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scurvyknaveryOriginally posted 31 July, 2007.
Title: Be Faithful, Spy Well, or You Die.
Fandom: James Bond (Casino Royale, film canon)
Challenge:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
twicetoldfandom, photo #16
Word Count: 925
Pairing: James Bond/Vesper Lynd
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The trouble with charmingly boyish English men with a taste for expensive cars and good vodka. . .
Notes:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sailorscully and fox1013 for the beta win. Title quoted from the Ian Fleming novel, Casino Royale.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
The trouble, it seemed, with charmingly boyish English men with a taste for expensive cars and good vodka was that they made one hope for things that one shouldn't. They made one - assuming one was Vesper, and easily charmed by an apparently endless string of lazy, unsubtle innuendoes and a willingness to withstand torture - do things.
Not the sex, obviously. Most of that had been Vesper's idea to begin with. (Ignoring the overt sexual harassment, because she was fairly sure, at this point, that was nothing more than James' idea of small talk with a pretty girl.)
But things, for instance, like letting him buy a boat and offer to sail the pair of them up the coast of Italy, like that was just what one did after stealing a horrendous amount of money from the coffers of international terrorists and nearly getting killed.
Which, obviously Vesper wasn't going to be a part of - Vesper couldn't be part of it, because she had to keep going. That had been the agreement. Wire the money to Mr. White's banker friends, take James to hospital, return to England and the Treasury with everyone alive or dead as they should be and a heavy conscience, James none the wiser until much, much later. When she wouldn't have to look him in the eye over it. Except, well - that was the trouble with English men.
Or maybe that just was the trouble with James, it was hard to say.
All Vesper knew was that instead of behaving in a way that would allow the backroom deal that made her feel guilty and vaguely unclean all over to go smoothly, James went ahead and bought a boat.
And the next morning - on the dock, with his hips close against hers and his chest wide and reassuring against her back, he lifted his hands away from her eyes and let her see it. The laugh she felt against the back of her neck was just this side of smug, but the sound of it close and warm behind her made her chest tighten all the same, damn him.
"You found a boat," she said, throat tight and the sound of her own pulse roaring in her ears, because she could not - she needed to be in England. As it was, she should have left days ago.
James murmured something to the affirmative, muffled by his lips in her hair as he kissed the top of her head. "I bought a boat."
It was the way he said it. That's what it was. The tone of voice, some odd mix between a father correcting a child and that eager, boyish pride he seemed to feel (but never quite wanted to show) after every little success. It was his voice, and the way one hand curled around her hip reflexively for an instant, making something inside Vesper twist, and that was the end of - well. That was the reason she made herself laugh, instead of pulling away or telling him she had to go or any number of sensible things, and turned to bury her face in his chest. "You're stark raving mad." Then, looking up. "You know that, right?"
James chuckled, so deep she could feel it against her skin, and tugged on her arm.
If he'd been anyone else, she wouldn't have let herself follow.
But there was something about him.
Something that wasn't any less compelling when he pinned her against the wall below decks and said, "Of course, we'll have to christen it."
Something about his eyes, confident and so carefree it almost hurt to look into them, that made refusing just too difficult to do.
So Vesper arched her back, instead, letting her hips press into the bulge between his thighs and smiling as demurely as she could, considering the way his hands were traveling up the lines of her waist. "Really?" she said as she leaned up to just barely brush her lips against his, almost asking for him to lean in and kiss her properly. "But I don't think we have any champagne."
James laughed low in his throat and leaned in, pressing her even closer against the wall to trail soft, lazy kisses across the line of her jaw. "Well," he said, finally pressing his lips hard to hers once, then pulling back to grin at her like the cat that had - in a purely metaphorical sense - got the cream, "I suppose we'll have to improvise."
And afterwards, flushed and panting with her head resting on his chest as she listened to his pulse slow to normal, enjoying the way he moved to lace his fingers with hers, Vesper made her first mistake.
Drowsy and warm, content to be entranced by the way the patterns of light streaming in through the hatch above shifted with the wind, she let herself think it was all possible. Just for a second. She let herself think that Mr. White and his associates would let her quit her job and sail off to Jamaica or Venice or wherever James had in mind, that they'd suffer the loss of a high-clearance contact in the Treasury without retaliating.
Vesper shifted, sliding one bare leg between his as she turned to look up at him, a smile tugging at one side of her mouth. Looking into his eyes, clasping his hand more tightly in her own - that's when she made her second mistake, and couldn't quite bring herself to care. "Where do you want to go?"
There was just something about English men.
Title: Be Faithful, Spy Well, or You Die.
Fandom: James Bond (Casino Royale, film canon)
Challenge:
twicetoldfandom, photo #16
Word Count: 925
Pairing: James Bond/Vesper Lynd
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The trouble with charmingly boyish English men with a taste for expensive cars and good vodka. . .
Notes:
sailorscully and fox1013 for the beta win. Title quoted from the Ian Fleming novel, Casino Royale. Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
The trouble, it seemed, with charmingly boyish English men with a taste for expensive cars and good vodka was that they made one hope for things that one shouldn't. They made one - assuming one was Vesper, and easily charmed by an apparently endless string of lazy, unsubtle innuendoes and a willingness to withstand torture - do things.
Not the sex, obviously. Most of that had been Vesper's idea to begin with. (Ignoring the overt sexual harassment, because she was fairly sure, at this point, that was nothing more than James' idea of small talk with a pretty girl.)
But things, for instance, like letting him buy a boat and offer to sail the pair of them up the coast of Italy, like that was just what one did after stealing a horrendous amount of money from the coffers of international terrorists and nearly getting killed.
Which, obviously Vesper wasn't going to be a part of - Vesper couldn't be part of it, because she had to keep going. That had been the agreement. Wire the money to Mr. White's banker friends, take James to hospital, return to England and the Treasury with everyone alive or dead as they should be and a heavy conscience, James none the wiser until much, much later. When she wouldn't have to look him in the eye over it. Except, well - that was the trouble with English men.
Or maybe that just was the trouble with James, it was hard to say.
All Vesper knew was that instead of behaving in a way that would allow the backroom deal that made her feel guilty and vaguely unclean all over to go smoothly, James went ahead and bought a boat.
And the next morning - on the dock, with his hips close against hers and his chest wide and reassuring against her back, he lifted his hands away from her eyes and let her see it. The laugh she felt against the back of her neck was just this side of smug, but the sound of it close and warm behind her made her chest tighten all the same, damn him.
"You found a boat," she said, throat tight and the sound of her own pulse roaring in her ears, because she could not - she needed to be in England. As it was, she should have left days ago.
James murmured something to the affirmative, muffled by his lips in her hair as he kissed the top of her head. "I bought a boat."
It was the way he said it. That's what it was. The tone of voice, some odd mix between a father correcting a child and that eager, boyish pride he seemed to feel (but never quite wanted to show) after every little success. It was his voice, and the way one hand curled around her hip reflexively for an instant, making something inside Vesper twist, and that was the end of - well. That was the reason she made herself laugh, instead of pulling away or telling him she had to go or any number of sensible things, and turned to bury her face in his chest. "You're stark raving mad." Then, looking up. "You know that, right?"
James chuckled, so deep she could feel it against her skin, and tugged on her arm.
If he'd been anyone else, she wouldn't have let herself follow.
But there was something about him.
Something that wasn't any less compelling when he pinned her against the wall below decks and said, "Of course, we'll have to christen it."
Something about his eyes, confident and so carefree it almost hurt to look into them, that made refusing just too difficult to do.
So Vesper arched her back, instead, letting her hips press into the bulge between his thighs and smiling as demurely as she could, considering the way his hands were traveling up the lines of her waist. "Really?" she said as she leaned up to just barely brush her lips against his, almost asking for him to lean in and kiss her properly. "But I don't think we have any champagne."
James laughed low in his throat and leaned in, pressing her even closer against the wall to trail soft, lazy kisses across the line of her jaw. "Well," he said, finally pressing his lips hard to hers once, then pulling back to grin at her like the cat that had - in a purely metaphorical sense - got the cream, "I suppose we'll have to improvise."
And afterwards, flushed and panting with her head resting on his chest as she listened to his pulse slow to normal, enjoying the way he moved to lace his fingers with hers, Vesper made her first mistake.
Drowsy and warm, content to be entranced by the way the patterns of light streaming in through the hatch above shifted with the wind, she let herself think it was all possible. Just for a second. She let herself think that Mr. White and his associates would let her quit her job and sail off to Jamaica or Venice or wherever James had in mind, that they'd suffer the loss of a high-clearance contact in the Treasury without retaliating.
Vesper shifted, sliding one bare leg between his as she turned to look up at him, a smile tugging at one side of her mouth. Looking into his eyes, clasping his hand more tightly in her own - that's when she made her second mistake, and couldn't quite bring herself to care. "Where do you want to go?"
There was just something about English men.