Title: "In Soviet Russia, James Bonds You"
Fandom: James Bond/Veronica Mars/BtVS
Rating/Classification: Total crack, the fandom is also the pairing, bad language, sexual situations, etc.
Disclaimer: Grr aaargh. Nobody does it better but a long time ago we used to be friends.
Summary: 1800 words. Angel Grace summed this one up nicely: "So much blondeness, so little bed." Of course, that's how James *wanted* it to happen…
Bond was up to his balls in impertinent, blond Americans. If he were in bed, that would be a bloody fantastic prospect. Unfortunately, he was fully upright, outside a Slovakian discotheque, watching a band of would-be pickpockets explode in a shower of ashes.
Oh, sodding Hell.
"Okay, what is going on here?" demanded Veronica, who had just wanted a quiet night of espionage and martinis. And she was dressed for it, too…all black leather and delectable shoes. To be perfectly honest, James was a bit of a nutter for shoes. "When did we walk into a bootleg of 'Underworld' and why don't I see Scott Speedman?"
"Hello, Slayer," he sighed, as the other blonde in question returned a wooden stake to the folds of her coat and strolled up, pleased as punch and decidedly cat-and-canary.
"Hey, Bond!" Buffy Summers trilled, acting every inch the cheerleader the boys at MI-5 kept claiming she'd once been. She, too, was dressed impeccably in leather. It was, after all, practically a dress code for those of their particular persuasion.
Her Majesty's Secret Service and the Council were theoretically allies, but there was no denying that every time their agents encountered each other, there was more competition than cooperation. Slayers liked things messy and hands-on. Downright rowdy, they were. He supposed it was a woman thing. The lot of them couldn't execute a mission without some sort of drama unfolding. Uptight Englishmen, naturally, loathed getting their hands dirty. They abhorred muss and fuss.
Fortunately, James was anything but uptight. A bit of a black sheep. So he let go of Veronica's hand, and greeted Buffy with a rather indecent hug of the hands-on-her-ass variety.
Which made Veronica scowl. Nothing shrewish, mind you. Just a scowl and a: "Okay, now I *really* need to know what's going on here. Is there a woman between Venice and here that you haven't slept with?"
Buffy pulled out of the embrace laughing and dusting contact ash off of his jacket. "She questions your massively medieval sexual history before she asks about the bitey creatures? I think your taste's improving, James!"
"There's hope for me yet, Darling," he murmured, eyes lighting up with amusement as the two girls took each other's measure.
Perhaps he would get lucky and they'd take an instant dislike to one another and decide to mud wrestle? A better thought: perhaps they'd take an instant liking to each other and propose a lovely ménage? Who needed a discotheque anyway?
"I'm Buffy Summers. I guess you could call me a colleague of James'."
"Veronica Mars. Pretty much just here for the sex."
Buffy cocked her head. "Southern California?"
Veronica's suspicious expression thawed a little. "Neptune."
"Sunnydale!" cried the older girl, delighted, which launched them into some high pitched babbling about the Pacific Coast Highway, fish tacos, and what a shame it had been that Shark Field was torn down. And then there were the squeals and the "Really!"s…
Dear God. James busied himself shooting a vampire who'd strayed from the initial attack squad. Multiple times. When the fangy little bugger continued to try and advance (they never learned, did they?), he quit toying and decapitated him with a shoelace. (One of his own. It would've been indecorous to use someone else's.)
By that point, Buffy and Veronica had moved on to comparing notes about him.
"Does he still do that thing with his…?"
"Oh my God, yes. Why don't American guys do that?"
"Veronica, hadn't we established that the men in your life before me were a bunch of wankers?"
"Their masturbatory status aside, I just let you think that so you won't dwell on the fact that people keep thinking you're my dad."
"Hmm, now that you mention it, I do see a resemblance," was Buffy's ever-so-useful rejoinder.
James gritted his teeth. "Whoever said gentlemen prefer blondes was a bloody idiot."
Veronica elbowed him and turned to the side so some depressed Eastern European teenager wearing far too much eye makeup could get into the nightclub. "Whoever said you were a gentleman was totally lying!"
"And I'm not blonde," Buffy added, doing a quick visual once-over of their perimeter. "My hairdresser says it's 'august brown.'"
"Your hairdresser is a bloody idiot, too," James snorted, suddenly feeling uninspired to track Yuri Smirnov down and shake a microdot out of him. ("No, Veronica, I don't actually mean 'Yakov.' It's Yuri, I assure you.") Once a pint-sized girl dispatched vampires right in front of you, there was no point in trying to pass off a little shakedown as an exciting Saturday night out in Bratislava.
He did so hate being shown up. Sadly, MI-6 was quite used to being thoroughly walloped by the Council in all matters supernatural. Of course, he and Buffy had managed to work out a mutually satisfactory arrangement where she occasionally soothed his bruised ego. All in the spirit of cooperation, as it were.
Now if only he could get Veronica to cooperate as well. It might just salvage the evening.
She narrowed her eyes, wrinkling that maddeningly pert little nose. "You've got that look."
"What look?" He knew precisely what look. He'd been honing it for years. He practically had a patent.
"The look you gave the flight attendant, the receptionist at the hotel, the waitress at the restaurant *and* the adorable valet who parked our car."
He smirked. "You only asked about the women between here and Venice. Not the men."
"One guy hits you in the balls and it's all over. Gay, gay, gay." Veronica shook her head, eyes wide and totally insincere. It was a look *she'd* no doubt been honing for years.
"What's that about balls?" Buffy's delicate eyebrows quirked as she returned from a final perimeter check, snapping her cell phone shut. And then an all-too knowing look crossed *her* face. Good Lord, had they all signed up for correspondence courses in Nuance? "Oh! Le Chifre! We heard about that. Ouch." She glanced down meaningfully. "Is everything back in working order?"
Veronica waved her hand. "Here for the sex, remember?"
"Mm. Indeed." James eyed both women, idly wondering if killing them both would be a wiser option than the one he was about to suggest. "And since you mention it, would you ladies like to have some?"
After all, if they were going to talk about his balls, they might as well be present and accounted for. Very present. And very accounted for.
"What about Smirnov?"
"He can wait," he snapped, somewhat peevishly. "I can't."
Veronica and Buffy shared a cryptic look that he didn't quite like at all. "Oh, really?" they said in eerie unison.
The valet's name was Josef. He was rather a nice lad. A trifle young, but weren't they all at this point? James sighed, leaning against the hood of the Aston Martin, and passed Josef back his cheap marijuana cigarette.
The problem with suggesting sex to two beautiful, athletic, and damnably remarkable women?
They didn't necessarily need you there in order to have it.
Oh, sodding Hell.
Buffy and Veronica were stretched out on the King-sized bed in the best suite at the Crowne Plaza (yes, Bratislava had a Crowne Plaza) doing something completely indulgent and semi-indecent: eating Bavarian chocolate, drinking champagne, and talking about James Bond's cock while a horribly dubbed version of "Dirty Dancing" played on the television.
"So, do you really think he's downstairs having sex with Josef?"
"Please." Veronica rolled her eyes. "He's all talk. I'm gayer than he is. I have this best friend who's a computer hacker and pretty cute--"
"You, too?" Buffy's eyebrows quirked and both women giggled. "It looks like we have more in common than hair color and wanting to take Bond down a few pegs."
"It's good for his ego to get kicked out of bed once in a while. Lord knows it's as huge as his…"
"Can you imagine if it wasn't? Wouldn't that be tragic?" Buffy shook her head, sympathetically. "Forget vampires and demons. Men with penis issues… that's a horrifying sight. It's like…the uber evil."
"No kidding! " Veronica agreed. (Logan had sent her a fairly petty text earlier in the day. Four-letter words, emoticons gone wild, etc.)
Buffy tossed a couple of chocolate wrappers towards the tasteful accent trashcan across the room, effortlessly making the shot. "So, how good were we? Porn star level?"
"Absolutely. Your stamina is beyond compare. He'll envy us for years." Finishing the last sip of her champagne, Veronica grinned and clicked off first the TV and then the bedside light.
Buffy helpfully pulled the duvet up to their chins and flopped back against the mountain of pillows. "God, it's been ages since I got a decent night's sleep," she groaned, sounding blissfully happy at the prospect.
Veronica could hardly blame her. She hadn't had much sleep herself since hitting Europe… and hitting a spy who made rabbits look chaste. "Goodnight, Buffy," she chuckled.
"Goodnight, Veronica. This was a brilliant idea!"
This had been a bloody stupid idea. His clothes reeked of marijuana and Josef's cologne and he was actually struggling to swipe his keycard and let himself in as quietly as possible. Him. James Bond. The utmost in suave. Struggling! Who'd ever heard of such a thing?
All because two infernal females had convinced him to try out his sexual wiles on the unspeakably dull young valet as they got themselves "warmed up."
As if that wasn't the oldest trick in the book for turning a threesome into an intimate twosome. Or, in this case, a jumping night at the rest home for impudent southern California girls. Both Buffy and Veronica were fast asleep and, from the looks of it, had managed to consume the hotel's entire supply of chocolates before nodding off.
Beautiful. Just beautiful. He shrugged out of his clothes, leaving them in uncivilized piles on the floor. They'd hardly left any room for him between them. How rude. "Hmm." He cocked his head, trying to discern which lovely lady was the most easily accessible. That quickly became apparent. The one with the sheets kicked aside and her T-shirt riding up in the most delicious of ways. A grin tugged at his lips and he bit off a quip so utterly perfect that it was a shame no one was awake to hear it: "I guess I shall just have to sleep in the Buff."
Of course, despite the witticism and the initiative, Bond had forgotten one important thing: a half-awake Slayer's defensive instincts. Five minutes later, *he* lay in an uncivilized pile on the floor. With his balls very present, very accounted for…and very black and blue.
"James…?" Veronica murmured, drowsily, peering over the side of the bed.
"Yes, Darling?" he choked out, blinking back tears.
"You're a wanker."
"N-not anymore, I'm not."
February 7, 2007.
Turn the Other Cheek