Not a problem, of course. We won't be very long. [ he holds up the gun, pinching it between forefinger and thumb, and lays it gently within arm's reach on the chair-side table, under the dim lamp. clunk. ]

And we won't need this.

[ you see, james? neutral ground. except that it clearly isn't, the gun is still clearly there, pointed at bond—silva has only to reach over and snatch it up. it's reinforcement, a threat, insurance. his gaze darts up playfully, his hands returning lightly to his own thighs, an conscious mirror to bond's movements; he shifts until his legs open, feet spaced evenly on the sensible carpet, altogether the image of a serene, generous benefactor.

he does remember, and there bond is. ]

I am interested— [ he pauses, head tilting in a parody of thought. ] —fascinated by your, shall we say, psychological... idiosyncrasies? An addict never truly recovers. Even now you jumped at the chance to experience a thrill, at the risk of your life, just because I made a few [ he waves a hand ] overtures.

Death must have been so dull for you. I don't know how you managed.