Blue Eyes, Red Blood (NC-17)
Title: Blue Eyes, Red Blood - Lamb/Veronica (NC-17)
Author: dandelion_gal
Pairings, Characters: Lamb/Veronica
Word Count: 3634
Rating: NC-17 for dark themes, blood, and sex
Summary: He comes to her when she bleeds.
Spoilers: Post 3x14 (Mars, Bars), AU.
Author’s Notes: It’s useful to have already read my first two NC-17 Lamb/Veronica fics, Veronica’s Money Shot and Be Bad for Badness’s Sake, but not totally required. All you need to know is that Veronica and Lamb were starting up a still-secret romantic relationship when the events of Mars, Bars happened. I wrote this for the picking_losers Out Like a Lamb challenge, but it’s way past the deadline. It already had the shower scene in it though, when the new April Showers challenge started, so yay! Cross-posted to darksideofmars. Betaed by writero, who made very insightful suggestions!
Veronica had grown used to the act of normalcy these past few weeks. Since the moment her father told her the Sheriff was dead, a cold and heavy lump had settled inside her. The curtain came down, and the wizard had begun to move the levers, presenting a status quo Veronica to the world around her. Her sense of loss was so large, she had no recourse but to shove it away, ignored.
She sliced tomatoes. Her dad would be home soon, coming off of an extra-long day. He would be tired and she loved the gratitude he gave her when he realized she had cooked him a late dinner, unasked for. Some part of the real her still remained. It was the sliver that took comfort from the love of her father.
A burning jolt of pain went through her thumb. She jerked back, hissing. The super-sharp Henkels knife had just cut into the pad of her thumb, thick maroon blood welling and dripping on the cutting board, over the tomatoes.
The heat of the pain seeped up her arm and through the rest of her body. She swayed on her feet, trying to recall the familiarity of this feeling.
“You’re alive,” a soft voice said.
Veronica dropped the knife and grabbed the edge of the island’s counter, her balance gone. Her vision grayed around the edges. Damned vasovagal reaction. The FBI will train this out of me.
Before her, wavering in her blurry sight, stood Don. He wore his uniform, a fresh buzz cut, and he looked healthy. He was beautiful to her, like a pool of cold blue water in a desert. Tears formed so quickly, they felt like pinpricks on her lower eyelids. She supposed this hallucination was the logical next step for her state of being. Reality had stopped feeling consensual when Don had died.
“I’m alive,” she said back, the words strangled and raspy. “But you’re not.” She wasn’t sure if she was asking or reminding the man standing on the other side of the kitchen island.
Don glanced down at her bleeding hand and raised his eyebrows. “You should clean that up.” He leaned forward and braced himself on his elbows, frowning at her hand. “The knife sliced deep, by the looks of it,” he said, his voice stronger now.
The blood was pooling over and around the tomato slices. Veronica wondered how much more would appear before the wound stopped seeping.
“I don’t understand,” she said, staring at him again. She reached with her uninjured hand and touched Don’s warm, firm forearm. She squeezed. His muscles flexed beneath her hand. He had always done that in response when she touched him. Every boy she ever dated had done that. She found it predictable, yet always sexy.
“That’s right, I’m here,” Don smiled softly, staring into her eyes. “Your senses aren’t deceiving you.” The brilliant blue of his irises were the most perfect color she had ever beheld. Even when she’d hated him, she’d admired those eyes. She couldn’t look away.
Don leaned across the island and Veronica met him halfway, her lips already open when his tongue slid across hers, filling her mouth. He tasted sweet and smelled of mint and his own clean musk. She breathed deeply, sucking in the familiar sense of him, sighing on the exhale. She had been so hungry to have him close, just one more time, since he’d gone.
He pulled back, whispering against her open mouth. “I’m here,” he paused to suck softly on her top lip, letting her go with a lazy slurp, “for as long as you bleed.”
His words pierced her mind and she felt her legs go slack. She slid to the floor, her head lolling uselessly against the cool linoleum. Though her arm was heavy, she drew her hand close to her face and squinted at her thumb. There was now a lump of congealed blood forming over the cut.
“Don?” She strained to speak, her chest heavy.
“Veronica…” was all she heard, and knew by the stillness of the kitchen that he was gone.
*****
She busied herself by preparing for the FBI internship. Though still months away, she compulsively read every article and book she could find about the culture. For once in her life, she would make an effort to squeeze her squareness into the round hole. Just planning for it made her feel squirmy, like she had already donned the imposter’s mantle and was fooling them all.
Focusing on the coming internship was her life preserver. If every idle moment were consumed by rational thought about the FBI, there was no room left for Don. No room at all for the blood, his mint-tinged kiss, and for his corporeal presence, and the way he disappeared when-
She shook her head, grimacing from the slip of a moment’s laxness. No more. It never happened, and a grief-stricken mind will do the oddest things. Lilly…I used to see her too.
Veronica sat on a bench in the sun outside the Hearst Library. She had inter-library loaned some articles containing obscure conspiracy theories about the founding of the FBI. Having exhausted all the legitimate reading a week ago, she trudged on with whatever drivel was available. Words on the page would keep her from the dark places in her mind.
She avoided the sight of her injured thumb. The cut had knit and was close to healed, but it itched now, a constant physical reminder of her psychotic break.
And that’s what it had been, right?
*****
Veronica stood in the shower, shivering, head bowed. She was exhausted. Sleep had been fleeting, light, and restless. It was 5:00 AM, and she had to be at yet another FBI interview at 8:00, an hour’s drive away. Landry had either cursed or saved her with this challenging gauntlet. Whichever it was, she was thankful.
The water tank finally began to crank out better-than-lukewarm water. She ducked her head under the spray and roused herself to wash quickly before the warmth gave out again. Couldn’t they move? Did they really need to stay in this complex? She wondered why she hadn’t brought it up yet. Her dad and she had both been moving through life a bit like automatons, she thought. Too much change and tragedy, and a person would cling to whatever was still and familiar, even if it sucked.
She held her razor in her hand, staring blankly. Her legs were stubbly, and even though she was wearing a pants suit to the interview, she still had to shave because if she didn’t, she would know about the stubble. She was a firm believer in the “clean undies and good grooming just in case you die today” rule. Her mom had instilled that one, years before, when she still halfway cared about such things.
Don’t think of the blood, she told herself. Just be careful.
She propped a leg against one wall of the shower and reached down to her ankle, slowly arching her foot to provide a taut surface for the blade. I should use my shaving cream, or some soap at least…
Too late. The blade bit her, three neat pricks of blood welling in a row, where the razor had skipped across her skin. She lowered her leg and watched. Warm water splashed the red away, stinging where it slapped the tiny cuts.
“No,” she moaned. “No.”
“Yes.”
She heard his voice, and felt warm hands and the firm body of Don Lamb press against her from behind. He was naked, his erection pressing into the cleft of her bottom. The feeling of him there sent a jolt of loss through her, followed quickly be the relief of his return. She leaned back, welcoming the heat coming off him in waves, so familiar, so missed. His skin was soft, like brushed silk over stone.
As he reached his muscular arms around to pull her tight against him, she brought her hands to his hips, gripping them against her. Her fingers dug into the hollows of his backside, suddenly fierce with desire.
“I’m not imagining this. You. Are. Real.” She said the words like a prayer, like a command, something that had to be true because she said so. He pushed back against her, clenching under her fingers. His hands, radiating heat as they always had, roved up to her neck, gently but firmly guiding her head to one side. While one hand cupped her scalp through the wet ropes of her hair, his other hand skimmed the skin of her neck. He petted her, slowly, repeatedly, with the tips of his fingers, as though gentling a skittish pony. He breathed against her ear, warm waves of air washing over her, making her skin pucker with sensitivity.
“I won’t be here long. Your cut is already closing,” he whispered, and then took her earlobe between his teeth gently, skimming his tongue back and forth over it.
“Aaahh!” she cried out, lost to his expert touch.
“Then please… quickly…” she said through clenched teeth.
He grabbed her hips, tilting them hard so that her backside was offered up to him, and guided his cock into her. She gasped through lips clamped shut, afraid of how wild this man had made her, and could still make her, bleeding in the shower with a ghost.
"Veronica… I wish I could be here with you…” he said, his voice a sigh, winding into her head from a great distance. She felt him withdraw, felt his hands leave her, and she stumbled forward.
“No! Come back. Come back… please. Don,” she whispered, whirling around to find herself alone again. She convulsed with the shock of it all, leaning over and dry-heaving into the drain. Her ankle no longer stung.
*****
She sat naked on the bed of a motel room, cross-legged. She gave herself a moment to see the dark humor in her situation. She could imagine a reality television show where drug addicts competed to get their next fix, doing anything - anything - for their tormentors. She would do anything for some more time with Don. No more fighting it.
The little penknife sat on the towels next to her. She had spread towels all over the bed, knowing it would get messy. She wondered if she’d do the cut right, or if she’d go too deep and hit an artery. She needed to keep the blood flowing, but at a very slow rate. It would be tricky. Explaining the wounds later might also be hard.
Her pulse jumped in anticipation. It wasn’t possible for her to care any less about the future right now. She picked up the knife and held her breath. It pointed straight down into the pale, thin skin of her inner forearm, like the nuclear bomb heading for earth in Dr. Strangelove. She pressed, letting the hot throb of pain wash through her, blood erupting from beneath the blade.
She drew the blade long-wise up her arm, yelping softly. Her vision swirled, grey closing in on all sides in reaction to the welling blood. Her arm grew warm and the pain of the opening cut turned to a pounding sting that matched time with her heartbeat. Go, blood, go, she thought. Come, Don, come.
She fell sideways across the bed, knife slipping from her senseless hand. Through the slits of her eyes she could see the blood slowly pooling into the nubs of the towel, growing dark as it sank in.
The bed dipped and then creaked, and she knew he had come for her. She half laughed, but tears escaped her eyes as she turned her head to look over her shoulder. Don crouched above her, sitting back on his haunches, hands braced on either knee. He wore his uniform, a crisp white tee shirt peaking out the top of his brown, collared shirt. His brilliant blue eyes crinkled around the edges as he smiled at her. She could see the white lines where his tan never reached.
Energy ran through her. She rolled to her back, reaching for him with both hands, heedless of the blood dripping across her breasts and smearing his pristine clothing.
“I think you can stay a while this time,” she said, her voice thick with feeling.
He lowered his mouth to hers and whispered against her lips, “We’ll make the most of it.” He kissed her tenderly, running his tongue lightly across the flesh of her lower lip. She opened her mouth beneath him, wanting more of his cinnamon-scented tongue inside of her. He obliged, pushing inside, exploring every surface, his arms coming around her and dragging her up off the bed and against his chest.
He was so strong, so cut. She would never tire of touching his sinuous muscles beneath hot skin. She pulled his shirt out of his pants and he promptly took the cue, yanking his tie loose and up over his head. He ripped open his shirt, throwing it behind them, and then dragged his tee-shirt off, his arms flexing magnificently in the process. He grabbed her to him again, into his heated chest. She felt her back come alive with goosebumps and shivered, gripping him just as tightly as he did her. The heat radiating off him soothed the cold core that had grown slowly larger since his death.
The thought jolted her, reminded her of the limited time they had. As though reading her mind, he whispered, “Cut again,” and then began to pull back, his touch fading, the look of him growing lighter, washed out.
Veronica did not hesitate. She grabbed the knife with her left hand, still sticky with her blood from the first cut, and sliced her left arm, hissing as the blood sprung forth and the pain suffused her body.
He grabbed her again, as hard and hot as he could have been in life. He lunged forward, throwing her back on the bed so that she bounced. As she reached to pull him against her again, he grasped her newly bloodied arm and licked the welling wound.
“So sweet,” he said, running his raspy tongue along the sliver of open flesh. More blood came, and Veronica felt herself fading, reacting to the sight of it. Don squeezed her arm tight. “Veronica,” he said, his voice guttural, stirring her.
Her blood was spread across them both in splatters and smears. While one part of her recoiled in shock and fear, a much larger part of her craved the consequences and would take whatever she could get from this… version… of Don Lamb.
They stilled, staring at each other for a short moment, and then Don sat back and unbuckled his belt. He kicked his shoes off and was out of his pants and socks in one efficient motion. He kneeled before her fully naked and aroused, a crooked little grin curling up one side of his blood-tinged lips. Her heart contracted with a rush of love for this man she had only begun to know before that crazed junkie Batando had taken him from her.
This strange interlude was fleeting, she knew it to the depth of her soul. She would never have him with her again. They would have to make this time right now be worth everything, to last a lifetime for her, and an eternity for him.
They reached for each other slowly, caressing with a ginger touch, as though in awe of the other’s beauty. He wrapped one sure hand around a cheek of her backside and pulled her against his cock. She was slick, her clit swollen, close to coming already just from this first contact. He rubbed himself against her, teasing until her breath was ragged.
She was beginning to feel when the blood stopped flowing, even before Don began to fade. She groaned in frustration just as he began to pull back, his face growing worried.
“I know… just a second…” she muttered, patting the bed behind her for the knife. She hesitated, not sure where to cut next, fearful of leaving the known territory of her arms, but afraid to slice them further. She looked up at Don, panic welling. “I don’t think I can keep cutting after this one. I don’t want to die,” her voice twisted with emotion.
He cradled her head and kissed her face softly, though his touch wasn’t as strong as it had been moments before. He shifted his body, nudging at her core. “I’m ready if you are,” he said, his voice fading fast.
Veronica sobbed as she pushed the knife into her hip, praying she wasn’t close to an artery. The agony of the piercing blended with the pleasure of Don’s hard thrust inside of her. She cried out, his voice joining hers. As warm blood trickled down her thigh to pool on the towels beneath them, she clenched her legs around his ass and urged him into her more forcefully than he already was.
They clung to each other tightly, both seeming to crawl into the other, hands digging into the other’s skin. Don withdrew and drove home in a slow but forceful rhythm, gasping each time he entered her. Veronica moaned on every thrust, unable to control the rising tone of her voice. He felt so good, his body slamming into hers, pounding her clit, filling her up.
“I never had a chance to say it,” he gasped, slowing down to cradle her face between his hands, their eyes inches apart. “But I fell in love with you, Veronica.” He kissed her. “We would have ended up happy, you and me.” His upper lip curled up in one corner, and she realized he was close to tears. His eyes glistened.
She nodded, tears spilling from her and coming to rest against his hands. “I was falling in love too,” she admitted, the feeling of it mixing with her sorrow to produce a wave of regret so powerful she almost wished herself dead. A choked sob burst forth. “Just fuck me, then, if that’s all we have time left for,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes, acquiescing. With his right hand, he reached down to the wound on Veronica’s hip and pressed his index finger to it, not to stop the blood, but to worry it, to encourage more bleeding. She cried out from the sharp pain, but her cry melted on the sensation of his next thrust and the ones that followed.
He reached under her legs and hooked her knees over his arms, rising her up so that he could plunge straight down into her. His stare was intense and unwavering as he drove her to climax, her cries gone hoarse and abandoned.
As soon as her orgasm began to wane, he withdrew and lowered his mouth to her clit. He clamped down in a relentless, sucking rhythm, his fingers thrusting inside, curling up to put pressure on her clit from within. Immediately, she came again, a short, sharp pleasure, and then incredibly, began to feel a slower build-up to a third, more powerful climax.
She gripped his head in her hands, unaware of how hard she held him, no longer caring that he still had one finger against her hip, digging sharply into the cut there. All she could process was the keen power of this orgasm.
As it began to crash over her, she screamed, close to passing out from blood loss and unbearable pleasure. She was only half-aware when Don climbed forward and thrust his cock into her to the hilt, slamming into her repeatedly, hard and quick. She hugged him to her as best as she could, weak and faint. She smiled when she felt him go rigid and growl as he came. She drifted in his arms, her own climax fading sweetly, leaving only a slow thud in her clit.
“I love you,” they whispered in unison, their lips pressed to each other’s ear.
She felt his finger leave her hip, the pain dulling instantly. Her body was ready to heal. The blood wanted to be sluggish, to plug the hole. Their time was nearly done. She squeezed him compulsively, fighting the panic.
“How was this possible?” She asked. He lifted his head and nuzzled her nose with his own.
“Damned if I know,” he said, his lips quirking up on one side in a half-smile. “But when I’m well and truly gone, promise me you’ll get medical attention. I worry about you.” He frowned, but gently, his face alight with his affection for her.
“I’ll go straight to the emergency room, get stitches, or Durabond, or whatever the cool docs are using these day,” she said.
“Tell them you need an in-patient stay. You could use some time off, Veronica.”
“You mean… the depression ward?” She felt exposed, slightly ashamed.
“Yes, exactly that. Promise me.” He looked stern, a reminder of his hard-ass Sheriff persona.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” The relief of admitting her need for help was like anesthetic on her cuts. It was a new feeling, quite unrecognizable.
She held him to her, their legs intertwined, their hearts beating together, until he faded away, and her arms came to rest over her breasts. She cried anew, listening to the shuddering whisper of her inhalations.
She would clean herself up, get herself dressed, and call a cab to take her to the hospital. By sundown she would be in a strange bed, beginning a journey to rebuild herself, to heal and live again. For the first time in a long while, she would look at the unknown ahead of her and feel hope.
“I’ll take a break for you, Don,” she whispered, and sat up, stretching like a cat.