Without even a moment to prepare, Bond leaped from the exploding bridge, the Lotus sailing overhead in a ball of roaring flame crashing into the river below nearly at the same time as the agent sliced through the icy current.
Bursting back up to the surface, the agent gasped for air, deafened by the rush of water surging beneath the ring of bullets still singing in his ears, he failed to hear the cry of warning and instead, a moment later felt a strong hand forcefully grasp the neck of his shirt, yanking him backward away from the car as it popped back up from it's descent and exploded in a deafening blast of fiery metal, glass and plastic shooting through the air like comets through the night sky.
Reacting a little on adrenaline fueled instinct but mostly on exhausted aggravation, Bond whipped around freeing himself from the hold of his captor/rescuer, elbowing him in the side with one short, sharp jab, allowing himself a moment of mean triumph as he registered the surprised yelp. Planting a foot soundly against the sad wreckage of his latest beauty, the agent pushed himself off, paddling quickly out of the other man's reach, just barely dodging a swinging elbow of petulant revenge.
“Nice thanks for saving your life, watch if I make that mistake again.”
Blinking away the water stinging his eyes, Bond glanced around at the wreckage with a hopeless swell of regret before focusing back on the other man, automatic guard slipping instantly into wry amusement at his pathetic state; flaxen hair flattened into a sodden line across his heavy brow, mouth turned down into an offended pout as he clung haplessly to whatever scraps from the decimated car floated within near enough reach.
Bond slowed his pace, allowing the poor bastard to catch up, partly because he wasn't completely heartless, but mostly because it was a damn funny picture to watch the typically composed, svelte ex-spy/cyber-villain ungracefully thrashing about in the water attempting to stay afloat with his wrists cuffed together.
Getting the hang of the whole swimming without arms thing, draped halfway over the poor Lotus' bumper, Silva paddled over to the agent, proud of himself for having done so successfully.
“I happened to have rather liked that car,” Bond mentioned conversationally.
“Oh, pshh, I'll get you another.”
“You still owe me for the last one, you know.”
“No, no, no,” Silva disagreed, grinning widely, “you broke my favorite plane, we're square. Eye for an eye.”
Sirens blared far behind them as emergency crews arrived at the site of the blazing flames now totally engulfing the half blown-apart bridge; the blue and red lights reflecting off the water and flashing in the agent's eyes as he at stopped swimming and paused to turn and survey the damage with an unreadable expression that Silva instantly disliked.
“That's it then,” Bond said finally with an easy shrug before continuing toward shore.
As Silva lagged slightly behind, exhaling a breath he'd barely been aware of holding, he stared at the back of the agent's head noticing his poor little ears had turned a raw red with exertion and cold and felt a little spark of something in his chest, a little pang of fondness that warmed him. James Bond was a puzzle. An alluringly sexy puzzle with surprising fascinating depths; hidden but not unsolvable in Silva's estimation.
“I insist that my new car will be impervious to the ineptitude of your half-wit lackeys” Bond remarked getting a foothold on the side of the concrete barrier and pulling himself out of the water in one smooth, athletic motion.
“It will be the best car ever made. The other cars will be jealous.” Silva promised magnanimously, distracted and annoyed by his impeded range of movement, just barely managing to secure enough grip in the recessed cavity below the ladder to propel himself up the wall.
At last, the ex-agent began in earnest his ascent up the ladder just below 007 and opportunistically took full advantage of his fortunate perspective, eyeing the agent's muscular backside with an appreciative little grin. “This new car of yours will have all the finest accoutrements, superior navigation, full satellite, heated. full-grain leather seats to keep that luscious bottom of yours nice and cozy...”
The ex-agent thought he heard a muffled snort from his companion, before he dropped with boneless exhaustion into the dirt, soaked and sore.
“Land sweet land, huh?”
Bond agreed with a short grunt, pulling the blonde to his feet, casing their surroundings for operatives.
Feeling secure enough that the dark night and the lightless area they'd crawled up upon afforded them momentary concealment, Silva gladly noted Bond shed his tension as easily as an old coat. This was his element; what they were doing. Everything leading up had been fussy. Bond had been unbiddable and taciturn throughout but Silva, reliably patient, knew Bond accepted what he had to do.
Put the old dogs down. A double-oh does not survive into retirement. They don't put this in writing when the promotion is granted. It's not even an issue most of the time. Everything is the thrill of the game, the money, the cars, the guns. the prestige, the sex, the understandable vices, the allowable eccentricity. It's an alluring promise. A dirty, exhilarating, attractive lifestyle and most don't live long enough to think about getting out.
Silva admitted the first one with the good idea was Bond. The agent had put him down, and the show was never second guessed. Now it was his turn. Convince Mallory, convince MI-6 that Bond was dead, and escape into the wild. Easy, easy.
But then there was the accident. A lucky (or unlucky) young field agent had discovered Silva. Fortunately, lack of dot-connecting was an issue among the underseasoned throng of new recruits and 007 was never implicated.
They assigned him to the case; Bond and Silva rewrote the plan.
The loss of the Lotus was an unplanned but not unexpected casualty. The messy escape via an impromptu bone-chilling bath was a a definite kink in the design.
As Bond made short work of freeing him from his handcuffs, the agent bowed low enough for Silva to examine the wet spikes on the top of his head and allowed his imagination to paint a different scene-- same angle, only different service being rendered. The thought was a pleasant one.
With a click, the cuffs were off and Bond was up, and so was Silva in a manner of speaking. Relieved, the ex-agent massaged his sore, chafed wrists while running his tongue along the interior rim of his prosthetic and humming happily.
The soft click the gate to the park being activated alerted the two men that they were no longer alone. Quickly, they ducked behind the hedge, watching as several dark shapes crept silently around the nearby garden. A gleam of refracted light off the fountain stream briefly lit the leader, and Silva recognized those shoes, that dangerous tilt of chin.
The agents split apart to search the park, and Bond ducked just as a narrow beam of flashlight darted overhead.
Crouched beside each other, barely daring to breathe lest their breath turn to fog in the cool night air and give them away, Silva became consciously aware of their shared heat, pressed tightly together from shoulder to knee and the cold of his waterlogged clothing in contrast became the most miserable icy barrier.
At the signal, Bond surged forward, taking the unsuspecting agent by surprise with a sharp blow to the back of the head, she collapsed into Silva's waiting arms.
Now refurnished with a few decent weapons and using the dark to their advantage, they crept low, sliding down into the ditch without being spotted by the other agents.
Carefully, Bond felt his way through the water storage facility access tunnel, close behind Silva who silently navigated the tunnel as capably as a rat in a maze.
Cringing against the loud grinding metal of the latch echoing loudly within the pumping station, the two slunk through the nearly black room, Bond overly aware of Silva practically pasted against his back, the heat from his broad chest and toned belly soaking through their wet shirts. His nearness too intimate, but not exactly unpleasant. It's not as if he hadn't noticed in the brief time of their secret partnership that Silva was, as far as men go, sort of his type. It was rather hard to ignore in certain, understandable instances, Bond reasoned before clearing his head of the distraction.
After shimmying up the maintenance ladder into the ventilation shaft, the two men quickly discarded their waterlogged clothing and shred the cloth, tying the rags around their knees and elbows for the long journey of crawling, praying the suspended tunnels would support their combined weight until they snaked beneath the earth.
After a good half an hour of crawling on their hands and knees at an unforgiving, grueling pace through the dim tunnels, Silva groaned pitifully, desperate to stretch and just about bone-tired, feeling a curling disgust for his gritty, sweaty filthiness, fantasies of a hot shower to relieve his aching stiffness the only impetus to continue onward.
Reaching between his legs, Silva pressed a palm down against his other aching stiffness straining uncomfortably in his damp trousers. It was becoming almost intolerable, Bond's tempting, taut, perfectly sculpted ass in his direct line of sight.
The ex-agent smirked as he came up with an ingenious plan that could potentially be a relief for both issues.
Probably wouldn't work, but hell if he wasn't going to give it an admirable try.
“Let's take a second yes?”
Deaf to his companion's polite request and half-iterated suggestion a second later that he really ought to relax, (due to that being a grating reminder of the time the asshole nearly let him drown after imparting such advice), Bond unsympathetically shook off Silva's loose hold on his calf, and continued on, coldly informing him he would suffer no dead weight.
The ex-agent collapsed to his belly, expelling a good sized huff of air that nearly inspired a fit of sneezing as the freshly stirred dust billowed up in a murky cloud around him.
Silva scrubbed at his watering eyes with his shirt and rolled onto his back heaving a long mournful sigh, “Is that all you think of me as?”
“We should have asked for directions,” Silva joked, switching gears and closing his eyes. He pictured himself as a sad, desiccated husk, disintegrating into dust and bone, lost and forgotten in this morass of endlessly stretching black and giggled disjointedly.
Okay, maybe he was a little hurt.
He thought they had a sort of thing. But maybe it wasn't a thing. Maybe they were just unlikely partners in a common cause to free themselves from the clutches of MI-6.
Silva has sort of wanted there to be a kind of thing, though.
The disjointed giggle sounded raspy and tinny and terribly unsettling in the cloying air. It jolted Bond out of auto-pilot; a sharp splinter of guilt wedging itself beneath his ribcage because Silva was his ally, and Bond realized he'd probably miss the crazy bastard.
“We get out together or not at all.”
“Such honor. Such duty.” Silva praised, his eyes still closed.
Bond swiped a papery tongue over his dry teeth and swallowed back a sharp retort as he firmly hooked his hands under Silva's arms, ignoring the startled yelp of protest and following onslaught of colorful invectives against what the Agent assumed was probably his mother.
(he couldn't understand half of them due to his very limited grasp of Portuguese slang.)
Yanking his offended cargo unceremoniously over his shoulder, Bond pushed onward with renewed determination like a yoked bull with a red cape flapping provokingly before him.
Just before pushing away from Bond, rather quite annoyed at the unintended result of his plan, Silva paused, and with lightening quick realization, grinned widely. “Aw. I knew it.”
“You love me.”
Bond huffed indignantly, carelessly tossing off his burden and streamlined ahead as much as one can when crawling through a narrow tunnel, but not before Silva had caught a glimpse of an endearing blush darkening the tops of his ears.
“You can stay here and rot.”
“Oh come on, don't be like that,” Silva laughed, crawling after him.
A half hour of miserable bitching later, Bond was beyond grateful to see the end in sight.
And, the grate was stuck.
“Well we probably won't die,” Silva pointed out, having located a spigot.
“We have to go back the way we came, and it will be, without doubt, teeming with feds.”
“I could probably reroute the signal in the police radio. Should only take a minute.”
“How long before your men can get here?”
Silva shrugged. “About 20 minutes. Half-hour at most.”
Bond stared hopefully at Silva as he tinkered with the inside bits of the little box and the ex-agent could tell he was impressed by his expertise.
“Done,” he announced with casual pride, as he turned on the radio to make the call. With a quick glance at his watch for their location, he specified their coordinates and made the order for their pickup.
Silva warmed instantly at the heated, playful look in Bond's expression.
“20 minutes-- half an hour at most, right?”
“Thereabouts,” Silva confirmed before closing the distance between them.
Their mouths came together at the same time as their hips and Silva grunted at the impact of Bond's hardness against his own. The agent groaned into his mouth as he sucked his bottom lip swollen before he felt Silva's tongue dart inside his mouth to sweep slickly across his own.
Rolling against each other, swollen erections pushing together through the fabric of their trousers, Silva nearly buckled at the knees, vibrating with want and Bond clung to him, leaving lingering, bruising kisses along his dirt smeared collar bone.
Inspired to do the same, Silva endeavored to taste as much of Bond as he could, and lapped up the salty residue of dirt and sweat from the agent's throat, nipping at his chiseled jawline, savoring the spicy scent of his sweat from his chest and dropping to his knees to lick at the groove between his belly and his groin, cnce or twice grazing his lips or chin across his partner's swollen member, taking a turn every now and again to inhale the rich musk of arousal, urgent with a note of precum soaking the fabric straining at the head.
At last, Silva released the agent from his last article of clothing and nearly came untouched just from the pornographic sight of Bond: head tilt back, eyes closed, hips forward, knees shaking, fat cock, swollen pink smearing a line of shining cum across his belly.
Silva lapped at the gorgeous leaking cock before him, greedily swallowing him down while squeezing his own throbbing erection at the base to keep himself from ending the fun too soon.
With a loud pop, Silva released Bond and the agent peered down at him in adorable confusion through lust clouded eyes, his cheeks and ears a becoming shade of red, Silva decided he'd definitely have his next shirt made to match next time he visited his tailor.
“Turn around for me, meu querido.”
Bond raised an eyebrow at the endearment, the edge of his mouth quirking ever so slightly upward in amusement, pausing just long enough for Silva to recognize that he'd caught his sentimental slip before complying with the instruction.
Prepping Bond with spit-slicked fingers, Silva grinned at the ease of his partner's readiness (the slut!) and watched hungrily as the Agent began fucking himself rhythmically on his hand.
Grasping him firmly by the hips, Silva lined himself up to Bond's opening and slid inside his tight, gripping heat. The agent melted back against his chest, and the blonde could not help but litter the back of his neck with adoring kisses, completely gone from the world as the man rocked against him, burying his length entirely inside, clenching muscles trapping him from escape.
Bond mewled embarrassingly as Silva's pole brushed past his prostate again and again, pushing deep into him as he continued stroking him to the edge reducing the agent to a shivering wreck.
“Come for me, James, meu lindo menino, my darling, dirty boy,” Silva crooned, lips pressed against the shell of the agent's ear, trembling and came apart with a shout, spilling over Silva's hand. Riding out the helpless spasms from his partner's powerful release, The blonde came with a low, rumbling groan, shooting his load deep inside his partner before collapsing against him.
Silva fondly nibbled the edge of Bond's ear before pulling out of him, relishing the lazy, boneless bliss and the excellent combination of his lover's body perfectly hard and soft in all the right places and how nice it would be to curl around him in a comfortable bed instead of on hard cement and cold metal and Bond chuckled underneath him.
"If we're going to do this again, I'm going to need heated leather seats."
"My dear, I'd get you an AM 310 and half a continent to drive it around in if you asked me for it right now."
"Aw," Bond replied grinning widely, "I knew it. You lovwah--"
Silva kissed him soundly, shushing his sassy little mouth.
I'm sorry. I tried.
And also sugar daddy Silva? I dont know. it just keeps seeming a thing.