Title: "Brace Yourself Bridget"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars/Casino Royale 2006
Rating/Classification: crossover, humor, crack!fic, James/Veronica, sexual situations, mild language.
Word Count: 2450.
Disclaimer: Yeah, I still don't own the characters.
Summary: If he has to ask, Veronica's not doing it right.

It was 2 AM at the Geneva International Airport. Veronica had stubble burn in uncomfortable places, just enough Euros to buy herself café au lait and a crepe, and no boyfriend…seeing as how he'd changed his return ticket and left for Neptune the day before, shouting things of the "I can't believe you!" variety.

All things considered, she wasn't that surprised.

She couldn't believe her either.

Had she really thought wearing Versace was a valid fashion choice for her? Bitch, please.

Now comfortably clad in a mix of Gap, Urban Outfitters, and that shady thrift store in Chino she visited once with Wanda Varner, she was feeling decidedly more like herself. If you discounted the beard burn between her thighs. Herself usually dated guys who were lucky if they shaved once a week.

But James Bond…wow. The guy had been something else.

Which was why she was in Geneva. She figured the least the guy could do after giving her a couple of mind-blowing orgasms and costing her a traveling companion was cough up a few more nights' entertainment before she had to catch her flight to LAX out of Paris.

Not that she really expected him to still be here. He'd probably already jetted off to Super Spy Parts Unknown. Thankfully, this was why she had Mac. Who, again, was pissed off by the time differences.

"You owe me big, Mars," she mumbled. It was either that or, "I'm now dating Lars." Which, come to think of it, wasn't such a bad idea for Mac.

"Well I hope you and Lars are very happy together," she said, shifting the Sidekick to her other ear as she booted up her laptop and got nice and comfortable in the lounge. Yay for free wireless! "May he sing you many Journey ballads."

"You're sick and I'm hanging up on you." Okay, okay, no teasing the hacker. She got it.

"I promise I will buy you the $200 worth of songs from iTunes, a new zip drive, and give you two months worth of free coffee at the Hut if you tell me where Bond is now."

"And a pony?"

"And a pony."

Apparently Black Beauty was the kicker. Mac rattled off the travel itinerary of a Robert Sterling, who had caught a commercial flight out of Geneva the morning after he'd rocked her sexual world. A flight to Venice. Damn.

"I'm broke," she muttered, annoyed.

"I'm a genius," Mac reminded, automatically. "You're booked on the 2:45. Once you get to Venice, head straight for the Cipriani. Robert Sterling has an open-ended reservation there and, now, so do you…charged to his corporate account."

"Thank you for helping me stalk, Mac."

"Call me when you want to upgrade to kidnapping. That's actually worth losing sleep over."

If Bond was the person they were kidnapping? Most definitely.


There were five perfect half-moon shaped scratches on his left shoulder. How in the world had the little American vixen managed that with her wrists tied?

This was the thought plaguing James as he pursued one of Al-Hussam's henchmen through a crowded marketplace. Along with the absurd observation that crowded marketplaces seemed to always look dusty and Middle Eastern no matter where they were. Note the camel, for instance. How ridiculous.

He grabbed an orange from a stall -- you never knew when you needed to prevent scurvy -- and kept pacing the blighter. Ah, that was it. Perhaps markets had some sort of shape-shifting capability depending on what criminal element was dashing through it. For instance, if he were to chase the Unabomber, it would turn into a 7/11 or some other establishment of that nature.

Bloody Hell. Now he wanted a Big Gulp and a hot dog.

Perhaps he could have that sod Leiter send a care package to him. A nice show of inter-agency cooperation after the complete disaster in Montenegro last year.

Of course, all this thought about cooperating with the Americans just led him back to Miss Veronica Mars.

Barely out of the schoolroom and really quite impressive in the bedroom.

Probably a post-colonial thing. Cheeky upstarts, those Americans. The lot of them. But he certainly had enjoyed Veronica's cheeks.

He usually liked them with a bit more polish. His women, not their cheeks. He wasn't quite *that* picky. But that one…that one had surprised him. After all, following the witnessing of government-sanctioned murder, there was usually several rounds of weeping and "Oh, James"-ing and lots of scenarios where he patted shoulders and said "there, there," and then tenderly took them to bed and promptly forgot their names the next morning.

Here he was, *two* mornings later, not only remembering her name, but severely annoyed that he was concentrating on marks she'd left rather than sneaking up on Rahman Alam and breaking his kneecaps. Oh, wait, this wasn't a mafia film. He was going to immobilize him with a bullet -- only a flesh wound -- and pummel the name of his contact from him. Do it the old fashioned way, as it were.

The breaking of bones always put James in a good mood. Even if it tended to be Hell on his shirts. Too many of the old boys at MI-6 preferred long distance power rifles and fancy cars that blew things up from two miles away. And they had their place, but, in general, bugger that. He liked a little blood under his nails, fancied a touch of sport now and then. Something to relish while he drank vodka martinis, shaken not stirred, and practiced looking ineffectual. He still had his balls, after all.

Veronica could testify to that.

Pity she was probably testifying all over that insufferable git who'd been bluffing with a five of hearts and a four of clubs with 20 grand in the pot.

Rahman yelped as Bond snapped his littlest finger.

"Haven't got all afternoon," he reminded.

M was expecting an update. The woman was worse than a mother, really. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she started sending him jumpers at Christmas and nagging him about bringing home a nice girl.

Of course, he hardly knew any nice girls.

Except the one.

Bugger. James broke another finger and called it a day.


Gaining access to somebody else's hotel room turned out to be just as easy in Venice as it was at the dear old Neptune Grand. A little fumbling Italian, some tears, some wide eyes, and the maid was oh-so-felice to use her passkey and let Veronica in.

"Grazie, grazie," she said, emphatically, pumping the woman's hand up and down and making a mental note to tip her well with Bond's money.

And then she was gold. Or, Sterling, to be exact.

She prowled around, did the standard once-over. Bond's suite, which was way, way posher than hers (gee, thanks, Mac) had a balcony. Wasn't that a big no-no in the espionage trade? Didn't it just scream, "Send your assassins to kill me in my sleep"? There was no luggage strewn about, only the barest toiletries in the bathroom. She knew he was English but come on; surely the guy brushed his teeth? Hanging up in the wardrobe were a few suits and perfectly ironed white shirts. Drawers? None to speak of. Unless she counted the Speedo. "Curiouser and curiouser..."

"I would have thought you more a Goldilocks than an Alice."

Oh. So *that's* what the balcony was for.

He was leaning against the wall by the open terrace doors, utterly casual. If "casual" meant, "I was just out kicking someone's ass," He was all bruised knuckles and unbuttoned collar and, oh yeah, still hot. Move over Bo Brady, Bonnie Tyler and half the known free world had been holding out for this hero. And Veronica? She'd been dumped by her boyfriend, discovered the joys of light bondage, and flown to Venice for him.

She tilted her head (another thing that worked in Neptune and could very well work here). "Got any porridge?"

Bond allowed for about one-tenth of a smile. She was pretty sure she could count that a victory. "How do I know you're not KGB, Miss Mars?"

"Because the agency was all but dissolved after the Cold War?" She shut the doors of the wardrobe, closed the drawers. "Unless my history classes are wrong...which is entirely possible, given their Americentric world view." She tapped her lower lip, thoughtfully. He'd interrupted her before she could bounce up and down on the bed like any self-respecting room searcher. So, she did that now and he made no move to stop her. "Ya got me, Bond. I'm a spy. Do you know vereabouts of Moose and Squirrel? I must report to Boris."

Her best Natasha earned a quarter smile and something like a choked laugh. Ooh, her stock was rising.

He methodically undid his cuffs as he came away from the wall and joined her on the bed. He stretched out, shoes and all. Housekeeping was not going to be pleased. "Alright, you may stay."

"All because of a Rocky and Bullwinkle reference? You are *easy*, James."

"So I've frequently been told."

"Frequently? How frequently?" She quirked her eyebrows, slipping out of her Chucks. "Is it never just you, bad Dutch porn and some Vaseline?"

"Nonsense. Englishmen don't do things that indecorous. Ruins the all that hard-won repression. Why do you think calling someone a 'wanker' is an insult?"

"You made that up."

"Yes, I rather did." He smirked. "But it sounded convincing, didn't it?"

"Wanker," she said, not unkindly, which made him chuckle. "It's the accent. British accents make you sound knowledgeable and important. Maybe when you retire from active duty, you can narrate National Geographic specials?"

He looked at her with amusement. "You mean 'the lioness stalked her prey through the grasses of the Serengeti' and the like?"

"Absolutely. You'd be perfect."

"Really?" The multi-syllable 'really' was beginning to be a serious turn-on.

He laughed as she pinned him flat against the mattress and took advantage of all that hard-won British repression. Both times in Monte Carlo had been fairly standard missionary...if you discounted the neckties...and Veronica wasn't about to waste an opportunity to get a leg up, so to speak, on this world traveling secret agent.

"May I ask what the lioness is doing now?" He arched an eyebrow.

"If you have to ask, I'm not doing it right."

He tasted like vodka and vermouth and she had to wonder just how many freaking martinis the man had a day. Maybe he had a problem? But now was not the time to suggest a 12-step program. Now was the time to kiss him harder, employing tongue and going to work on buttons and zippers. Pretty soon he didn't taste like anything except sex. Really, really good sex. Which, she had to admit, wasn't exactly a flavor she was all that familiar with after a couple of years of monogamous mattress tag with someone who thought "erotic" meant renting the Jenna Jameson collection off of the Neptune Grand's fine selection of PPV porn.

"Ahem." James was looking up at her with those Blue Eyes of Doom. Impatient. A little wounded in the region of his giant…ego. "Darling, am I keeping you from something?"

"Just a Double O," she chuckled.

"Well, then, Alice..." His brutally delicate fingers skimmed down her belly, lower. "Shall we head down the rabbit hole?"


When James woke up the next morning, not only did he still remember this particular girl's name, but he had another set of perfect scratches on his right shoulder. He could feel their sting. Delightful. Now he had a matched set.

Veronica's head was pillowed against his chest, her small hand splayed over his heart. And the very devil of it was…her nails were absolutely, completely blunt.

Perhaps she *was* KGB.

He chuckled and gingerly disentangled himself. After all, it wouldn't do for her to wake up in his arms. He, absolutely, positively did not cuddle. Pre-show was a damn good thing but the morning afterglow was dreadfully messy. All the hopes and the dreams and the "Call me,"s. It was amazing how many women bought the "I don't have a phone," excuse.

When he emerged from washing up, Veronica was up and around. In one of his shirts, no less. She really *was* a cheeky upstart but he couldn't deny she looked fetching. If appallingly young. When he repeated this sentiment aloud, she paused in her rifling through of the bedside cabinet long enough to retort, "And you're appallingly old. I almost told you that in Monte Carlo but I'm clearly more well bred than you."

"Having an accent doesn't imply breeding. Haven't you seen 'My Fair Lady'?"

She arched an eyebrow. "You've seen 'My Fair Lady'? If you've seen 'Phantom,' and you know all the words to 'Les Miz,' too, we might have a little sexual identity problem, Mr. Bond."

"*We* didn't seem to be having any problems last night," he countered, taking a fresh shirt from the wardrobe. "Though I suppose I could admit to a slight twitch when Le Chifre was hitting me in the balls in Montenegro."

"What?!" She stopped rifling.

"He was torturing me. I was naked. It was all rather homoerotic, now that I think about it."

"So, theoretically, you could 'do it' for queen and country with just about anyone?" She rocked back on her heels, looking intrigued instead of disgusted. The girl really was quite remarkable.

"In theory, yes," he mused. He hadn't really given it much thought. "Everything for the Cause, you know."

Veronica laughed. And laughed. How rude. And vaguely charming. "You take one for the team…brace yourself, Bridget, and all of that? I hope Ol' Liz appreciates it."

He couldn't help laughing a bit, too. "I daresay no one has ever called me 'Bridget.'"

"There's a first time for everything."

He wasn't sure he quite liked the glint in her eye.

Veronica rose…and drew her hands out from behind her back. She held two of his silk ties…and a…where in the bleeding Hell had she found *that*? If he wasn't mistaken, it was a…

It had a harness and everything.

He was going to kill R when he got back to HQ. It was probably his idea of a good laugh. Slip a little something extra into the spy kit, see if James finds it. Ha-ha.

She crossed the room exactly like some clawed she-beast in a documentary. Hungry. Stalking her prey. Which, at the moment, happened to be him. Was it too late to opt out and reach for the Dutch porn? Very likely yes.

"Bugger," he hissed, swallowing hard.

She tilted her head, smiled and had him utterly at her mercy.

"You read my mind."


December 16, 2006.

In Soviet Russia, James Bonds You

e-mail mala.