A/N: Thanks to liz1967, Prosper-the-XVIII and Guest for the lovely reviews, as well as all of the people who favourited and followed us. We send you virtual hugs and cookies :) Sorry for the delay, but school life happened and our teachers unanimously decided to give us tons of coursework. Hope you enjoy! :D
It was a given that whenever James Bond entered a foreign casino (or bar, or hotel, or some other equally expensive place criminal masterminds decided was good enough for them) his charm was turned up and carefully aimed at his latest mark. It was indisputably a female mark, and she would (indisputably) end up in Bond's bed by the end of the evening.
He was not the one for any sort of sentiment and definitely not love (in fact, he abhorred the word) and so even as the raven beauty beneath him clung onto his shoulders and whispered his name breathily in his ear, he remained quiet. And though his attention was focused on her (he did not quite remember her name), she was nothing to him but a temporary distraction.
The next morning when he had the information he needed from her (because he had done what he had done for Queen and Country, obviously) he disappeared to completely, ready to repeat the process in another casino or bar or hotel.
This particular casino was swarming with CIA (there were five agents; excessive in his opinion). With his target sighted hanging around the neck of a nameless businessman, he moved to the bar to get his customary martini.
"Here to sleep with another mark Bond?"
Felix Leiter was at his side all of a sudden, friendly expression on his face. For five minutes Bond was almost normal, talking jokingly to a trusted friend (or as close as he could get to one). The night went as usual; the woman was moaning in his bed by midnight and he left as soon as he had his hands on the data. But Leiter's comment had set him thinking, and nothing good ever came of James Bond thinking.
When another mission required him to sleep with a woman in order to obtain information, he found himself in the curious position of hesitating. The very word felt foreign on his tongue; he never hesitated. Not to kill, not to torture, and certainly not to have sex. And so, with another shot of his favourite drink, he flashed his trademark smile at the target. Her heavier breathing and slight pupil dilation told him his abilities have not decreased in any way, shape or form.
Then again, why would they?
His eyebrow twitched in frustration. He was definitely thinking too much.
On a rare occasion he was in London and actually in a bar because he wanted to be and not because M had told him to, the familiar routine of singling out a woman to take home for the night started; one who a) wouldn't be completely drunk and b) who wouldn't be too easy, but also not too prudish for a one night stand. He found himself hesitating again, almost as if his conscience had decided to point out this may be seen by some as immoral. It merely took another glass of a decent scotch to banish this into the lost corners of his mind again, before he pursued the brunette in the corner with renewed determination and characteristic charisma.
He found she was a little more satisfying than his usual women.
To his slight annoyance, he found himself hesitating before any new pursuit. And always, determined to prove himself wrong, he tipped back the glass (of some drink; it hardly mattered) and carried out his plan. It was an inconvenience, this whole new 'thinking before you act' thing, so he made a conservative effort to dive straight into whatever it was he was doing and damning the consequences. The trouble was in those cases the thinking usually came afterwards when he was alone in his dark apartment in London. And it was only during this thinking that he admitted this to himself; he had a bad habit of screwing women over.