"Behinds, Blue Eyes, and Very Bad Men Title: "Behinds, Blue Eyes, and Very Bad Men"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars/Casino Royale 2006
Rating/Classification: Veronica/James, language, sexual situations. Humor, crossover.
Disclaimer: I so, so, SO don't own these characters, but I love them a lot.
Summary: 3025 words. Veronica Mars is truly frightening.

Southern California lived up to every irritating American stereotype he'd ever encountered. The palm trees, the impossibly ostentatious architecture of the nouveau riche, the tacky commercialism, the sports cars (alright, so he quite liked that part), and the women in tiny, tiny bikinis (alright, so he quite liked *that*, too).


Even though he hadn't voiced the thought aloud, it earned him a sharp elbow to the ribs. "Eyes front, Spy Boy," Veronica murmured, her hand snaking down to tangle with his as they walked along the boardwalk.

"How about 'eyes rear''? Is that all right with you, darling?" he wondered, pausing to theatrically scope out her perfect little bottom.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have an unholy fixation on the posterior?" She wiggled it for him helpfully. That she insisted upon camouflaging it in baggy trousers was truly a travesty. "I hate to keep saying this, but this really, really doesn't speak well for the English educational system."

"As opposed to the American one? We may fixate on our asses, Veronica, but we do not encourage our children to jam their heads up them."

She laughed and he was loath to admit that he was getting used to the sound. For Christ's sake, he'd followed it all the way to the entirely unsuitably named Neptune, California. The last time he'd been this stupid for a woman, he'd begun spouting romantic nonsense of the worst variety and ended being betrayed and mourning her death. And as much as Veronica insisted on assuring him she would not stab him in the back or die in some hideous fashion, he was too bloody old and wise to believe her.

Not that M would agree with that description. M thought he was still in his nappies. Which didn't bode well for his hope of her sending him jumpers at Christmas and suggesting he meet a nice girl.

She'd thoroughly disapproved of his taking off after they'd hand-delivered Christensen to MI-6, reminding him that becoming attached to women was hardly his strong suit. He'd scoffed at the concept of attaching to Veronica, claiming this trip was actually a recruiting mission for Her Majesty's Secret Service and he fully planned to charge any and all expenses to the company accounts. He'd even offered to say "hello," to that old blighter, Felix Leiter.

"You're rhyming 'Leiter' and 'blighter' in your head again, aren't you?"

"You're truly frightening, Veronica." He had half a mind to actively recruit her after all, just so he could unleash her on M.

She squeezed his fingers before tugging him towards the sand. "You know you love me, Bond."

Indeed. That was what frightened him the most.


Veronica had been on any number of beaches with Bond in the last month. She'd lost count of how many times he'd risen from the water, dripping like some sea god out of mythology. Probably because it was easy to short out your brain on a visual like that. Being at Dog Beach, however, was a different thing altogether… and not just because they were both fully clothed.

She had no idea why he'd come with her to Neptune. Sure, a little kinky hanky panky was incentive-- the things the man could do with his little finger were amazing-- but she didn't have any illusions about being so shagadelic that it would inspire an international man of mystery to hang out at the Hut, eat In and Out burgers, and drive a rented Saturn.

She kicked off her flip-flops, settling down at the edge of the water and dusting off a place next to her. "So, are you and this Felix person doing something top secret while you're here?"

"If it's top secret, I'd hardly tell you now, would I?" James sat down with a ridiculous amount of grace. She didn't know how he managed it, but he didn't displace even a single grain of sand. It was probably one of those things they taught at spy school, along side ninja bartending and how to decapitate a vampire with a shoelace.

"Of course you'd tell me, because I'd just look through your stuff and find out anyway." It constantly amazed her that all the men she knew didn't figure that out right off the bat.

He chuckled, sliding an arm around her shoulders and brushing the top of her arm with two fingers. Not the little one. After all, they *were* in public. "I assure you, there is nothing top secret about this little jaunt. I'm here to enjoy the sun, the sand, and you," he murmured, turning to kiss her neck. And her collarbone. And the place where her v-neck just barely covered the line of her bra.

Oh, he was good. So very, very good. She'd sell him state secrets if she had any. She was about to kiss him back just as thoroughly and inventively when the proverbial-- and literal-- shadow fell across their little makeout session.

"Well, well, look what the adulterous bitch dragged in."

Bond pulled back first, lazily staring up at Logan, who was towering over them like a bully in a beach blanket movie out of the '50s. Or maybe an Archie comic. Or both.

James arched an eyebrow in that lofty, stick-up-his-ass (*now* who was fixated on asses?) way. Though nothing in his posture had changed, Veronica had felt him shift when Logan called her a 'bitch.' Poor Logan. He had no idea this guy could kill him with a shrimp fork. "Are you and Veronica married?" he wondered, giving the words an extra-pompous clip.

Logan shuddered at the question. He looked so horrified, so *victimized* that Veronica was glad she'd never started collecting items for her trousseau. "Fortunately, no. Dodged that particular gold-digging bullet," he spat, crossing his arms over his chest, the extra-long emo sleeves of his shirt flapping in the breeze.

"Then it wasn't adultery," James chuckled. "It was simply good sense."

He glanced at her and she knew exactly what he wasn't adding to the end of that brutally delivered one-liner: "Wanker." God, there really wasn't a doubt in the world, was there? Logan Echolls really was an enormous wanker. They both erupted into laughs, not even flinching at the totally pedestrian kicking up of sand in their general direction.

"Does your dad know your dating pool has expanded to the denture-wearing set?"

Veronica almost choked from laughing so hard. Especially at her decidedly *not* denture-wearing companion's affronted expression. Only she was allowed to make fun of the state of his teeth and, even then, it was usually about his Englishness and not his age. Honestly, she'd watched Logan do this scathing insult thing for *years*. To various Neptune High students, to her, to Weevil, to Piz… and it had never seemed as childish as it did right now. Probably because she knew for a fact James could bench press him --and that he had at least three inches on him below the waist.

Bond slowly stood, dusting sand from his tailored slacks. She wondered how she had ever believed he was just some bored, blond playboy. And how Logan could even remotely think he was geriatric. All you had to do was look him in the eye. That was his license to kill right there, in bright blue.

And while he very effectively showed Logan that license he also held out his hand for her so she accepted it, standing and slipping her sandals back on.

"It's a shame you haven't learned a thing since Monte Carlo, Echolls," James sighed, dispassionately. "You're still bluffing with an abominable hand."

Not to mention his emo sleeves.

While Logan sputtered and flapped for a witty retort (good luck with that; he was competing with the king of witty retorts), Veronica let James whisk her back up the beach. And she remembered that her dad did not, in fact, know her dating pool had expanded to the secret agent set.

Oh. Shit.

"Is it too late to go back to Bratislava?"





"Oh, it's never too late for that."

James swept her up and carried her the rest of the way to the Saturn and didn't complain once about having to drive it.

Primarily because she was showing him what she could do with *her* little finger… and her mouth.


There were few things in the world that James could say with any certainty he loved. A well made martini. His Walther PPK (no matter how outdated MI-6 seemed to think it was). The Aston Martin. Making the young, naked woman in his bed come just by telling her, explicitly, what he was going to do to her with the lights on, in full view of the drawn back curtains. He'd probably loved his mother, though he scarcely remembered her, and he had thought himself in love with Vesper Lynd.

Yes. There. He'd said it. At least mentally. Verbally, he was still going strong and though Veronica did not know the exact story revolving around his "man pain," she'd taken to referring to "She Who Must Not Be Named." Truth be told, Vesper had been more Severus Snape than Lord Voldemort, but he wasn't about to admit to reading the Harry Potter novels. Veronica already knew too much of him, had already crawled inside too many tiny spaces he'd rather her not occupy.

He kissed her shoulder, moving over her as she circled his neck with her arms. "Ready to make good on those claims, Bond?" she fairly purred.

Oh, yes. More than ready.

Veronica Mars was as different from Vesper as night from day. She had no interest in his defenses, in his secrets --Her Majesty's were another story-- and he had the distinct idea that if he offered to strip off his armor, she'd say, "As long as the clothes go, too, Spy Boy." She wanted nothing from him… which was why he'd become so damnably interested in giving her everything he could.

First on the list? Another screaming orgasm.

Unfortunately, as he nudged her thighs apart (really, why did she even bother making him do the work when they both knew where this was headed?), he heard the distinct click of the latch from the suite's small foyer. He was good at latch clicks. Sort of a specialty. He instinctively released her, rolling to retrieve his gun from beneath the pillow as he hissed, "Dress!"

Veronica slipped from the bed and into his shirt, going to the window and opening it should they need to make a quick getaway. Atta girl. He crept to the bedroom door (sort of another specialty), peering through the crack. No signs of an errant housekeeping cart or room service tray. No sign of anything, really. Except…



James Bond, done in by a door to the face. Oh, he was never going to live this down.

"DAD!" Moments later, he felt Veronica's hands on his forehead and other places, checking him for injuries. And though he felt addled, he was quite certain she wasn't calling *him* 'Dad.' They weren't quite *that* kinky. Yet. No. No, Dad was most definitely the man looming over them with a passkey in one hand and a .38 in the other. And he had less hair.

He had no experience with fathers. Not his own nor anyone else's. This, he supposed, was the curse of seeing someone barely out of the schoolroom. One had to deal with irate men in their lives defending their honor. A bigger curse? Only Veronica was wearing anything… and there was nothing honorable about his half-open shirt.

"Um, Dad… I was going to… tell you…" she was hemming and hawing as he gathered what was left of his wits and clicked the safety on his gun before draping it, casually, over his lap. It wasn't exactly his most stylish choice of accoutrements, but it would have to do.

"Keith Mars, I presume? I'm James Bond."

Veronica's father scowled. It was the kind of villainous scowl one would find in Ernst Stavro Blofeld's dossier. Rather impressive, really. "No, you're history," he said, emphatically, leaning against the door with which James planned to have a few very stern words later. "Because we're going to pretend that whatever this was with my daughter is a complete fabrication that belongs in a moldy textbook that was discarded by the U.S. Board of Education around, say, 1931."

"*Dad*, I'm an adult, and you cannot tell me who to see," Veronica interrupted, but Keith didn't even look at her. He kept his eyes fixed, coolly, on James' queer choice of accessory.

"I'm not telling you who to see. I'm telling your friend here that he might want to consider more age appropriate company. Less Lolita, more Camilla Parker Bowles."

James shuddered. "I beg your pardon. Have you ever looked at Camilla Parker Bowles?"

"Not lately, but would you give her my regards when you get back to London, Mr. Bond?"

It wasn't a request. On the bright side, he now knew exactly where Veronica had gotten her delightful sense of humor. He remained seated, as unobtrusive and neutral as a naked man could be, as Keith gave him a last look of parental disdain, turned, and walked out of the suite without one more word to his daughter.


The outer door shut with a barely audible click.


There were few things in the world that James could say with any certainty he hated.

First on the list? Watching a woman struggle not to cry… because of him.


She was going to kill Logan. With a shrimp fork. Repeatedly. She was going to reanimate him with the help of Mac's computer genius and a reconfigured crash cart and then kill him at least six times. And then she was going to buy her dad box seats to the Sharks next season and swear to him that all he'd walked in on was an avant-garde fighting technique heavily employed by MI-6. This was the thought that hurried her through a hot shower and back into her clothes.

Unfortunately, it still wasn't quite fast enough to find the Neptune Grand's executive suite still occupied. She had to hand it to Bond; he knew how to make a quick exit. He'd even managed to remake the bed. Hospital corners and everything.

It's not like she could blame him. Danish terrorists and Chinese arms dealers were a whole different ballgame from jealous ex-boyfriends and overprotective dads. On his first day here, no less. He was a playboy and a cad, for crying out loud. It was a rule: love 'em and leave 'em. It had just taken him three weeks and six days longer to leave her than he'd left anyone since She Who Must Not Be Named.

Which was why Veronica had planned on being the one to go. She'd had that perfect exit in place. They bagged the bad guy, she left, and she came back to school, and cherished the misty memories of hot marathon sex for the rest of her life.

But she'd made the mistake of confusing him wanting her with him *wanting* her. She'd looked at him and seen every puppy dog look he hadn't given her, heard every "stay with me," he didn't say out loud, and thought, "Hey, who cares if the man is being cryptic and broody for a reason, I'm going to bring him home with me."

Idiot. He wasn't a pet or a kitschy souvenir of her travels. This was not his life. His life was, as she'd noted back in North Africa, more like Spiderman's life. A tangled web.

Veronica sighed, smoothing her hand over the already perfectly smooth duvet before heading into the sitting room. There was a note, of course. Sure, the guy was a cad, but not uncouth or anything. She unfolded the single sheet of hotel stationary he'd propped on the coffee table, annoyed that, okay, he had perfect penmanship. How was that fair? Writing like a two-year-old with a blue crayon… now that would have been at least slightly comforting. Worth a victorious giggle, even.


Dreadfully sorry to cut short the trip to Neptune. Enjoyed the Mars landing immensely, though. Call me if you're ever in my orbit again.


Overdose much with the space metaphors?

She sighed. And then did what any self-respecting girl who'd been shagging a spy for a month would do: She pulled out her phone and checked the tracking device she'd embedded in James's Omega wristwatch.

Time to send out the probe.


James headed up the Pacific Coast Highway, infinitely regretting that he hadn't traded in the Saturn for something a bit more posh and pretentious. And infinitely regretting a few other things as well. Blonde things. Petite things. Veronica-shaped things. The fact that he still hadn't eaten an In and Out burger and had been in the state almost fourteen hours.

He adjusted the wireless earpiece on his mobile (no sense in getting pulled over by Erik Estrada) before dialing a secure line straight to Langley…and receiving a very grumpy response, since it was roughly midnight on the East Coast.

"Bond! What do you want?"

"Leiter, you old blighter!"

"Let me guess, you called *just* so you could rhyme that at me, didn't you?"

Bloody Hell, was he really that predictable?

"No, I'm States-side and desperately in need of entertainment. Any chance I could engage in a little inter-agency mayhem?"

"Any particular kind of mayhem? Besides me kicking your sorry British butt for calling so late?"

It always came back to posteriors, didn't it?

"Gay bars, " he said, automatically. "International terrorists who frequent gay bars and associate only with eunuchs."

Felix laughed for ten minutes, probably text-messaging M, R, Buffy, the Watcher's Council, and some prats at the Mossad the request before offering him ins on an operation in Las Vegas.

The blighter.

But James accepted it. It was simply good sense.

"So, what was her name, Bond?"

He laughed, not for ten minutes, but still he laughed just the same. "Let's just call her… Voldemort."

November 26, 2007.

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