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If Silva was the hands-on type for sick intimacy and close contact, then Blofeld was just the opposite, always hovering right at the edge of just short of touching. He was strange like that, had been every since the time they had been younger. Much younger. And this thought always crossed Bond mind whenever he saw a flash of the twisted man, all neat and proper in his well-pressed suit, standing there not a few paces beyond the threshold of Bond’s torture chamber. But then the beatings would start, because of course they would—it was like clockwork after all, and Bond would be too preoccupied with trying to detach himself from the physical pain and just bloody well breathe to really remember whatever his previous thought had been.

Even so, if Bond had to choose (and what a sadistic choice it would’ve been), he would still prefer regular beatings any day. He really would prefer that over the skull drillings that happened every now and then, and it wasn’t so much the pain as it was not knowing what it was doing to him that had him snarling and thrashing.




The first indication that something had really gone wrong had occurred to him when he had been thinking about Madeleine and what they could’ve, must’ve, done to her but couldn’t, for the life of him, remember her name. The image of her had been fuzzy in his mind, but he had still been able to recognize her visually well enough.

It had just been her name that had taken him most likely one whole day to remember, going over the entire alphabet and reciting all the names he could think of for each of the letter over and over. And that had been when Bond had known he needed to get out of here. Soon.






The first attempt didn’t go over well; all he’d gotten had been a warning though, so he’d thought he’d try again. But after the second and third time, Bond wasn’t ‘afforded’ sleep anymore, people taking turns (or did they?) to bang on the door to his cell every other hour to jolt him from any resemblance of sleep that he might be trying to grasp.

(There was no physical beating anymore. 

Just drilling and drilling and drilling.)

Even the room was constantly too cold, to the point where Bond was actually starting to forget that the last time he had checked, SPECTRE’s, Blofeld’s, compound had been in the middle of the Moroccan desert. 

(Was he still there though? Or had he been… moved? The question rang in the back of his mind, and Bond was doing everything he could not to think about how much time he’d been losing, just lying there on the floor, shivering and starving and staring aimlessly into one spot under the glaringly harsh light of the bulbs above.)










His memory was starting to blend together when the door to his cell opened again, a rather familiar figure striding in with slow and precise steps, coming to a gentle halt right in front of him, his shoes inches away from Bond’s face.

“Hello, James,” the man said, blond hair short and already mostly silver. He bent down on one knee so close that Bond could feel his radiating body heat in the near frostiness of this never-changing white space.

A hand on his cheek, and the sheer warmth of it, of a bare human contact for the first time in a long time, made him shiver, and before he knew it, he was already leaning into the man’s touch, a thumb brushing over his too sharp cheek bone in gradual circles.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here, not anymore, just like how he’d lost track of so many other things as well. 

The only thing he knew for sure was that his head was throbbing way too much.

“Miss me?”

And Bond sighed, a soft rush of breath leaving his cracked, chapped lips as his eyes fluttered shut. Relieved.