FIC: Our Life is Not a Movie (Or Maybe), Veronica/Lamb, NC-17
There are a million other things I should be doing right now, but I am doing this instead. Yeah, it's fic. It's Veronica Mars fic, but it's still fic. (Weird, right? Yeah.) I wanted to write 1,500 words of wallsex and ended up with more like 15,000 words of trainwreck. ANYWAY. I could fuck with this story for another month, but I have decided to post it before it just kills me. Not that I have any idea WHERE to post it, but I will figure that out later.
Title: Our Life is Not a Movie (or Maybe)
Author: atra (atrata)
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Pairing: Veronica/Lamb
Summary: Whatever she's up to, he's pretty sure it's a fucking stupid idea that's going to end up with her in mortal danger and him looking like an idiot. Again.
Rating: NC-17 for sex and Lamb's foul mouth
Spoilers: Uh, goes into a sort of AU after 3.09, "Spit & Eggs."
Disclaimer: I'm totally not Rob Thomas.
A/N: This story would not have been written without murklins, who put up with my obsessing and didn't kill me while I was writing it, even though I bet she wanted to. The list of other people who held my hand through this is far too long to go into, but even my mother is on it, so. You know how it is. Also, massive thanks to threerings for the excellent beta. Title from the Okkervil River song.
Feedback: Yes, please. This is my first VM fic. So. Yeah. *bites nails*
***
"You're fucking kidding me." Don is pissed.
"Sorry, Sheriff," Sacks says, but Don is pretty sure he's just saying it so he has something to say. "How do you want to play it?"
He wants to ignore it, is what he wants to do, because Don Lamb, Sheriff of Neptune, doesn't give a fuck about prostitution rings. He has actual crimes to solve, but now there's a story in the paper about hookers and strip clubs and fleeced 09ers, and he's going to be expected to do something about it.
*
He changes into civvies and goes to The Seventh Veil to investigate. He knows it's not going to do much good: He's not exactly a regular there, but he's close enough to one that people know him, and it's not like anyone's going to try selling him any sex. Really, he's hoping that the combination of the article in the paper and the sheriff putting in an appearance will make the prostitution thing disappear.
He plans to go in, look around, have some drinks, buy a lap dance or three, and go the hell home.
It's an unexpected bonus that he can, apparently, buy the lap dance from Veronica Mars.
*
He sees her the second he walks in. She's perched on some suit-wearing asshole's lap, laughing like she means it, wearing black stripper shoes and a bunch of shiny plastic clothes. He doesn't know what the hell she thinks she's doing, and maybe he doesn't hate her, but he's definitely sick of her shit. Whatever she's up to, he's pretty sure it's a fucking stupid idea that's going to end up with her in mortal danger and him looking like an idiot. Again. He's also pretty sure it involves this prostitution thing, and if Mars is involved it usually means there's something to be involved with, and that means he's going to have to do actual work.
Later.
In the meantime, he heads for what he thinks of as the Lap Dance Room -- which is stupid, because you can get dances anywhere you want, but whatever. He tells a waitress on his way that he wants to try the new girl, points at Mars, and then sits down to wait.
It doesn't take long before he starts to worry that the room isn't private enough. It's lined with high-walled booths, big enough for two people (three if they're friendly), but that's not the issue; the issue is the area in the center, filled with tables, perfect for anyone who wants to wander in and watch the show. He doesn't know what this particular show is going to look like, but he sure as shit doesn't want anyone else watching. He heads over to the bouncer stationed at the doorway, slips him a fifty to keep out the other customers. The guy hesitates, but it's a slow night, and Don holds up his hands and promises to keep them to himself. The bouncer pockets the cash.
Don grabs a chair from one of the tables and drags it to the corner booth, where he sits, props his feet up, sticks a piece of gum in his mouth, and waits.
*
Mars takes her sweet time showing up, and when she finally saunters over, Don almost chokes on his gum. Her stripper shoes have eight-inch heels on them, and when the fuck did she learn to walk on those? She makes a pretty picture in her thigh-highs, though, even topped by the trashy plastic miniskirt and tacky glittered tube top.
When she plants one of those eight-inch heels on the chair he's using as a footrest, Don can tell she's nervous. She's already trying too hard, making too much of an effort to flash him some trim, paying too much attention to how far she has to lean over to give him a view of her tits.
He looks. They're nice tits.
"Hey there," she says, in a voice he doesn't recognize.
"Hey," he says with a grin. The booth is backlit, and he can tell she hasn't recognized him, but she's definitely trying. He knows he needs to pick his moments with Mars, though, and so he keeps his face in the shadows.
She bends at the waist and leans over him, practically shoving her tits in his face. His eyes close as he inhales. She smells good, but strippers always do. "Hey," she says again, whispering in his ear, hot breath scraping his skin. "I'm Misty, and if it's okay with you, I need to move that chair." She curls a hand around the back of his neck, and he knows she's trying to get him to look at her. "Your song's about to start."
He doesn't say anything as he lifts his legs and kicks the chair out of the way. It almost sends Mars sprawling into his lap, and he digs his fingertips into the booth to keep himself from catching her. She catches herself pretty nicely, though, swinging her leg over his and sliding onto his lap like it's where she wanted to be all along. She doesn't even snap at him the way she probably wants to. He spreads his legs a little wider, leans back in the booth, puts on his best shit-eating grin, and looks her in the face.
She freezes, does a great deer-in-the-headlights, and Don is careful not to react. He has no idea if she's going to go through with this, but Don's had a shitty day, and playing with Mars, seeing that panicked look on her face, makes it all better. The look only lasts a second, if that, and then she manages to school her face back into some semblance of fucked-up stripper professionalism.
"Well, Misty," he says, glancing up at a speaker in the corner of the room. "Song's started. I wouldn't want to have to tell your boss you ripped me off." He smacks his gum and smiles.
Her back stiffens and that familiar fire catches behind her eyes. She smiles back, and Don can tell she's going to play. She trails a finger down his jaw, her nail dragging a little too roughly against his five-o'clock-shadow, and starts to dance.
*
Mars is pissed. Don's enjoying himself. He hasn't moved an inch, didn't ask for another dance, but they're three songs in and Mars is down to her shoes and her thong and okay, Don is really enjoying himself. She's straddling him, grinding down against his hard-on, rubbing her tits all over his chest. She's probably hoping she's irresistible, hoping he'll grab himself a handful and get his ass thrown out. He's the sheriff, though, and he'll have to grab a lot more than a handful before they kick him out. Still, he might do it, because god knows it's tempting -- but not yet.
She twists her hips again, rakes her nails across his jaw, and leans in close to whisper, "What's the matter, Deputy? I know you want to fuck me." She grinds against his dick to prove her point. "I'm only 17, but I know you don't mind."
She sounds triumphant, like that should be something that stings, but he doesn't know what the hell she's talking about. He goes for the obvious lie instead. "Oh, Misty," he says, snapping his gum and keeping his voice bland, "don't lie to me. You've gotta be at least 18 to work here." He shifts slightly, sits up a little straighter, rocks his hips up into hers. Her breath hitches.
"Lucky for you," she says, soft and sweet, running her hands down his chest. "But I'm sure you wouldn't get in trouble. The Sheriff's department doesn't investigate rape, statutory or otherwise." Don's a little fuzzy on the logic of dry-humping him in a strip club, asking him to fuck her, and then calling it rape, but whatever. He knows she hates him, but it doesn't stop her from grinding a little harder on his cock and saying, "So how 'bout it, Deputy? I know you wanna."
He grins, briefly, and decides he's had enough. He moves fast, wrapping an arm around her, and grabs a handful of hair. He pulls, not too hard, but hard enough to force her head back, and then slides his other hand down the column of her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach, under her thong. The thong's soaked through, and he stops there, his fingers hovering just over her clit, so close he can feel the heat pouring off her.
She sits in his lap, stiff and shaking, and he hopes she's pissed, because scared is not something that looks good on her. He's not trying to scare her, except that he is, because she has no business being here.
"Oh, I'll fuck you," he says, pulling her closer and breathing into her ear. "Even if you are a disease-ridden pain in my ass. But not until you ask me for it." He pauses, debating, because he's still on this side of the line -- barely -- but fuck it. He licks behind her jawbone.
She goes stiff in his arms, digs her nails into his shoulders. "I will never ask you for anything," she hisses, hot breath stuttering over his neck. "It's not like you're capable of--"
"Mmm, yeah," he cuts in, not bothered. He knows what she thinks. He knows what everybody thinks. He doesn't care; they're wrong. He goes back to the scaring-her-not-scaring-her part of his fucking-her-not-fucking-her plan. "You'll say, 'please, Sheriff Lamb, fuck me.'" He bites a line down her jaw. He can feel her grinding her teeth. "And then," he says, "and then, maybe, if you mean it, and if you haven't pissed me off in, I don't know, the last 24 hours? Maybe then I'll give you what you want." He pulls on her hair a little more, forcing her to arch into him, and he licks at the hollow of her collarbone. Her skin's soft. She tastes good.
"You son of a bitch," she says, "I don't waaaah--" He still has a hand between her legs, and he moves it, tapping twice on her clit and then leaving his fingers there, just a hint of pressure. Veronica's whole body convulses and she grinds against his fingers, arches against his chest, and it's not an orgasm but it'd be only too easy to give her one. Their eyes lock, and he can see she knows it. "Fuck," she says, and she's shaking in his arms.
He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and glances over her shoulder to see the bouncer heading their way. Laughing, he shoves her into the chair and stands up with his hands in the air. The bouncer gives him the evil eye, but backs off, doesn't try to kill him or throw him out, so Don can only assume the guy didn't see very much.
He digs out his wallet and throws a wad of cash at Mars, who's sitting on the chair. The effort it's taking her to be calm is obvious, but he can't tell if she's angrier than she is horny, or vice versa. He watches her for a few more seconds and then reaches down and deliberately adjusts his jeans. "Be seeing you, Misty," he says, and walks away.
He expects one of those shoes to fly at his head, but nothing happens.
*
He has Sacks bring her into the station the next day, and he spends a while smirking at her across the interrogation table while she tries really hard to pretend last night never happened. He has to admit she does a pretty good job.
"You look better without your clothes on, Mars," he says, letting his eyes linger.
She arches an eyebrow. "And looking good without clothes on is a crime now, Deputy, or were you just hoping for a repeat performance?"
"Sheriff," he says automatically, smiling with one side of his mouth. "And if I want a repeat performance, Mars, I know how to get one." She actually shifts a little in her seat, and he grins before adopting a serious expression. "So. What were you doing at the Veil last night?"
"Getting pawed by greasy old men." She gives an exaggerated shudder.
He looks around the room, wide-eyed. "I hope you're not talking about me, Mars," he says, standing up and leaning over the table. "Because I didn't hear any complaints."
Her mouth tightens and she crosses her arms, and he decides to stop fucking around. "Tell me what you were doing there." He sits back down.
"Dancing."
"Mars. I--"
"What were you doing there, Deputy? Was that your idea of an investigation?"
He just stares at her, chewing his gum. She sits back in her chair and shoots him an icy smile. "What, you think if you stare at me long enough, I'll crack under the pressure?"
He keeps staring. "You think I won't throw you in a holding cell?"
"Oooh, will you? Can I try cell A this time? I'm getting bored with the view from cell B."
God, he fucking hates her sometimes. He can't make her tell him anything, and they both know it. "All right," he says. "We'll do this your way. What do you want?"
She looks around. "Excuse me?"
He sighs. He shouldn't have brought her in here. "You're working some case, and I'm guessing it has to do with this." He slides a newspaper across the table. "Tell me what you know, and maybe I can help you out."
She stares at him for a full ten seconds, and then she laughs and laughs and laughs.
"All right, Deputy," she says, when she's finished laughing at him, which takes a really long time. "That was a good one. Just for that, maybe I'll help you out."
"Gee, thanks."
"You only get one shot at this, so you might want to pay attention." She pauses and shoots him a sugary smile. "A friend of mine dances there on weekends to pay her way through school. She and some of the other girls were hired by Robert Friedrich for a private party, strictly dancing, no big deal. So she goes, and it's fine, and she leaves a few grand richer."
"Okay," he says, to show that he's listening.
"But then the owner of the club gets a call that my friend ripped Friedrich off, and suddenly there's a story about prostitution, and she doesn't know anything about any of it. She hired me as a pre-emptive strike. She was worried that Friedrich would call you and you'd arrest her, along with all the other girls at the party."
This, he thinks, might actually be good news. "So there's no prostitution ring?"
She snaps her fingers. "Keep up. That's what I'm trying to find out. If he really got ripped off, and if so, who did it and why my friend got blamed."
"Well, I'm sure the citizens of Neptune will sleep easier with Girl Detective on the job."
She doesn't respond, but he knows it was a pretty weak jab. "Are we done?" she asks.
"Who's your friend?"
"I'm afraid that's confidential."
"You're not a lawyer, Mars," he says, grinding his teeth. "Or even a legitimate detective. You don't get confidentiality."
"Hmm," she says, nodding seriously. "I think that also means I don't have to talk to you at all."
He wants to strangle her. Mostly, though, he just wants her to go the hell away, so he smiles his least-sincere smile. "That's true, because Friedrich never reported any robbery," he tells her, and he's not really sure what that means for the bigger picture. "So I won't be arresting your friend until he does."
She looks at him for a minute, either like she doesn't believe him or like she thinks he's a moron -- or probably both -- and then shakes her head. "Great. Thanks so much. Can I go now?"
She doesn't wait for him to answer before she stands up and breezes out of there.
*
He skips a night, gives himself a much-needed evening off from dealing with or thinking about Veronica Mars, and then he goes back to the Veil. She's there, working the room like a pro in her naughty schoolgirl clothes: plaid skirt that's not long enough to cover her ass cheeks, collared shirt that laces up the front and has no shoulders. It's a pretty terrible outfit, actually, and Don wears a lot of brown polyester and so he knows about terrible outfits, but he figures hers probably comes off easy.
He watches her for a few minutes before sitting down at a corner booth and ordering a drink. He stays there for hours, closes the place down, and buys dances from damn near every stripper in the place who isn't Mars. He ignores her completely, in fact, even though he can feel her eyes on him the whole time.
*
The doorbell rings just as he's falling asleep, and he stumbles out of bed and into a pair of boxers as he's on his way to the intercom. He checks the clock and figures anyone showing up at the sheriff's apartment at three-thirty in the morning has a damn good reason. He hits the buzzer without bothering to see who it is.
There's a knock at his door a few seconds later, and when he opens it, it's Mars. She's clearly come straight from the club, is still wearing that schoolgirl getup, is covered in glitter and makeup, and Don isn't sure what to think.
He doesn't move out of the doorway. He doesn't know what the hell she wants or why the fuck she's standing at his door in her slut suit or what she thinks is going to happen. He tries to keep the confusion off his face, covers it by looking at her, by taking his time checking out her bare thighs and her tiny waist, the way that skirt hugs her hipbones, the way her tits strain against her too-small shirt.
He starts to get hard, and she's staring at his chest, at his rising cock, and that's only making him harder. Her tongue darts out, wets her lips.
"Yeah?" he says, shooting for somewhere between bored and amused. He usually pulls that one off pretty well. She shakes her head slightly, as if to clear it, and looks at his face.
Her smile is blinding, gorgeous, and not even a little convincing. "Please, Sheriff Lamb," she says, using that faux-breathless she'd adopted at the Veil. "Fuck me."
He doesn't laugh. Instead, he lets her stand there for a few seconds before he slams the door in her face.
*
Thirty seconds go by, and he spends them looking around his apartment, making sure all the blinds are closed and that there aren't any assholes with telephoto lenses trying to set him up. He wouldn't put it past her, and he looks even though it's not like he's going to be able to see any assholes-in-waiting. Still, he's pretty sure they won't be able to see him, either.
There's another sharp knock at his door. He sighs and yanks it open again, but before he can ask Mars what the hell she wants this time, she slaps him across the face. She's wearing a ring, and it hurts, and that is quite the fuck enough.
He's pretty sure he's growling when he shoots an arm out and grabs a handful of hair to yank her inside. The breath rushes out of her lungs as he shoves her against the door and closes his mouth over hers. He tastes coffee, and then she bites and he bites back and there's blood and bile and bitterness between them. It doesn't stop her from wrapping her arms around his neck, though, and when he slides his hands down to her ass to pick her up, her legs lock tight around his waist.
He presses her body against the wall, pinning her with his chest, and reaches one hand below and between her legs. Her skirt's not in his way, and soon her thong isn't, either; he pushes it aside and slides his fingers against her slit. She's already wet and he almost comments on it, almost sinks his teeth into her skin and asks her what she's dripping for. Instead he just slides two fingers in, feels her flesh part easily, feels her dig her nails into his shoulders and her heels into his back.
That's good enough for him, and he fucks her with the fingers of one hand and fumbles for his jacket with the other. It's easier than it should be; she doesn't weigh anything at all and she's wrapped so tight around his body that their skin all feels the same, all slick sweat sliding together as he searches through the pockets of his jacket for a condom. He's got a box in the bedroom, but fuck that. Anyway, pay-dirt.
"Hold on," he says, hiking her up a little higher and pulling his fingers away. She whimpers and he kisses her again, swallows the sounds she's making, and he doesn't know if he's ever been with someone so much smaller than he is, but he's liking it so far. He keeps her pinned to the wall, tries to concentrate on something other than the feel of her tits against his chest, her thighs trembling against his hips, her heat pooling against his stomach. He manages to reach underneath her and open the condom, get his dick out and the condom on, and then he pushes her thong out of the way and lifts her by her hips.
"Say it again," he says, positioning himself against her, where he can feel the heat radiating off her. The second the word "please" comes out of her mouth, he buries himself inside her in one smooth motion. She throws her head back and cries out, an almost hurt animal sound, and goes still in his arms. He leans back a little and waits, lays a line of kisses down her neck. He probably shouldn't have done that, probably should have gone a little slower, given her more of a chance to get used to him, but it's too late now. She feels amazing, quivering around him, and this is maybe the only situation in which he's going to exercise any patience. He's content to enjoy it, to enjoy sex in general and sex with Veronica Mars pinned against his wall in particular, and he rocks against her, giving her a few seconds to get used to the way he feels inside her. He could certainly get used to it; her cunt is tiny like the rest of her, holding him tight, and he thinks he could do this forever.
She shivers with her whole body and then makes some kind of agitated movement with her shoulders, and so he grabs her hips and bends his knees and proceeds to fuck her through the wall.
*
"Stop," she pants, and he doesn't hear her the first time and doesn't believe her the second, because she's seconds away from coming and they both know it. She claws at his shoulders, and he wonders if he's hurting her. "Stop," she says again, her voice a little more firm, even if she is still pumping her hips and clutching his back. He's not hurting her. "Seriously, Lamb. Don. Stop." It's the use of his first name that convinces him she means it.
A very large part of him says to just keep going, that they're both almost there, that she came to him, that this is clearly a part of some fucked-up game she's playing. But, well. Maybe, if she weren't Veronica Mars, maybe he'd listen to that voice, he'd keep going, he'd get them both off and make no apologies later. But he won't be that guy, not for her, not even if -- especially if -- she wants him to be. So he slows down, stops, shudders, pulls out, practically drops her on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He trashes the condom and is opening the fridge when he hears the door slam. He looks into the living room, and Mars is gone.
*
A week passes before he sees her again, and this time, she appears in his office like some nightmare stage magician.
"I thought maybe you'd want to try something new," she says, throwing a file on his desk. "Arrest some actual criminals. There is a prostitution ring."
"Actual criminals, huh?" he says, raising an eyebrow and flipping briefly through the file. It's been just under two weeks and he has more or less fucked Veronica Mars, but his world hasn't changed so much that he suddenly likes busting up prostitution rings. He smacks his gum and drops the file on his desk. "Swell," he says, an insincere smile on his face. "I'll look into it."
She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath like she's about to bitch him out for not doing his job, but instead she says, "Not a lot of guys would have stopped." Her voice is quiet.
Don snorts, and before he's thought about it, he says, "Yeah, well, if that's your idea of rape, Mars, it's no wonder you're always crying wolf."
Her body jerks like he's just punched her in the stomach. Shocked, painful surprise registers on her face, but it's gone so quickly he's not actually sure it was ever there in the first place.
"I was drugged," she says, her voice tight and ringing with fury. "If you-- Never mind." She stands to leave, and he's blocking the door before he really registers he's moved.
"Mars," he says, but she won't look at him. "Veronica."
"Get out of my way, Deputy."
"No. Jesus Christ, Veronica, I didn't mean--"
"What? You didn't mean what?"
He runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck it," he mutters. "Whatever."
"No, I don't think so," she says, still furious. "Let's talk about our feelings. You started this whole thing, and just when I thought maybe you weren't a complete waste of space, you go and accuse me of--"
"Of what?" he snaps. "Of playing games? Gee, Veronica, I don't know how I would ever have gotten that impression. You show up, ask me to fuck you, and freak out when I do."
"That's not what was supposed to happen!" she yells, and Don doesn't really know what the fuck is going on. He knows he should have kept his mouth shut, but he doesn't quite understand why she's shocked that he doesn't trust her. He never has before, so it's not exactly new. He hooks his thumbs in his belt, but stays in front of the door.
"Really. And what was supposed to happen?"
That seems to take the wind out of her sails, somehow, and she looks down, takes a deep breath, gets herself under control. "It wasn't supposed to go that far."
"Oh," he says. "I see," even though he doesn't. "And that's not a game... how, exactly?"
"I didn't say it wasn't a game," she snaps.
"And you're pissed that it didn't go exactly the way you wanted it to. Jesus, what are you, twelve?" He rolls his eyes and gives her the most patronizing smile he can manage. "Get the hell out of here, Mars. Go home to your daddy." He moves out of the way and sits down in his chair, picking up the file she'd left for him and propping his feet up on the desk. He doesn't look up when the door slams behind her.
*
Two nights later, he goes to The Seventh Veil, and when the bartender tells him that "Misty" just quit, he goes out back and dials her number. He has no idea why, really, or what the hell he's going to say if she picks up, but he'll think of something.
It rings, and he hears the theme from "COPS." He grins despite himself and then realizes it's coming from the dumpster down the alley. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and he wishes for his gun. He left it in the cruiser, but he makes his way slowly down the alley anyway, keeping his eyes open for movement. The theme song's still playing when he peers into the dumpster and shoves some trash bags out of the way, and then he sees a flash of blonde hair and pale skin.
He stares for a few seconds too long and then he's over the side, hip-deep in trash, digging her out and swearing under his breath the whole time.
*
It's not like she's heavy, so he gets her out of the dumpster with no problem and then slides to the ground, cradling her to his chest. She's alive. Don kind of wants to kill her. She's covered with cuts and bruises and she won't wake up, but she's breathing and her pulse is steady. He slaps her cheek lightly. "Mars," he says. "Veronica, come on, wake up."
He should call the paramedics. He should take her to the hospital. He should do anything other than sit there in a dirty alley with an unconscious girl and yell at her, but that's pretty much what he does. Amazingly, it works. Her eyes flutter open an eternity later, and she looks at him, confused and hurt.
His mouth opens and closes a few times, and he realizes he has no idea what to say. Asking her if she's all right is stupid; she's clearly not. Asking her what happened is pointless; she's not going to tell him. Telling her she's an idiot is out of the question; he can tell her that any time, and it's not like it's going to help if he does it now.
She saves him from having to figure it out by asking, "What are you doing here?"
"Howdy, Mars," he says, plastering a bored smile on his face. "I'm rescuing you. You want to tell me how you ended up beat to shit and thrown out with the trash?"
Her mouth tightens.
"Didn't think so," he says. "All right. Come on."
"What? No. I'm not going anywhere with you."
"I'm not giving you a choice, Mars."
"Are you seriously arresting me? For getting beat up and thrown in a dumpster?"
He rolls his eyes and stands up, still carrying her. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm doing."
The sarcasm, for once, goes right over her head, and she starts struggling to get away. She shoves at his chest and tries to kick him, but she's tired and hurt and tiny, and he has no problem manhandling her into the cruiser. He shoves her into the passenger seat and leans in close. "Are you going to make me cuff you?"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
He smacks his gum and smiles slow. "You know it."
"Bite me, Deputy."
He shuts the door, gets in the car, and starts driving. She curls up in her seat, shaking slightly, and he doesn't know if it's anger or fear or shock or what.
She finally looks over at him. "Aren't you going to read me my rights?"
"Shut up, Veronica. I'm not arresting you."
"Oh, so you're kidnapping me. Awesome job, Sheriff." She gives him a thumbs-up. Her hand shakes.
"Veronica. Shut up."
"I don't believe you," she says, her voice hard. "I hand you everything on a silver platter and you still manage to screw it up. And somehow you're taking it out on me, like you're pissed off that I got beaten up, when it was your fault in the first place."
He looks over at her. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I think you need to go see the Wizard, Lamb," she says, her voice mocking. "Ask him for a clue. Who do you think beat me up? Hmmm." She puts a finger over her lips. "Let me see. You think it might have been the vindictive ring leader you completely failed to arrest?"
"For fuck's sake, Mars," he snaps. "Get over yourself. You are not god's gift to crime-fighting. I know you don't understand things like procedure or due process, but you can't just march into my office with a stack of illegally obtained evidence and expect me to arrest everyone you point at. That isn't how it works, and I've been telling you that for years. Your father has been telling you that for years. And if you would fucking listen to someone for once in your goddamn life, you wouldn't need people to drag you out of dumpsters. Now shut the fuck up or I'm dropping you off on this street corner without your phone and you can walk your ass home." He's yelling by the end of it, his hands are white on the steering wheel, and he desperately wants a drink.
She, naturally, does not shut the fuck up. She yells right back. "Well, if you would do your job and actually investigate crimes instead of staring at yourself in the mirror all day, maybe I wouldn't have to run all over the place digging up evidence to help you out. You--"
"Help me out? You were trying to help me out? Tell me, Veronica, in what POSSIBLE way does it help me out for you to run around digging up crappy, inadmissible evidence that holy shit, there are women out there who fuck for money? Then, what, you probably marched in there, all high-and-mighty and full of self-righteous bullshit and did one of your big reveals so everyone could see how smart you are, only you fucked it up and got your ass handed to you. Thanks a ton, Mars. Where should I send the gift basket?"
They are, thank god, in the parking lot of his apartment complex. "Get the hell out of the car," he snarls, throwing it in park and getting out. He's halfway to the front door and about to hit the lock on the remote when he realizes she isn't behind him.
He stops, sticks another piece of gum in his mouth, takes a deep breath, and walks back to the car. He pulls open the passenger door and drops to his haunches. She's struggling with her seat-belt.
"Need help?" he asks, and he means to be nice, but it comes out through his anger and doesn't sound nice at all.
She freezes and doesn't look at him.
"Veronica, seriously, let me help you get out."
"Fuck. You," she says, and her voice is not loud or steady or angry. It's young and small and miserable. He leans over to look at her, and she's staring very intently at the gearshift, tears streaming down her face. She closes her eyes and trembles.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "She cries," he says to himself, because he's surprised, because he's seen her holding a gun on Aaron Echolls, cool as you please, and whatever happened tonight can't possibly compare. He doesn't say it loudly, but a sob wrenches its way out of her throat, sounds like it tears something, and her whole body shakes. She shoves a fist in her mouth and bites down.
He has no idea what to do. He goes for honesty. "Veronica," he says, his voice low and as sincere as he can make it. "I don't know what to do."
Her eyes fly open and she stares at him, still fighting back the sobs. He reaches for her but she jerks back, and he pulls his hand back to his knee. "Just leave me alone," she says, her voice ragged. "Please. Just leave me. The fuck. Alone."
He nods, closes and locks the car, and goes inside.
*
Once he's inside, he takes a quick shower and sits by the window with a beer. He has a view of his cruiser, and he stares at it, at her small form inside it, and drinks for what seems like a very long time.
*
However much he drinks, it's not enough to get her out of his head, and he stumbles downstairs a few hours later to check on her. She's asleep in the back seat, curled up under his jacket, and he shakes his head. He's not sure he wants to analyze that one: she can't get out, and he's the only one able to get in, and he doesn't know how to feel about that. He figured she'd call someone to come get her and take her the fuck away from him, but no. She's apparently still his problem. He opens the back door as quietly as he can, slides his arms around her, and carries her inside. She sighs, stirs, but doesn't wake up.
Once he's inside, though, he's not sure what to do with her. He can't just put her to bed. She's been in a dumpster, for fuck's sake, and she smells bad and she's covered with cuts and bruises and needs to get cleaned up. He sighs and lays her down on the couch. Yeah, this is going to go really well.
He changes into swim trunks and latex gloves and then strips her down, throwing all her clothes into a trash bag. He doesn't want to keep it around, really, but they might need it as evidence later. Contaminated evidence he stripped off the victim himself, but whatever.
Once her clothes are off, he takes a minute to check out her wounds, now that it's not dark and they're not in the alley and he's not worried she's about to die. She's badly bruised, but nothing is broken, and none of the cuts need stitches. Looks like she was worked over with a blunt instrument of some kind. His jaw clenches, and he swallows the bile that rises in his throat.
He picks her up and carries her into the bathroom, setting her in the tub and sliding in behind her. She still doesn't wake up, and part of him can only think, thank god, because it's five in the morning and he can't handle another shouting match. Another part of him is worried, though, and he keeps stopping to check her pulse and listen to her breathe and make sure she's okay.
It takes a long time. She's a mess, and she's hard to maneuver, and he's trying to be careful. But when he finishes, she doesn't smell like trash and her injuries don't actually look too bad and maybe he's going to get out of this before she kills him. Maybe, but he's not very optimistic.
Quickly, he rinses them off in the shower and then carries her into the bedroom, where he towels her off and tucks her into bed. She sighs and snuggles under the blankets. She looks young and terrible and beautiful, pale bruised skin against his navy blue sheets, and fuck it. There's going to be shouting in the morning anyway, and so he dries himself off, takes off the swim trunks and slides into bed next to her.
Part 2
Title: Our Life is Not a Movie (or Maybe)
Author: atra (atrata)
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Pairing: Veronica/Lamb
Summary: Whatever she's up to, he's pretty sure it's a fucking stupid idea that's going to end up with her in mortal danger and him looking like an idiot. Again.
Rating: NC-17 for sex and Lamb's foul mouth
Spoilers: Uh, goes into a sort of AU after 3.09, "Spit & Eggs."
Disclaimer: I'm totally not Rob Thomas.
A/N: This story would not have been written without murklins, who put up with my obsessing and didn't kill me while I was writing it, even though I bet she wanted to. The list of other people who held my hand through this is far too long to go into, but even my mother is on it, so. You know how it is. Also, massive thanks to threerings for the excellent beta. Title from the Okkervil River song.
Feedback: Yes, please. This is my first VM fic. So. Yeah. *bites nails*
***
"You're fucking kidding me." Don is pissed.
"Sorry, Sheriff," Sacks says, but Don is pretty sure he's just saying it so he has something to say. "How do you want to play it?"
He wants to ignore it, is what he wants to do, because Don Lamb, Sheriff of Neptune, doesn't give a fuck about prostitution rings. He has actual crimes to solve, but now there's a story in the paper about hookers and strip clubs and fleeced 09ers, and he's going to be expected to do something about it.
*
He changes into civvies and goes to The Seventh Veil to investigate. He knows it's not going to do much good: He's not exactly a regular there, but he's close enough to one that people know him, and it's not like anyone's going to try selling him any sex. Really, he's hoping that the combination of the article in the paper and the sheriff putting in an appearance will make the prostitution thing disappear.
He plans to go in, look around, have some drinks, buy a lap dance or three, and go the hell home.
It's an unexpected bonus that he can, apparently, buy the lap dance from Veronica Mars.
*
He sees her the second he walks in. She's perched on some suit-wearing asshole's lap, laughing like she means it, wearing black stripper shoes and a bunch of shiny plastic clothes. He doesn't know what the hell she thinks she's doing, and maybe he doesn't hate her, but he's definitely sick of her shit. Whatever she's up to, he's pretty sure it's a fucking stupid idea that's going to end up with her in mortal danger and him looking like an idiot. Again. He's also pretty sure it involves this prostitution thing, and if Mars is involved it usually means there's something to be involved with, and that means he's going to have to do actual work.
Later.
In the meantime, he heads for what he thinks of as the Lap Dance Room -- which is stupid, because you can get dances anywhere you want, but whatever. He tells a waitress on his way that he wants to try the new girl, points at Mars, and then sits down to wait.
It doesn't take long before he starts to worry that the room isn't private enough. It's lined with high-walled booths, big enough for two people (three if they're friendly), but that's not the issue; the issue is the area in the center, filled with tables, perfect for anyone who wants to wander in and watch the show. He doesn't know what this particular show is going to look like, but he sure as shit doesn't want anyone else watching. He heads over to the bouncer stationed at the doorway, slips him a fifty to keep out the other customers. The guy hesitates, but it's a slow night, and Don holds up his hands and promises to keep them to himself. The bouncer pockets the cash.
Don grabs a chair from one of the tables and drags it to the corner booth, where he sits, props his feet up, sticks a piece of gum in his mouth, and waits.
*
Mars takes her sweet time showing up, and when she finally saunters over, Don almost chokes on his gum. Her stripper shoes have eight-inch heels on them, and when the fuck did she learn to walk on those? She makes a pretty picture in her thigh-highs, though, even topped by the trashy plastic miniskirt and tacky glittered tube top.
When she plants one of those eight-inch heels on the chair he's using as a footrest, Don can tell she's nervous. She's already trying too hard, making too much of an effort to flash him some trim, paying too much attention to how far she has to lean over to give him a view of her tits.
He looks. They're nice tits.
"Hey there," she says, in a voice he doesn't recognize.
"Hey," he says with a grin. The booth is backlit, and he can tell she hasn't recognized him, but she's definitely trying. He knows he needs to pick his moments with Mars, though, and so he keeps his face in the shadows.
She bends at the waist and leans over him, practically shoving her tits in his face. His eyes close as he inhales. She smells good, but strippers always do. "Hey," she says again, whispering in his ear, hot breath scraping his skin. "I'm Misty, and if it's okay with you, I need to move that chair." She curls a hand around the back of his neck, and he knows she's trying to get him to look at her. "Your song's about to start."
He doesn't say anything as he lifts his legs and kicks the chair out of the way. It almost sends Mars sprawling into his lap, and he digs his fingertips into the booth to keep himself from catching her. She catches herself pretty nicely, though, swinging her leg over his and sliding onto his lap like it's where she wanted to be all along. She doesn't even snap at him the way she probably wants to. He spreads his legs a little wider, leans back in the booth, puts on his best shit-eating grin, and looks her in the face.
She freezes, does a great deer-in-the-headlights, and Don is careful not to react. He has no idea if she's going to go through with this, but Don's had a shitty day, and playing with Mars, seeing that panicked look on her face, makes it all better. The look only lasts a second, if that, and then she manages to school her face back into some semblance of fucked-up stripper professionalism.
"Well, Misty," he says, glancing up at a speaker in the corner of the room. "Song's started. I wouldn't want to have to tell your boss you ripped me off." He smacks his gum and smiles.
Her back stiffens and that familiar fire catches behind her eyes. She smiles back, and Don can tell she's going to play. She trails a finger down his jaw, her nail dragging a little too roughly against his five-o'clock-shadow, and starts to dance.
*
Mars is pissed. Don's enjoying himself. He hasn't moved an inch, didn't ask for another dance, but they're three songs in and Mars is down to her shoes and her thong and okay, Don is really enjoying himself. She's straddling him, grinding down against his hard-on, rubbing her tits all over his chest. She's probably hoping she's irresistible, hoping he'll grab himself a handful and get his ass thrown out. He's the sheriff, though, and he'll have to grab a lot more than a handful before they kick him out. Still, he might do it, because god knows it's tempting -- but not yet.
She twists her hips again, rakes her nails across his jaw, and leans in close to whisper, "What's the matter, Deputy? I know you want to fuck me." She grinds against his dick to prove her point. "I'm only 17, but I know you don't mind."
She sounds triumphant, like that should be something that stings, but he doesn't know what the hell she's talking about. He goes for the obvious lie instead. "Oh, Misty," he says, snapping his gum and keeping his voice bland, "don't lie to me. You've gotta be at least 18 to work here." He shifts slightly, sits up a little straighter, rocks his hips up into hers. Her breath hitches.
"Lucky for you," she says, soft and sweet, running her hands down his chest. "But I'm sure you wouldn't get in trouble. The Sheriff's department doesn't investigate rape, statutory or otherwise." Don's a little fuzzy on the logic of dry-humping him in a strip club, asking him to fuck her, and then calling it rape, but whatever. He knows she hates him, but it doesn't stop her from grinding a little harder on his cock and saying, "So how 'bout it, Deputy? I know you wanna."
He grins, briefly, and decides he's had enough. He moves fast, wrapping an arm around her, and grabs a handful of hair. He pulls, not too hard, but hard enough to force her head back, and then slides his other hand down the column of her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach, under her thong. The thong's soaked through, and he stops there, his fingers hovering just over her clit, so close he can feel the heat pouring off her.
She sits in his lap, stiff and shaking, and he hopes she's pissed, because scared is not something that looks good on her. He's not trying to scare her, except that he is, because she has no business being here.
"Oh, I'll fuck you," he says, pulling her closer and breathing into her ear. "Even if you are a disease-ridden pain in my ass. But not until you ask me for it." He pauses, debating, because he's still on this side of the line -- barely -- but fuck it. He licks behind her jawbone.
She goes stiff in his arms, digs her nails into his shoulders. "I will never ask you for anything," she hisses, hot breath stuttering over his neck. "It's not like you're capable of--"
"Mmm, yeah," he cuts in, not bothered. He knows what she thinks. He knows what everybody thinks. He doesn't care; they're wrong. He goes back to the scaring-her-not-scaring-her part of his fucking-her-not-fucking-her plan. "You'll say, 'please, Sheriff Lamb, fuck me.'" He bites a line down her jaw. He can feel her grinding her teeth. "And then," he says, "and then, maybe, if you mean it, and if you haven't pissed me off in, I don't know, the last 24 hours? Maybe then I'll give you what you want." He pulls on her hair a little more, forcing her to arch into him, and he licks at the hollow of her collarbone. Her skin's soft. She tastes good.
"You son of a bitch," she says, "I don't waaaah--" He still has a hand between her legs, and he moves it, tapping twice on her clit and then leaving his fingers there, just a hint of pressure. Veronica's whole body convulses and she grinds against his fingers, arches against his chest, and it's not an orgasm but it'd be only too easy to give her one. Their eyes lock, and he can see she knows it. "Fuck," she says, and she's shaking in his arms.
He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and glances over her shoulder to see the bouncer heading their way. Laughing, he shoves her into the chair and stands up with his hands in the air. The bouncer gives him the evil eye, but backs off, doesn't try to kill him or throw him out, so Don can only assume the guy didn't see very much.
He digs out his wallet and throws a wad of cash at Mars, who's sitting on the chair. The effort it's taking her to be calm is obvious, but he can't tell if she's angrier than she is horny, or vice versa. He watches her for a few more seconds and then reaches down and deliberately adjusts his jeans. "Be seeing you, Misty," he says, and walks away.
He expects one of those shoes to fly at his head, but nothing happens.
*
He has Sacks bring her into the station the next day, and he spends a while smirking at her across the interrogation table while she tries really hard to pretend last night never happened. He has to admit she does a pretty good job.
"You look better without your clothes on, Mars," he says, letting his eyes linger.
She arches an eyebrow. "And looking good without clothes on is a crime now, Deputy, or were you just hoping for a repeat performance?"
"Sheriff," he says automatically, smiling with one side of his mouth. "And if I want a repeat performance, Mars, I know how to get one." She actually shifts a little in her seat, and he grins before adopting a serious expression. "So. What were you doing at the Veil last night?"
"Getting pawed by greasy old men." She gives an exaggerated shudder.
He looks around the room, wide-eyed. "I hope you're not talking about me, Mars," he says, standing up and leaning over the table. "Because I didn't hear any complaints."
Her mouth tightens and she crosses her arms, and he decides to stop fucking around. "Tell me what you were doing there." He sits back down.
"Dancing."
"Mars. I--"
"What were you doing there, Deputy? Was that your idea of an investigation?"
He just stares at her, chewing his gum. She sits back in her chair and shoots him an icy smile. "What, you think if you stare at me long enough, I'll crack under the pressure?"
He keeps staring. "You think I won't throw you in a holding cell?"
"Oooh, will you? Can I try cell A this time? I'm getting bored with the view from cell B."
God, he fucking hates her sometimes. He can't make her tell him anything, and they both know it. "All right," he says. "We'll do this your way. What do you want?"
She looks around. "Excuse me?"
He sighs. He shouldn't have brought her in here. "You're working some case, and I'm guessing it has to do with this." He slides a newspaper across the table. "Tell me what you know, and maybe I can help you out."
She stares at him for a full ten seconds, and then she laughs and laughs and laughs.
"All right, Deputy," she says, when she's finished laughing at him, which takes a really long time. "That was a good one. Just for that, maybe I'll help you out."
"Gee, thanks."
"You only get one shot at this, so you might want to pay attention." She pauses and shoots him a sugary smile. "A friend of mine dances there on weekends to pay her way through school. She and some of the other girls were hired by Robert Friedrich for a private party, strictly dancing, no big deal. So she goes, and it's fine, and she leaves a few grand richer."
"Okay," he says, to show that he's listening.
"But then the owner of the club gets a call that my friend ripped Friedrich off, and suddenly there's a story about prostitution, and she doesn't know anything about any of it. She hired me as a pre-emptive strike. She was worried that Friedrich would call you and you'd arrest her, along with all the other girls at the party."
This, he thinks, might actually be good news. "So there's no prostitution ring?"
She snaps her fingers. "Keep up. That's what I'm trying to find out. If he really got ripped off, and if so, who did it and why my friend got blamed."
"Well, I'm sure the citizens of Neptune will sleep easier with Girl Detective on the job."
She doesn't respond, but he knows it was a pretty weak jab. "Are we done?" she asks.
"Who's your friend?"
"I'm afraid that's confidential."
"You're not a lawyer, Mars," he says, grinding his teeth. "Or even a legitimate detective. You don't get confidentiality."
"Hmm," she says, nodding seriously. "I think that also means I don't have to talk to you at all."
He wants to strangle her. Mostly, though, he just wants her to go the hell away, so he smiles his least-sincere smile. "That's true, because Friedrich never reported any robbery," he tells her, and he's not really sure what that means for the bigger picture. "So I won't be arresting your friend until he does."
She looks at him for a minute, either like she doesn't believe him or like she thinks he's a moron -- or probably both -- and then shakes her head. "Great. Thanks so much. Can I go now?"
She doesn't wait for him to answer before she stands up and breezes out of there.
*
He skips a night, gives himself a much-needed evening off from dealing with or thinking about Veronica Mars, and then he goes back to the Veil. She's there, working the room like a pro in her naughty schoolgirl clothes: plaid skirt that's not long enough to cover her ass cheeks, collared shirt that laces up the front and has no shoulders. It's a pretty terrible outfit, actually, and Don wears a lot of brown polyester and so he knows about terrible outfits, but he figures hers probably comes off easy.
He watches her for a few minutes before sitting down at a corner booth and ordering a drink. He stays there for hours, closes the place down, and buys dances from damn near every stripper in the place who isn't Mars. He ignores her completely, in fact, even though he can feel her eyes on him the whole time.
*
The doorbell rings just as he's falling asleep, and he stumbles out of bed and into a pair of boxers as he's on his way to the intercom. He checks the clock and figures anyone showing up at the sheriff's apartment at three-thirty in the morning has a damn good reason. He hits the buzzer without bothering to see who it is.
There's a knock at his door a few seconds later, and when he opens it, it's Mars. She's clearly come straight from the club, is still wearing that schoolgirl getup, is covered in glitter and makeup, and Don isn't sure what to think.
He doesn't move out of the doorway. He doesn't know what the hell she wants or why the fuck she's standing at his door in her slut suit or what she thinks is going to happen. He tries to keep the confusion off his face, covers it by looking at her, by taking his time checking out her bare thighs and her tiny waist, the way that skirt hugs her hipbones, the way her tits strain against her too-small shirt.
He starts to get hard, and she's staring at his chest, at his rising cock, and that's only making him harder. Her tongue darts out, wets her lips.
"Yeah?" he says, shooting for somewhere between bored and amused. He usually pulls that one off pretty well. She shakes her head slightly, as if to clear it, and looks at his face.
Her smile is blinding, gorgeous, and not even a little convincing. "Please, Sheriff Lamb," she says, using that faux-breathless she'd adopted at the Veil. "Fuck me."
He doesn't laugh. Instead, he lets her stand there for a few seconds before he slams the door in her face.
*
Thirty seconds go by, and he spends them looking around his apartment, making sure all the blinds are closed and that there aren't any assholes with telephoto lenses trying to set him up. He wouldn't put it past her, and he looks even though it's not like he's going to be able to see any assholes-in-waiting. Still, he's pretty sure they won't be able to see him, either.
There's another sharp knock at his door. He sighs and yanks it open again, but before he can ask Mars what the hell she wants this time, she slaps him across the face. She's wearing a ring, and it hurts, and that is quite the fuck enough.
He's pretty sure he's growling when he shoots an arm out and grabs a handful of hair to yank her inside. The breath rushes out of her lungs as he shoves her against the door and closes his mouth over hers. He tastes coffee, and then she bites and he bites back and there's blood and bile and bitterness between them. It doesn't stop her from wrapping her arms around his neck, though, and when he slides his hands down to her ass to pick her up, her legs lock tight around his waist.
He presses her body against the wall, pinning her with his chest, and reaches one hand below and between her legs. Her skirt's not in his way, and soon her thong isn't, either; he pushes it aside and slides his fingers against her slit. She's already wet and he almost comments on it, almost sinks his teeth into her skin and asks her what she's dripping for. Instead he just slides two fingers in, feels her flesh part easily, feels her dig her nails into his shoulders and her heels into his back.
That's good enough for him, and he fucks her with the fingers of one hand and fumbles for his jacket with the other. It's easier than it should be; she doesn't weigh anything at all and she's wrapped so tight around his body that their skin all feels the same, all slick sweat sliding together as he searches through the pockets of his jacket for a condom. He's got a box in the bedroom, but fuck that. Anyway, pay-dirt.
"Hold on," he says, hiking her up a little higher and pulling his fingers away. She whimpers and he kisses her again, swallows the sounds she's making, and he doesn't know if he's ever been with someone so much smaller than he is, but he's liking it so far. He keeps her pinned to the wall, tries to concentrate on something other than the feel of her tits against his chest, her thighs trembling against his hips, her heat pooling against his stomach. He manages to reach underneath her and open the condom, get his dick out and the condom on, and then he pushes her thong out of the way and lifts her by her hips.
"Say it again," he says, positioning himself against her, where he can feel the heat radiating off her. The second the word "please" comes out of her mouth, he buries himself inside her in one smooth motion. She throws her head back and cries out, an almost hurt animal sound, and goes still in his arms. He leans back a little and waits, lays a line of kisses down her neck. He probably shouldn't have done that, probably should have gone a little slower, given her more of a chance to get used to him, but it's too late now. She feels amazing, quivering around him, and this is maybe the only situation in which he's going to exercise any patience. He's content to enjoy it, to enjoy sex in general and sex with Veronica Mars pinned against his wall in particular, and he rocks against her, giving her a few seconds to get used to the way he feels inside her. He could certainly get used to it; her cunt is tiny like the rest of her, holding him tight, and he thinks he could do this forever.
She shivers with her whole body and then makes some kind of agitated movement with her shoulders, and so he grabs her hips and bends his knees and proceeds to fuck her through the wall.
*
"Stop," she pants, and he doesn't hear her the first time and doesn't believe her the second, because she's seconds away from coming and they both know it. She claws at his shoulders, and he wonders if he's hurting her. "Stop," she says again, her voice a little more firm, even if she is still pumping her hips and clutching his back. He's not hurting her. "Seriously, Lamb. Don. Stop." It's the use of his first name that convinces him she means it.
A very large part of him says to just keep going, that they're both almost there, that she came to him, that this is clearly a part of some fucked-up game she's playing. But, well. Maybe, if she weren't Veronica Mars, maybe he'd listen to that voice, he'd keep going, he'd get them both off and make no apologies later. But he won't be that guy, not for her, not even if -- especially if -- she wants him to be. So he slows down, stops, shudders, pulls out, practically drops her on his way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He trashes the condom and is opening the fridge when he hears the door slam. He looks into the living room, and Mars is gone.
*
A week passes before he sees her again, and this time, she appears in his office like some nightmare stage magician.
"I thought maybe you'd want to try something new," she says, throwing a file on his desk. "Arrest some actual criminals. There is a prostitution ring."
"Actual criminals, huh?" he says, raising an eyebrow and flipping briefly through the file. It's been just under two weeks and he has more or less fucked Veronica Mars, but his world hasn't changed so much that he suddenly likes busting up prostitution rings. He smacks his gum and drops the file on his desk. "Swell," he says, an insincere smile on his face. "I'll look into it."
She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath like she's about to bitch him out for not doing his job, but instead she says, "Not a lot of guys would have stopped." Her voice is quiet.
Don snorts, and before he's thought about it, he says, "Yeah, well, if that's your idea of rape, Mars, it's no wonder you're always crying wolf."
Her body jerks like he's just punched her in the stomach. Shocked, painful surprise registers on her face, but it's gone so quickly he's not actually sure it was ever there in the first place.
"I was drugged," she says, her voice tight and ringing with fury. "If you-- Never mind." She stands to leave, and he's blocking the door before he really registers he's moved.
"Mars," he says, but she won't look at him. "Veronica."
"Get out of my way, Deputy."
"No. Jesus Christ, Veronica, I didn't mean--"
"What? You didn't mean what?"
He runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck it," he mutters. "Whatever."
"No, I don't think so," she says, still furious. "Let's talk about our feelings. You started this whole thing, and just when I thought maybe you weren't a complete waste of space, you go and accuse me of--"
"Of what?" he snaps. "Of playing games? Gee, Veronica, I don't know how I would ever have gotten that impression. You show up, ask me to fuck you, and freak out when I do."
"That's not what was supposed to happen!" she yells, and Don doesn't really know what the fuck is going on. He knows he should have kept his mouth shut, but he doesn't quite understand why she's shocked that he doesn't trust her. He never has before, so it's not exactly new. He hooks his thumbs in his belt, but stays in front of the door.
"Really. And what was supposed to happen?"
That seems to take the wind out of her sails, somehow, and she looks down, takes a deep breath, gets herself under control. "It wasn't supposed to go that far."
"Oh," he says. "I see," even though he doesn't. "And that's not a game... how, exactly?"
"I didn't say it wasn't a game," she snaps.
"And you're pissed that it didn't go exactly the way you wanted it to. Jesus, what are you, twelve?" He rolls his eyes and gives her the most patronizing smile he can manage. "Get the hell out of here, Mars. Go home to your daddy." He moves out of the way and sits down in his chair, picking up the file she'd left for him and propping his feet up on the desk. He doesn't look up when the door slams behind her.
*
Two nights later, he goes to The Seventh Veil, and when the bartender tells him that "Misty" just quit, he goes out back and dials her number. He has no idea why, really, or what the hell he's going to say if she picks up, but he'll think of something.
It rings, and he hears the theme from "COPS." He grins despite himself and then realizes it's coming from the dumpster down the alley. The hair on the back of his neck stands up and he wishes for his gun. He left it in the cruiser, but he makes his way slowly down the alley anyway, keeping his eyes open for movement. The theme song's still playing when he peers into the dumpster and shoves some trash bags out of the way, and then he sees a flash of blonde hair and pale skin.
He stares for a few seconds too long and then he's over the side, hip-deep in trash, digging her out and swearing under his breath the whole time.
*
It's not like she's heavy, so he gets her out of the dumpster with no problem and then slides to the ground, cradling her to his chest. She's alive. Don kind of wants to kill her. She's covered with cuts and bruises and she won't wake up, but she's breathing and her pulse is steady. He slaps her cheek lightly. "Mars," he says. "Veronica, come on, wake up."
He should call the paramedics. He should take her to the hospital. He should do anything other than sit there in a dirty alley with an unconscious girl and yell at her, but that's pretty much what he does. Amazingly, it works. Her eyes flutter open an eternity later, and she looks at him, confused and hurt.
His mouth opens and closes a few times, and he realizes he has no idea what to say. Asking her if she's all right is stupid; she's clearly not. Asking her what happened is pointless; she's not going to tell him. Telling her she's an idiot is out of the question; he can tell her that any time, and it's not like it's going to help if he does it now.
She saves him from having to figure it out by asking, "What are you doing here?"
"Howdy, Mars," he says, plastering a bored smile on his face. "I'm rescuing you. You want to tell me how you ended up beat to shit and thrown out with the trash?"
Her mouth tightens.
"Didn't think so," he says. "All right. Come on."
"What? No. I'm not going anywhere with you."
"I'm not giving you a choice, Mars."
"Are you seriously arresting me? For getting beat up and thrown in a dumpster?"
He rolls his eyes and stands up, still carrying her. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm doing."
The sarcasm, for once, goes right over her head, and she starts struggling to get away. She shoves at his chest and tries to kick him, but she's tired and hurt and tiny, and he has no problem manhandling her into the cruiser. He shoves her into the passenger seat and leans in close. "Are you going to make me cuff you?"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
He smacks his gum and smiles slow. "You know it."
"Bite me, Deputy."
He shuts the door, gets in the car, and starts driving. She curls up in her seat, shaking slightly, and he doesn't know if it's anger or fear or shock or what.
She finally looks over at him. "Aren't you going to read me my rights?"
"Shut up, Veronica. I'm not arresting you."
"Oh, so you're kidnapping me. Awesome job, Sheriff." She gives him a thumbs-up. Her hand shakes.
"Veronica. Shut up."
"I don't believe you," she says, her voice hard. "I hand you everything on a silver platter and you still manage to screw it up. And somehow you're taking it out on me, like you're pissed off that I got beaten up, when it was your fault in the first place."
He looks over at her. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I think you need to go see the Wizard, Lamb," she says, her voice mocking. "Ask him for a clue. Who do you think beat me up? Hmmm." She puts a finger over her lips. "Let me see. You think it might have been the vindictive ring leader you completely failed to arrest?"
"For fuck's sake, Mars," he snaps. "Get over yourself. You are not god's gift to crime-fighting. I know you don't understand things like procedure or due process, but you can't just march into my office with a stack of illegally obtained evidence and expect me to arrest everyone you point at. That isn't how it works, and I've been telling you that for years. Your father has been telling you that for years. And if you would fucking listen to someone for once in your goddamn life, you wouldn't need people to drag you out of dumpsters. Now shut the fuck up or I'm dropping you off on this street corner without your phone and you can walk your ass home." He's yelling by the end of it, his hands are white on the steering wheel, and he desperately wants a drink.
She, naturally, does not shut the fuck up. She yells right back. "Well, if you would do your job and actually investigate crimes instead of staring at yourself in the mirror all day, maybe I wouldn't have to run all over the place digging up evidence to help you out. You--"
"Help me out? You were trying to help me out? Tell me, Veronica, in what POSSIBLE way does it help me out for you to run around digging up crappy, inadmissible evidence that holy shit, there are women out there who fuck for money? Then, what, you probably marched in there, all high-and-mighty and full of self-righteous bullshit and did one of your big reveals so everyone could see how smart you are, only you fucked it up and got your ass handed to you. Thanks a ton, Mars. Where should I send the gift basket?"
They are, thank god, in the parking lot of his apartment complex. "Get the hell out of the car," he snarls, throwing it in park and getting out. He's halfway to the front door and about to hit the lock on the remote when he realizes she isn't behind him.
He stops, sticks another piece of gum in his mouth, takes a deep breath, and walks back to the car. He pulls open the passenger door and drops to his haunches. She's struggling with her seat-belt.
"Need help?" he asks, and he means to be nice, but it comes out through his anger and doesn't sound nice at all.
She freezes and doesn't look at him.
"Veronica, seriously, let me help you get out."
"Fuck. You," she says, and her voice is not loud or steady or angry. It's young and small and miserable. He leans over to look at her, and she's staring very intently at the gearshift, tears streaming down her face. She closes her eyes and trembles.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "She cries," he says to himself, because he's surprised, because he's seen her holding a gun on Aaron Echolls, cool as you please, and whatever happened tonight can't possibly compare. He doesn't say it loudly, but a sob wrenches its way out of her throat, sounds like it tears something, and her whole body shakes. She shoves a fist in her mouth and bites down.
He has no idea what to do. He goes for honesty. "Veronica," he says, his voice low and as sincere as he can make it. "I don't know what to do."
Her eyes fly open and she stares at him, still fighting back the sobs. He reaches for her but she jerks back, and he pulls his hand back to his knee. "Just leave me alone," she says, her voice ragged. "Please. Just leave me. The fuck. Alone."
He nods, closes and locks the car, and goes inside.
*
Once he's inside, he takes a quick shower and sits by the window with a beer. He has a view of his cruiser, and he stares at it, at her small form inside it, and drinks for what seems like a very long time.
*
However much he drinks, it's not enough to get her out of his head, and he stumbles downstairs a few hours later to check on her. She's asleep in the back seat, curled up under his jacket, and he shakes his head. He's not sure he wants to analyze that one: she can't get out, and he's the only one able to get in, and he doesn't know how to feel about that. He figured she'd call someone to come get her and take her the fuck away from him, but no. She's apparently still his problem. He opens the back door as quietly as he can, slides his arms around her, and carries her inside. She sighs, stirs, but doesn't wake up.
Once he's inside, though, he's not sure what to do with her. He can't just put her to bed. She's been in a dumpster, for fuck's sake, and she smells bad and she's covered with cuts and bruises and needs to get cleaned up. He sighs and lays her down on the couch. Yeah, this is going to go really well.
He changes into swim trunks and latex gloves and then strips her down, throwing all her clothes into a trash bag. He doesn't want to keep it around, really, but they might need it as evidence later. Contaminated evidence he stripped off the victim himself, but whatever.
Once her clothes are off, he takes a minute to check out her wounds, now that it's not dark and they're not in the alley and he's not worried she's about to die. She's badly bruised, but nothing is broken, and none of the cuts need stitches. Looks like she was worked over with a blunt instrument of some kind. His jaw clenches, and he swallows the bile that rises in his throat.
He picks her up and carries her into the bathroom, setting her in the tub and sliding in behind her. She still doesn't wake up, and part of him can only think, thank god, because it's five in the morning and he can't handle another shouting match. Another part of him is worried, though, and he keeps stopping to check her pulse and listen to her breathe and make sure she's okay.
It takes a long time. She's a mess, and she's hard to maneuver, and he's trying to be careful. But when he finishes, she doesn't smell like trash and her injuries don't actually look too bad and maybe he's going to get out of this before she kills him. Maybe, but he's not very optimistic.
Quickly, he rinses them off in the shower and then carries her into the bedroom, where he towels her off and tucks her into bed. She sighs and snuggles under the blankets. She looks young and terrible and beautiful, pale bruised skin against his navy blue sheets, and fuck it. There's going to be shouting in the morning anyway, and so he dries himself off, takes off the swim trunks and slides into bed next to her.
Part 2