Title: "Turn the Other Cheek"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars/Casino Royale 2006
Character/Pairing: Veronica/James
Word Count: 1800
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters and this story is Gracie's fault!
Summary: Veronica could get used to the high life.
Spoilers/Warnings: Set vaguely in the VM future and post "Casino Royale." Mild adult content, risqué jokes, etc.

James tugged at his collar and then his cuffs, sighing as he sank down on the edge of the bed. "You know, the last woman I spent this much time with and got this bloody soft over betrayed me."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Bond, but I'm fresh out of betrayal." She waved her hand absently as she scrolled through her e-mails. "Between the mani-pedis, the seaweed wraps, and putting that tail on Christensen, I haven't had time, but I'll be sure to pick some up the next time I'm at the market."

Bruised and battered knuckles slowed. Shirt buttons were suddenly forgotten. "What did you just say you were doing today?"

"The seaweed wrap? It was awesome," she enthused, waggling her eyebrows and adding a bubbly bounce. "I could get used to living the high life."

His jaw clenched. "The other part… and if you say the 'mani-pedi,' don't think I won't turn you over my knee."

"I always suspected the British school system got all you schoolboys into BDSM. It's nice to have proof." She closed out of her mail, sighing as she leaned back against a mountain of pillows. "I put a tail on Jan Christensen this morning. Tagged him the lobby on my way to the spa."

James' jaw clenched even harder. She really was beginning to worry about the state of his teeth. It wasn't like he was batting a thousand in that department to begin with, being English and all. "Tagging my mark is not your job, Veronica."

"No, apparently that's… betrayal? Possibly with a side of scheming, then some tear-filled eyes and pleading, 'Oh, James, will you ever forgive me?'" Veronica rolled her eyes and turned the computer around on her lap, tapping at the window that was still open. "Your boy was on the move. He spent at least an hour in the city's north quarter and the signal narrowed it down to a trading shop owned by a…" She checked the notepad at her elbow. "Luke Tsing."

"Luke Tsing is a known go-between for the Chinese and those who want to broker arms through Eastern Europe." James sounded as if someone had written him a particularly dramatic (and pompous) speech about the evils of the post-Cold War weapons trade. "Tsing doesn't trade anything except his soul to the highest bidder," he pronounced, setting her laptop aside with disgust.

"Ooh, maybe he can give me tips!" she trilled with a grin, scooting close to finish undoing his shirt.

James growled, his eyes going gorgeously smoke blue with lust as he bent to kiss her. "The only tip you'll be getting, Veronica, is mine."

She pulled away chuckling, "God, I hope so," and then tangled her fingers in his, raising his hand with a glint of speculation. She really did love his hands, his wide palms and long, blunt fingers. "But first… what was that about being turned over your knee?"


Christensen and his mistress had camped out on the beach for the day. Naturally, this meant the oh-so excruciating task of watching them fell to James and Veronica. James immediately immersed his monumental frustration in the ocean, submerging until his head was well and truly soaked and he didn't have to think about how utterly dull the waiting portion of a good spy game was.

He'd loved Venice. He'd loved Bratislava. Possibly for more eclectic reasons than the intrigue. But Tangier was proving to be quite a bore-- discounting his delightful companion… who was staring at him with her adorable little brows furrowed as he shook off water and stepped from the surf.

"Must you do the slow-motion strut?" she snorted, settling down the trashy novel she'd bought at the hotel gift shop and, if he recalled, only read three pages of (purely for the purposes of making him reenact them). "And can't you do something about all that strategic cling? I think two women down the beach just died of heart attacks."

"As long as yours is still ticking, Darling," he sighed, stretching out on the towel beside her.

"I don't know, Bond, my pulse is feeling irregular." She held out her wrist for him to inspect and he dutifully pressed his salt-damp mouth against her skin. Then, he not so dutifully moved up her arm, to the curve of her elbow and higher, kissing each freckle he found on the way.

"Can't quite tell. Honestly, Veronica, you might be dead and not even know it," he chuckled before brushing his lips against her throat and tasting the beat to the contrary.

She gasped and her skin warmed and it was, sincerely, a beautiful sight to behold. She came to arousal faster than any woman he'd ever known, seeming surprised every time… which wasn't a particularly good commentary on the sexual prowess of young American men. Of course, they'd had that discussion many times already. See entry filed under Wankers, Enormous.

Veronica touched his cheek and he knew that meant, "Time to move to the mouth, Buddy." He was amazed at how quickly he'd picked up on her every subtle cue, her every nuance. And he did so love to move to her mouth. Particularly as it was so devilishly clever.

He had to admit; there were advantages to having her along… not the least of which were her accessible assets. But, also, the fact that he had the built-in cover of a dirty old bloke on holiday with his personal Girl Gone Wild. He'd half expected things to end after Slovakia, but Summers was now in India chasing down a yaksha and here they were, still "living the high life," and it was really, unsettlingly, perfect.

"James…" Veronica pulled back, her lips lush and red from his kisses. "We have to talk."

He should've known that thinking the word "perfect" was an automatic indicator that things would turn to the exact opposite. The only worse words than "We have to talk," were "James, I'm pregnant."

"You're not pregnant, are you?" he murmured, horrified.

"No!" Fortunately, she looked equally horrified. "I am, however, dangerously close to getting kicked out of college, since Spring Break somehow turned into a four week world tour. I got quite the scathing e-mail from the Dean this morning."

Oh, was that all? "Bugger college and bugger the Dean."

"That's more your style, Oh Homoerotic One."

She really was never going to let him live Le Chifre down, was she?

James scowled. "You do know that leaving me is as good as sticking a knife in my back, right?"

"Only because you like to do the leaving, Bond. I know your type." She kissed away the sting of the spot-on accusation, slowly climbing into his lap-- careful to afford them both a clear view of the Dane just a few yards away. "I also know that you'll be glad to get me out of your hair. You boys always like to have the little woman all tucked away safe at home, right? Out of danger?"

He knew better than to answer that, instead saying, "I rather like you exactly where you are," as she settled against his "strategic cling."

What surprised him was how much he actually meant it.


"Mac says 'hi.'" Veronica slid her phone closed, tucking it into her evening bag, watching James button his cuffs. A large portion of his daily schedule seemed to relate to cuffs. Buttoning them, unbuttoning them, engaging in fisti-them.

"I'd really like to meet this Mac of yours," he said, moving on to his tie. "Moreover, I think R back at MI6 HQ would adore her."

She hopped off the bathroom counter, sliding into her incredibly practical two-inch sandals. "There was so much alphabetical abuse in that sentence, I don't even know where to begin."

"Then don't." He flashed that rare grin before eyeing her up and down in clear appreciation of her black cocktail dress. It was decidedly *not* Versace. It was Veronica all the way.

She couldn't believe it had really been almost a month since she'd met James Bond. Time flew when you were jet setting and intelligence gathering. Not that she felt like she'd gathered much besides frequent flyer miles and the finer points of how to give a really good blowjob, but still…

This was not her life. She knew that. A succession of hotel rooms and marathon sex with men who said things like, "Realllllly?" and knew how to scale walls? Come to think of it, that sounded a lot more like Mary Jane Watson's life… if Spiderman were British and a spy. Not to mention that James was way, way hotter than Tobey Maguire.

But she'd burned her bridges with Logan, had a great time in the process, and now it was probably time to pack it in and head back to good ol' Neptune, where you turned down your own bed and mints on the pillow were optional. "After you take down Christensen tonight, I'm going to go."

"Well, then. We'll send you off in style, won't we?"

She almost didn't catch the look that flashed in his eyes. Bond was good. Realllllly good. And he was going to miss her.

She sighed, giving his tie a perfunctory domestic once-over and tracing her fingertips over a few of his dozen sexy age lines. "That woman who betrayed you? Just so you know, she was a moron."

James' wince was almost as imperceptible as the "Don't leave me, Veronica" look. He covered it with a husky chuckle that promised a really erotic send off, catching her fingers and kissing them. "I believe it was Buffy who told me once… 'love makes you do the wacky.'"

She cocked her head. "Just how much wacky have you done?"

"Not nearly enough," he whispered, as her dress pooled around her feet-- which was really quite remarkable, considering he'd had his hands nowhere near her zipper. Moments later, she found herself back on the counter, winding her legs around his hips.

"Is… this… enough… ?"

"No, Darling, it's not…"

"How… about… this?"

"Not nearly."

"Wacky y-yet? Oh *God*."

"You'll have to do better… than that," he urged, mussing his cuffs *and* his tie.

Her head tipped back and she practically saw stars, but that could have been the bathroom décor at work. "C-come home with me," she panted as he drove into her one last time and probably saw stars of his own. "Come to Neptune."

He smiled victoriously, as if he hadn't been angling for the invitation with every subtle non-gesture and non-expression. God, men were so predictable, so needy. And then he laughed, softly, warning her that one of his trademark witticisms was imminent. Veronica steeled herself as he stroked his way down her spine.

"Only if we detour at Uranus first."


April 16, 2007.

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