This is based on Ian Fleming's literary James Bond, and particularly on events taking place in Casino Royale and On Her Majesty's Secret Service. The title was taken from a chapter of the same name in From Russia With Love. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond.

Vesper. Tracy.

Tracy. Vesper.

Sometimes it was hard for him to remember which came first.

Of course, Bond knew Vesper came first, almost four years before Tracy, in fact. But two broken hearts in four years leaves little time in between to mend, and the pain he'd felt afterwards was so similar that it was almost interchangeable. Then again, for every similarity between them there was another glaring difference.

Had Vesper Lynd come along at any other point in Bond's life she wouldn't have meant any more to him than any of the other girls he'd been with. But only days after meeting her for the first time Bond had realized that good and bad were no longer black and white, and because of that had even considered leaving the Service. To Bond, Vesper had symbolized one of the last pure good people out there, and because of that her betrayal had shocked him all the more.

For various reasons Vesper had been unlike any girl Bond had ever seen before. For sure she was beautiful— even after the many girls he'd been with since she still remained one of the most gorgeous— but it was more than that. She was cautious, almost shy; she didn't throw herself at him— just the opposite, in fact. She'd been aware of herself, and even a little self conscious. Looking back, Bond realized that most if not all of these characteristics had been because of her status as a double agent, but that didn't change the fact that she had captivated Bond like no one else ever had.

Maybe it was because of how she had captivated him that Bond now recognized that what he felt for her wasn't so much love as desire. He had wanted her, all of her, and the fact that she spent their last days together in a paranoid depression had only made him want her more. She had been the first girl that he'd wanted that he couldn't have, but at the same time had given him more respect and genuine affection than he'd ever imagined someone would. It was because of the way she flip-flopped between pampering him and pushing him away that had made his want for her body develop into love. She'd been the untouchable, always slightly out of reach, and Bond could now admit that that had been half of her appeal. If he met someone like her these days, Bond knew he'd never want to marry her.

Her death had come as a surprise, but unfortunately not as a shock. At least, in retrospect it shouldn't have come as a shock, not when she had exhibited such destructive and unhappy behavior in the days before. But seeing her cold, lifeless body, Bond's emotions had overridden his logic, and after reading her note, his anger had overridden his grief. Now the rage had all but vanished, replaced all these years later with a lingering trace of guilt. After all, she'd been under his protection. And she'd died. Not to mention he'd been the reason she'd taken the pills.

But if Vesper's death had been upsetting if not unanticipated, Tracy Vicenzo's death had been both devastating and totally out of the blue. One second she'd been alive and the next she'd been dead, a ring of blood spreading on her chest, her face still molded into an expression of concentration as she'd tried to out-drive their pursuers. Her cheeks had still been so full of color, her skin still so warm, that even as they'd pulled her body out of the car Bond had thought of how lucky he was to have such a beautiful wife. It was his first experience with denial.

But the denial hadn't lasted long enough, and while Vesper's demise had sent him into a fit of rage and an urge to get back to his office in London, Tracy's death had left him standing open-mouthed and wide-eyed outside the room where she'd been pronounced dead. He had no recollection of the rest of that day, but somehow he'd made it home that night and by the time he got into his office the next day word of Tracy's end had already reached M. After that the number of hours he'd spent in the office had diminished as it became harder and harder to get up in the morning, and the few missions he was sent on had ended badly at best.

The only good that came out of the situation was this: If Bond had ever doubted his love for Tracy, he didn't anymore. And if Bond had ever thought he could be eternally happy with Vesper, he didn't think that anymore, either.

While Vesper had been everything he'd never seen before in a girl, Tracy was everything that Vesper had lacked. Vesper was quiet; Tracy was outgoing. Vesper was eager to please; Tracy didn't give a damn. Vesper was elegant; Tracy was sporty. Vesper let others make decisions for her; Tracy took life into her own hands. Vesper's mood swings made Bond perplexed; Tracy's depression made Bond empathetic. But the greatest difference between them was also the most difficult to think about.

When Bond first met Vesper she had wanted more than anything to survive, if only to ensure her lover's life, going so far as to give herself to the enemy in exchange for her lover's safety. But in the end she'd been the one to bring her own death.

When Tracy, on the other hand, first entered Bond's life she'd been set on dying, with a desperate want to end her suffering. But by the time they were married she'd been as full of life as anyone, as eager to live as anyone. And still she'd died.

It wasn't fair. Bond knew more than anyone that life never was, but why had the girls he loved perished while he was forced to keep on living, keep on killing, keep on remembering? He'd looked death in the face more times than he could keep track of, more times than he cared to remember, and always he'd clenched his teeth and fought on, telling himself, No, this is not the end. You can get through this. This is not death. And somehow, by the grace of a god he didn't believe in, he always pulled through. He could only assume it was through some terrible fluke that he could outrace death several times a year, while others— while Vesper and Tracy— were given just a chance or two before their lifelines were cut.

And last but not least, Bond always recalled his last words to them before they'd been snatched away by the cold, reaching hands of death.

Sleep well, my darling. Don't worry, everything's all right now. He'd said these ironically reassuring words to Vesper as he'd kissed her goodnight for the last time. There was no way to know exactly when she'd ingested the pills, but he could only assume that mere minutes had passed from the time he'd told her things were okay until the time she'd taken the swallows that ended her life.

We've got all the time in the world. And these had been the last words he'd said to Tracy, shortly before a wave of bullets had smashed through both the wind shield and Tracy's back. In a way Bond knew his words still held meaning; Tracy was now forever sealed under the ground, a modest headstone atop a patch of grass the only indication that she'd ever been alive. And Bond was forever sealed on the topside, stuck in a world of arrogant and naïve people who thought love conquered all. They did have all the time in the world; they just didn't have that time together.

Vesper. Tracy.

Tracy. Vesper.

Sometimes it was hard for him to remember which came first.

And sometimes it was hard for him to think about at all.