A/n: I just bought the original Casino Royale book. :3 All in all, I do agree, Daniel Craig's Bond is a lot more like the original (though a little softer still, and Casino Royale seems a little… wat… at points. Also, you see where they get the name Villiers from, lol (Amherst Villiers' supercharged Bentleys!). So I'll try to make James a little more like the 'original' one (i.e. colder, more sexist). Also, each time I get into a Craig discussion with various RL/net friends, it seems something immediately comes up and I have to leave the MSN convo. QQ.

02 Going to bed early doesn't help much.

New Year Resolutions

James would not have agreed to go for the New Year's company party if Villiers hadn't insisted on his company. Due to the necessary secrecy of MI6 it tended to take place discreetly within the Regent's Park building itself, in one of the secured function rooms, with everyone carefully checked for weapons beforehand. One could immediately pick out the double-0s; they were the ones standing unobtrusively in spots where they could keep most of the room in sight at any one point (terrible habit). Few tended to bring family, and again, given the aforementioned necessary secrecy, there weren't even any forms of eye-candy save employees of MI6 itself.

At least with the polonium incident he did not have to socialize overmuch this year with the curious; the crowd orbited the Head of S, trying to glean his opinion of the poisoning (though not confidential information, of course, too crass, that). So he hid behind one of the verdant indoor ferns near the caviar and wished the night over so he could collect on his… incentive.

Idly wondering how he could pull Villiers out of the uncomfortable function to an early night (and bed, sans rest and relaxation), he turned at the sound of the sharp clacks of approaching heeled feet, and smiled politely when he saw 004's wife, Maisy (perhaps one of the only non-MI6 significant others in the room, but he supposed she did not count; she was once MI6, after all). Another woman in a man's job, this lawyer, and for all her pretty smiles and petite charm the steel was difficult to hide; eyes hardly lie. "I am surprised to see you here, James."

Surreptitiously, he checked the 004's location (south-east, chatting to 008, just so positioned that his peripheral vision tracked his wife) and then Villiers' (being introduced at three-o-clock to one of the new CIA liaisons), and permitted himself a distant smile. "Not particularly willingly."

"Ah yes, Amherst did say you would be difficult," Maisy used Villiers' awkward first name with the casual, efficient flair of an attorney, her smile was practiced, and spoke to James of a life spent in six minute legal checkpoints. He lazily wondered what it would be like to look into steel-soft eyes and bend the petite body back with his; then discarded the thought quickly with a thin smile, when he noticed 004 wandering closer in the ambit of his social arc.

"Evidently not difficult enough," he toasted her with an incline of his head and a tip of fine champagne. "Lovely dress."

"Why, thank you. I heard it's all the rage, this season." Maisy wore a silk Chinese-style dress with a demure collar and cream embroidery over black; bared sleeves caught soft highlights from the muted light, and when she moved there was the occasional flash of stockings. Had this not been England, he would have been vaguely tempted, trained killer husband or not.

Since it was England, he settled for another helping of caviar, and rolled the salt pops with the crackled pepper biscuit in his mouth, and again wished the night over, setting his mind on auto. Women were easy to speak to, when there was only recreation. "It compliments your eyes."

"If I didn't know better, James…" Maisy's grin was purely playful, and she linked arms with 004, who had walked with characteristic double-0 silence up behind her, without even looking back. 004's expression was carefully neutral, as he inclined his head to James.

"Ten minutes to the countdown," he told Maisy, then turned to James. "She felt a watch would detract from the dignity of her outfit." The arch of both eyebrows said women, eh with the (admittedly outdated, and habitual) disdain of the fairer sex in a dark profession predominantly populated by men in the double-0 echelons of MI6. James had never understood why himself; acquiring double-0 status, after all, mostly meant a willingness to kill, and that was not bordered by gender.

Maisy, of course, noticed the unspoken words (lawyer); she rested pale fingers on her husband's suit and chuckled. "Why would I need a watch, when others serve as such reliable time-pieces?" A sidelong glance at her husband spoke of foils being withdrawn for now, with the unspoken acknowledgment of old sparring partners.

James supposed it was just as well that it had never been his dubious luck to marry or get permanently involved with a woman. In England, where the double-0s retreated after often grueling missions to lick their wounds and rest before the next manila folder told them where to go and who to kill, the peace he needed to keep his sanity professional had no space for a woman, with the unnecessary complexities that romance and feelings required. With Villiers, needs were outlined plainly, clear lines were drawn, and he had the comfort of simplicity where needed. That was not to say there was no conflict, but where there was, there wasn't the multilayered nuance that James would have to study, were Villiers a woman.

His object of consideration eased over to his side, as though to greet Maisy, deftly not hinting at any relationship at all between himself and James outside of professionalism. "Maisy. I'm glad to see you."

"I did think M would pitch me out," Maisy agreed, with a wink and a brief glance over at the leader of MI6, the harshness of her profile unsoftened by the presence of colleagues, friends and good champagne.

"No, she has quite forgiven you," Villiers smiled, and James had to push down the impulse to grab the pale blue tie and pull the man down for a brutal kiss; his lanky form graceful in a suit, the curve of his arse visible under the hem of his jacket. "Any New Years' resolutions?"

Maisy replied with the expected, "Oh, to lose a little weight," just as James reminded himself that staring at the admittedly pert behind of M's aide was uncharacteristic for 007. The idle chatter, as both 004 and Villiers hastened to reply in the typically male manner of assuring Maisy that she looked great the way she was, bored him, making the aforementioned reminder a little more difficult to retain.

A little change in posture informed him that 004 was fast entering 'wise Asian master' mode, and upon questioned about his resolutions, launched into a lecture about the practicalities of feng shui and how New Years' resolutions disrupted harmony. James had never been gladder for M's flat voice, amplified over the speakers, as she headed the countdown to the next year; all in the room turned to the stage, politely.

Just as the transmissions, wired to the overhead speakers, resonated with the boom of Big Ben, James slipped his hand down over soft fabric to the curve of the arse he had been trying not to notice too obviously, to the junction with legs, and rubbed lazily to the sound of a soft, stifled gasp, before moving away to raise his glass in a toast. Just before 'auld lang syne' kicked in, he heard Villiers mutter, "Incorrigible."

"Second floor reception," James murmured in return, deciding that there was no real need to actually have to get home before calling in his incentive.

--

"In here?" Villiers' first words were complaint, as James had thought, when pulled into the sterile, spacious disabled stall of the opulent second floor dignitaries' reception bathroom. Rose marble underfoot soaked a dim reflection as James latched the solid mahogany door behind them, walked Villiers into a corner and curled long fingers around the pale blue tie. Liberally ravishing soft lips with a growl teased a tremble, and arms curling over his shoulders; he pulled one thigh firmly over an elbow, and eased the other knee over the low gilt metal support bar that scored one cold wall. An upward grind of hips, and the chest behind his wrist heaved; fingers pulled awkwardly at his tie and fumbled through his short mop of hair (blonde again, after the last mission).

"Here," he agreed, breathless, as they broke for air, habitually cold eyes hard with insistent lust. "Now."

"Hardly comfortable or dignified," Villiers muttered, but did not resist when lips attacked his throat and his tie was undone, nimble fingers working buttons down a crumpling shirt. He growled, when his own fingers were batted away, arching down against another buck, his need hot and obvious against James' belly.

"We can do comfortable and dignified afterwards," James whispered, reaching between them with his free hand and squeezing hard, absorbing the tremor with his longer frame and the choked moan with his lips, curling soft fabric over the jut of the ridge and roughly stroking the tip with a thumb, through the cloth. Villiers shuddered again, and fingers clawed over the back of James' tailored jacket (a habit now, after the Casino Royale affair). "Now it would please me greatly to fuck your lovely arse into the wall."

"Such language," Villiers admonished, though a quirk on lips swelling from brutal possession hinted at amusement. "Do you eat with that mouth?"

"I could compound the point right now by embellishing on that well-worn vulgar cue, and describe what else I could do with my mouth," James suggested, with another thrust, this time taking his time to rub hard, upwards, to a moan. "But I am sure you are already… very much aware."

"Yes," Villiers' eyes were downcast, fixed on the rough circles he was rubbing with the pad of his thumb, over the clothed erection. "By the way, you are conscious that there… are cameras, about here…"

"There were," James corrected. Wadded tissue and aim born of half-remembered boyish pranks had served him well.

"Of course," Villiers said, with a hint of exasperation, "As though you could spend even New Years' without some form of property destruction."

"Temporary only, I assure you," James grinned, as he pulled Villiers' shirt out of his trousers, and undid the belt buckle, all with an unhurried languor that gave lie to the previous forceful demands, running a finger over the button and the zipper before working on them. Black briefs. Villiers blushed, under the slow scrutiny, and wriggled, when fingers traced the tight arc of cloth. James realized that he was purring, deep and sensual, as he placed the leg he held on the ground and turned Villiers around, pulling jacket and shirt off unmarked shoulders and hooking them on the door, then guiding hands to the support bar, as he reached in his pockets for condoms and the discreet tube (the Aston Martin was always a possibility, after all).

The little whimper and hips pushed back against fingers reminded James that not much preparation was really necessary, given that some final persuasions had to be used an hour or so before the party to a stubborn 007. Glad of how previous play had made it unnecessary to bother further with waiting, he prepared himself and pushed into snug heat with a grunt, his own tailored trousers pooled at knees, sliding a hand over the flat stomach to the dangling heat to toy dancing fingers over rubber-sheathed flesh. A whine, then, "More."

"M's birthday?" James grinned against the curve of a shoulder, as this caused a hiss of obscenity that would have surprised Moneypenny, from the prim aide, and he delicately pinched the tip of Villiers' flushed shaft, to another gasp.

"James." A growled warning, when he didn't move, then he obliged, with a dry laugh, expertly finding the necessary angle. It took him a moment, distracted by groans and rolling hips, to settle into a hard rhythm, one hand in a vise over a shoulder, the other working at flesh (slick-hot), driving into the arched body with half an ear for whimpered pleas with the sweet spice of almost-pain.

The rough pace forced pleas into low groans, fingers white-knuckled over the bar as hips were pushed back against his thrusts, shoulders savaged with pearl teeth. Ever the courteous British gentleman, yanks on sheathed flesh eventually dragged out a long, rasping cry of rapture wrapped loosely around a word that could have been his name; he rode the tremors with a savage smirk, then used the quivering heat with a few sharp snaps of his hips.

Afterwards, the few necessary details of cleaning up taken care of (he supposed it was really sloppy to dispose of used items in the same vicinity, but was quite unwilling to care, at this point), a dazed and haphazardly dressed Villiers dragged to the Aston Martin, he leaned over to purr into an ear, as he fluidly shifted gear to pull out of the carpark. "Happy New Years'."

Villiers opened his mouth, then thinned lips into line, eyes narrowed with exasperation, before leaning his head back against the leather seat with a ripple of soft laughter. "Let me guess. Your resolution ran something along the lines of 'have Amherst somewhere in the office'."

"It simply won't do, to waste time quibbling," James's smile was feral, with bared teeth, though he kept his eyes on the road, even when he felt a warm hand creep over his thigh.

"Breakfast in bed tomorrow. French toast," Villiers muttered, detailing the extent and form that an apology would have to take, then James saw swollen lips upturn into a warm smile that almost melted the final layer of ice he kept around his heart (what a disaster that would be, for a double-0). "Happy New Year, James."

-tbc-