall opposite, purposefully avoiding bond until absolutely necessary. no effort is made to hide his weapon; he screws the suppressor on while the floors ding past, knowing instinctively that he won't be interrupted (the party isn't due to end for at least another two hours). his other hand goes to his pocket, where bond's key is still warm; silva's fingers casually rub against the metal until the lift doors open, warming it up further.

(it's not as though he plans to use the gun, but you can never be too careful. even with rigged cctv and hacked security cameras, there's always something that could possibly go wrong, and silva knows not to underestimate james. besides, this does make things a little more fun.)

he keys into bond's room easily, slips inside and into the dark. silva sits down in a chair facing the bed, the gun laid gently over his knees, and waits. shouldn't be too long; he hadn't spared any time, but then again, bond can be very fast. ]

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