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A Final Gift

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In the end, it isn’t Silva that makes Bond break. It’s Her.

Or rather, it’s the lack of Her. It’s Mummy’s failure to arrive at the appointed time, her lack of follow through. Perhaps she never intended to come and fetch back her reluctant sons; Silva knows full well he’s made it worth her time to look the other way more than once, a subtle game of give and take, gift and trap. Whatever her reason, James’ little radio never does what he was told it would. There is no rescue, there is no escape; Severine still dies, Silva still wins and James…ah, James finally takes Mummy’s abuse to heart.

The first blow was the most obvious one, but in a way it’s the one that James could, and did, most easily blame on someone else. Take the bloody shot. Prophetic words. If Raoul was inclined to fanciful hypotheticals, he might think Mummy was a modern-day Sibyl, raising nations up and casting them down again with her cold declarations. James Bond is just one man, but he’s been her faithful instrument for years. It takes more than a botched shot to irreparably damage his allegiance.

The second blow? It’s the same one that broke Silva, back when he still had a chance of remaining Tiago. Not when he was given to the Chinese, not even that his suicide pill failed, but that when he got out there was no one waiting for him. No one expected him, no one passed him a message, no one even bothered to spit on him and tell him she’d finished with him. There was just…silence. Even when he was well enough to probe, to push, still: silence.

No one fished James out of the river he fell into but himself. No one found his wounded body lying on the rocky shore because no one bothered to look. She relinquished her hold on him, the chokehold her tiny hands held on his entire existence, and didn’t even bother to look back. Whereas Raoul had taken his abandonment in the spirit it was given and made himself anew, separating the threads that bound him to his one true queen and country, James had persisted. He had returned to England, to Her, and let her consume him once again.

Only this time it wasn’t the same. James didn’t have the same vigor of his more youthful self, or the breezy assurance of a Double-O in his prime. He wasn’t up to snuff, and Mummy…well.

Silva knows how she handles operatives who aren’t up to snuff. Raoul was less of a one-trick pony than James, and he was still given away without a second thought. James didn’t stand a chance. The only one surprised by the fact that no backup is coming for him is this broken man, this one-legged tin soldier that Mummy has thrown into the fire and left to melt away. The attacks on other areas of his operation in quick succession assure Raoul that James was never meant to be anything more than a distraction. Perhaps sending him away like this was one last attempt at mercy, a chance for James to do the honorable thing and die in service of his country.

But James isn’t going to die. Not by Silva’s hand, not unless he forces it. Because James, Raoul is quick to realize, is a creature so familiar in his suffering, so exquisite in his pain, that it’s like looking into a time machine to the past. The parallels between them are staggering, and Raoul has always been something of a narcissist. And James?

It turns out that James is open to far more than Raoul had ever dreamed of when he first tied him to a chair.

Ropes lead from his wrists to a sturdy iron bedframe. The heavy bed is a luxury, Raoul admits, but after spending so long in a Chinese prison he finds he can only sleep well if he’s surrounded either by iron or concrete. Ideally both. It’s fucked up, he knows that, but he blithely doesn’t think about it. The frame creaks as James arches into the sting of Raoul’s teeth around his nipple, the bite soothed with his wet, wounded tongue a moment later.

“More,” James grits, and oh, isn’t he precious? It’s only recently that he’s recovered enough of his confidence to be demanding, and Raoul loves it. He didn’t have to force James to his bed; James forced himself, in an act of mental gymnastics that left Raoul silently applauding Mummy’s training tactics.

“Now James,” Raoul purrs, nuzzling into the sweat-slick hollow of his throat. “What did I tell you about patience? Good things come to those who wait.” He snakes a hand up into James’ hair, so much longer now than when he first arrived on the island. “Or do I need to stop your mouth as well as your eyes, my little rat?” When Raoul first put the blindfold on James, he did it as a small mercy. James, it turned out, rather enjoyed the secrecy it lent the actions between them, but he never came with it on. That was at his own insistence, and a whim that Raoul is content to indulge. If James wants to imprint his sexual gratification with seeing Raoul’s face, who is he to stop him?

A part of Raoul whispers that James is just looking for another icon to fill the void in his heart, a golden calf that his reluctant lover hopes will content him in the only way Herself never had: sexually. Raoul is nothing more than a less-encompassing substitute for Mummy, and when he’s in a frank mood, he can acknowledge that. It doesn’t make him want James any less.

“Should I gag you,” Raoul muses, tracing a finger over James’ lips. “Fill your mouth with a rubber cock that tickles the back of your throat, perhaps, so that you’re ready to take me there?”

“I’d rather you take me somewhere else,” James says, neatly sidestepping the original issue. Raoul beams. His little rat is slowly learning subtlety in the bedroom, a skill he’s not had to rely on before. James Bond’s brutal good looks, inherent charm and an undeniable animal magnetism have opened many doors to him in the past, but Raoul won’t be run roughshod over.

“Would you?” Raoul pulls back and reaches for the bedside table. He pulls out the lube and his holstered gun, and drops both onto the bed. The gun bounces a little bit, the weight of it telling on the springs, and James stiffens. “But I need to loosen you up if I’m to take you down there, James,” Raoul goes on. He pulls his Glock 17 out, checks the magazine and the chamber, then reaches for the silencer. James’ body is stiff, unmoving―is it from shock? Or something else? Raoul screws the silencer on, lets the sound fill the air before he finally speaks again.

“You know what this is, James?” He waits patiently as James’ throat works, his diaphragm working to force the air up and out, to make the faint, fluttery breaths intelligible.

“Gun,” James grits out after a moment. “Your gun.”

“One of them,” Raoul agrees. He inspects the elongated weapon, sliding the pads of his fingers over the cool metal barrel. Raoul doesn’t have fingerprints anymore, an inevitable consequence of some of the more creative tortures the Chinese came up with, and it’s had the odd effect of drastically increasing his sensitivity. For a long while, it hurt to touch anything. The effect isn’t so severe now, but it adds a certain slicing intensity to hot and cold.

“Not my dueling pistol, unfortunately,” Raoul continues. Ah, his lovely pistols. “But I think this will do the job nicely. Now, James.” Raoul kneels between his knees and places his free hand on James’s stomach, right above where his cock is hardening. “Do I need to bind your legs to hold them apart, or will you be obedient? I would hate for an unfortunate movement on your part to cause an accident.”

“Is it―” James cuts off the question Raoul knew he would ask, and it gives him a warm little glow in the center of his chest. He would call it his heart, but he’d not sure that exists anymore. Then again, he never glowed for Severine. “Tie me up,” he says after a moment. Raoul isn’t surprised.

“A wise precaution, for the first time,” he says, setting the gun down and grabbing the extra rope. He wraps it around James’ strong, thick thigh, delighting in the way the muscle bunches under his guiding hands. He makes a loop around James’ neck, then goes down and around again, hoisting his legs up against his chest. It’s tight enough that the marks will look branded into his skin when he removes the ropes. Raoul can’t wait to lick at the indents, to feel it change shape under his tongue as the skin gradually returns to normal. James is beautifully hard now, not an unusual consequence of tying him up, but perhaps there’s more to it. Raoul will know once he starts fucking him with the gun. Speaking of which…

He reaches for the gun and the lube, pops the cap on the bottle and liberally coats the silencer. He isn’t going to ease James into this with his tongue or fingers, not tonight. James wants to be taken; then he will be, in a way he’s never imagined before.

“This won’t be easy,” Raoul says as he lines up the barrel, slowly rubbing the rounded edge of the metal over James’ clenching hole. “But then, the best things so rarely are.” He presses harder and James is already panting, the muscles in his arms standing out as he pulls fruitlessly against the ropes. “You strive so beautifully, James,” Raoul says appreciatively, and with one hard push the tip of the silencer is inside of him, and James…

The sound that comes out of him, oh Dios, the sound is Heaven and Hell at once, a battle with no clear winner inside the body it inhabits. James is trembling, his mouth open wide, and Raoul is glad now that he didn’t gag the man. He wants to be able to hear all these wondrous noises. He slides the gun farther inside, cold and so unyielding. It must be unlike anything James has ever felt before, an intrusion not even Raoul’s best efforts can match. Raoul watches raptly as James’ pretty pink hole squeezes again and again, searching for an answering ripple that simply won’t occur.

“M-move,” James says, begs, and his voice is ruined already and they’ve hardly done anything. It’s mesmerizing. “Move, God, Silva, move it, please…”

“Ah, James.” Raoul smiles a smile that no one can see. “Because you said please, then.” He pulls the gun back, then pushes it in again. The scent of lube, sweat and gun oil is heavy in the air, and Raoul can’t bear to stay silent. Not when James deserves a choir singing his praises. “You look wonderful, so desperate,” he says as he pumps the gun in and out. James is beginning to relax now, beginning to soften inside. He knows it does no good to fight, and so he gives in.

“Yes, surrender to it,” Raoul coos. He resists the urge to touch James’ cock, so hard, leaking already. He would love to suck it, but he won’t. That isn’t the game tonight. The urge to touch himself is almost as strong, but Raoul wants to be inside James when he comes. “Surrender to it, little rat. It feels good now, doesn’t it? Hard, but it hits just the right spot inside, doesn’t it?” Raoul makes sure it does, gliding over James’ prostate with the barrel as he fucks him, and James whimpers, then bites his lip.

“No no,” Raoul admonishes him, reaching up and stroking his thumb over James’ lip until his teeth release it. “Let me hear everything. Cry for me, pray to God, wonder aloud whether or not this is the moment you’ve been waiting for. You keep waiting, James.” Raoul moves the gun faster, more harshly. The lube is barely enough to keep it from causing harm, but James is harder than ever. “You keep waiting for the hammer to fall on you, don’t you? Waiting for me to throw you away like she did.” James gasps, his whole body shuddering, and he redoubles his struggles against the ropes.

“You keep waiting for me to pull the trigger,” Raoul murmurs. “But the only gun I’m holding on you is inside of you, little rat. Would I do such a thing to you, murder my lover in my own bed? Would I kill you like this?” Raoul grins. “Would you like to find out?” He reaches up and removes the blindfold, damp with James’ tears. Ice blue eyes roll wildly before they settle on him, and James looks to be on the edge of madness.

“Wait, Silva, Raoul, fuck―!


The gun is empty, of course, and now James is becoming so as well, spilling untouched across his chest as he shouts with the agony and ecstasy of it. He is undone, and so incredible that Raoul can’t wait a moment later. He removes the gun, prompting a rough whine from James, but a moment later Raoul is inside of him, pressing into the space that the gun has made. The fit is too tight, the slide too rough but Raoul only needs a moment to flex his hips against James’ quivering ass, burying himself deep inside, deeper than even the gun went, before he comes. Release is blissful, and Raoul tilts his head back and lets the moment stretch, second after satisfying second.

The real world finally intrudes again in the form of blood, the scent of it in the air. Raoul opens his eyes, takes one look at James’ wrists and tuts. “Ah-ah, little rat.” He slithers back, and James gives a strangled sort of groan as Raoul’s departure leaves him empty. “No damaging yourself,” Raoul reminds him. He pulls his hunting knife out from under James’ pillow and cuts the ropes leading to his hands. The skin around both wrists is raw, but the abrasions aren’t as bad as he thought they might be. The rope is a loss; too bad, Raoul would have liked to keep it as a reminder. He cuts James’ legs free as well and helps him to lower them down onto the sheet.

“Do you feel better now?” Raoul asks as he stretches out next to James, genuinely curious. He’s never treated a partner so roughly—he’s never actually had a partner, actually. Tiago was a loner, Raoul is the very definition of unavailable, but James…something in James tugs at him, reels him in like a fish on a line. Or perhaps Raoul is the fisherman, and James is his prize catch. Either way, Raoul wants him like he’s never wanted anyone before. He wants to keep him, wants to own him so deeply that James forgets Raoul isn’t Her, can never be Her. He can only be what he is.

James’ eyes, which had fallen closed as Raoul cut him loose, open. He settles his gaze on Raoul’s face, and his expression is somewhere between exhausted and impressed. “I do,” he admits. “Thank you. I think I needed that.”

Needed to be frightened into coming? Needed to know that Raoul wasn’t going to dispose of him? Needed…it doesn’t matter. Any of those things, all of them―they’re a step in the right direction. Raoul smiles. “Sleep now. You have a lot of cleaning to do when you wake up.”

“’M not cleaning the gun, that was your bloody idea,” James grumbles, tucking his face against Raoul’s chest. It’s the first time he’s voluntarily, for lack of a better word, snuggled up against Raoul. Raoul relaxes into it.

“Perhaps not the gun,” he says.

His last waking thought is of Mummy. Did she know, he wonders, what she may have wrought here? Does she have any idea of the connection that’s developing between her two lost boys? Raoul doesn’t think so, but he knows Tiago would like it. A final gift: the one person in the world who can understand him.

Either way, Raoul is taking it.