Fic: "The San Francisco Treat", 1/1, VMars, V/Lamb, adult language.
I thought I was going to be able to put off this aspect of the series longer, but Don and Veronica clearly have minds of their own and I'm clearly their bitch. So, behold, "Between The Rock" finally gets 'shippy...!
This is also the longest installment of the series to date!
Title: "The San Francisco Treat" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language, sexual implications, humor, V/Lamb.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Rob Thomas and the gang, not me.
Summary: Fifth in Between The Rock and a Not-So Hard Place. This picks up shortly after The Plath Not Taken. Things finally get a bit more serious…
He had a six pack of Heineken, a fifth of Jack -- "Aren't you worried about becoming an alcoholic, Donald?" -- a tin of gourmet white cheddar popcorn and a hot teenage blonde sprawled across his couch. All was right with the world.
Or at least it would be if the blonde in question weren't Veronica Mars. Or if it were Veronica Mars and she wanted him to do despicable things to her involving handcuffs, a nightstick, and a jar of Nutella.
Did he even *have* Nutella?
He slouched in his chair, feet up, knowing he was supposed to be watching the movie…but The Rock playing gay wasn't exactly consistent with his flicks of choice, so he settled for watching her watch the movie instead. And it was way more entertaining.
She tried to throw popcorn in the air and catch it in her mouth and kept missing. There were going to be kernels stuck between the cushions for days and he didn't care because, Hell, some were falling down her shirt, too. And she wiggled her toes constantly. They were black this week and he'd asked her if she was in mourning for something. "Your lost virginity," she'd sighed, dramatically, batting her eyelashes like a silent movie heroine.
As if. He hadn't been a virgin for fifteen years -- thanks to Laurie Quinones and the flatbed of his daddy's '82 Chevy. When Veronica was 3.
He twisted the cap off his third beer, gulping down a quarter of it in one pull. He waited till she was half-sliding off the leather in an attempt to rescue her soda from the coffee table before he murmured, "Sylvia Plath."
"What?" One hand on the carpet was what stopped her from hitting it face-first.
"Sylvia. Plath." He said it slowly, emphatically. "That's your head-in-an-oven reference right there. You know, The Bell Jar and stuff."
It took her a full minute to figure out what he was talking about. He watched her eyebrows furrow and her lip get chewed on and he had to repeat that "when Veronica was 3" mantra a few times and shift uncomfortably in his chair. Friday. Phone call. Challenge. "Oh." And she hefted herself back onto the sofa with her Fresca. "That. How long did it take you to Google? Hours? Did you stay at the station all night looking it up?"
It didn't take Dionne Warwick and her psychic friends to see that she was lacking in banter all of a sudden. No jokes in her tone. She asked the questions like she would ask, "How was your prostate exam?"
Don put down his beer, cursing that invisible line they had between them…the one he was always crossing without even realizing it. Kind of like when he'd ferried Duncan across the Mexican border.
"Jesus Christ, Veronica, you don't have to give me a blow job, you know. I'm not going to hold you to that," he snapped, defensively. Hadn't she learned to trust him just a little?
"I…I know." She went pale, stopping the DVD and shaking her head. She tried to recover her sense of humor with a laugh but it was nothing like how she'd been cracking up over Travolta just a few minutes before. "Have you ever noticed that it's much easier to say things on the phone? You don't even realize half of what you're putting out there until you've hung up."
"Why do you think every girl I've ever dated broke up with me with help from AT&T?" he asked, far more casually than he'd thought possible. He helped himself to a handful of popcorn, hoping she wouldn't notice his hand shaking. Hoping she couldn't tell that he'd locked his brain onto the image of her on her knees before him and he couldn't get it out without a surgical procedure. "I swear, the phone company needed to change their motto to 'Reach out and dump somebody.'"
"They *all* dumped you?" Her eyebrows quirked, the beginnings of her smile inching back. "All two-and-a-half of them?"
"How did you know about the quadriplegic midget?" he gasped, tossing up a piece of popcorn…and losing it down the front of his Chargers t-shirt. Damn.
This time, her real laugh was back. "You're going to Hell."
He felt her eyes on him as he pulled his shirt up just high enough to pluck popcorn out of his belly button. He felt her glance away…put the movie back on…and shift them back to the safe side of the line.
"Going?" he wondered, quietly. "Veronica, why do you think this apartment's so fucking hot?"
She didn't answer.
He didn't expect her to.
So, he went back to staring at her and remembering Laurie Quinones.
When Veronica was 3…he was still a decent guy.
**
Fifteen minutes after she left…leaving "Be Cool" behind in case he actually decided to pay attention to it some day…his phone rang. He scowled at the receiver and then at the TV, where Gabrielle was bitching out Carlos for getting cozy with that nun chick.
"Lamb," he greeted, crankily. "Talk to me."
"About what? The birds and the bees? Because if you don't know that already, I'm a little afraid for you."
"Veronica…" Suddenly the desperation of housewives was no big thing to miss. "To what do I owe this displeasure?"
"We need to talk."
The four most deadly words a woman could say to a man. His knuckles whitened around the phone. "Are you dumping me? Because I have to say, people usually actually *date* before that happens."
For a long span of seconds, all he heard was distortion, traffic noises, and he hoped she was using a hands-free headset instead of trying to hold her Sidekick and drive. The last thing he needed was for her to crash that decrepit LeBaron and die. Who else in Neptune would entertain him on every alternate Sunday?
Then, her words came in a rush. Smashed together, leaving no room for breath. "Look, the way I see it, we have two options: One, you quit objectifying me and looking at barely legal blonde porn --yes, I've hacked into your browser history -- and we just keep watching movies and gorging on junk food till we're old and grey or two, you keep objectifying me and we keep watching movies and one day we admit there's actually something going on here that might result in dinner dates and hot sex and, I don't know, children of questionable intelligence who think The Rock is America's gift to acting."
He choked. "Did you just admit that sex with me would be hot?"
"Is that the only part you heard?" She sounded angry. Furious, actually.
He bet her cheeks were flushed. He bet she looked abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous.
"I heard it all, Veronica Mars," he assured, not even remotely willing to ponder why his throat was tight and his voice sounded like sandpaper. Only willing to ask…"Would you have dinner with me Friday night? I'll cook. You can bring the sodapop."
Again, there was that excruciating near-silence. He hoped both hands were on the wheel.
And then… "I've seen your cabinets and the contents of your fridge. Fish sticks and Rice-a-Roni don't count as cooking, you know."
Had he been holding his breath? That had to account for the whoosh of air that escaped from his lungs.
"That's okay," he assured. "I'll make up for it with dessert."
"Jell-O pudding pops? Vanilla sandwich cookies? Wait…wait…six month old marshmallow fluff!"
"Wow, you really *do* have the contents of my fridge memorized. You must love me a lot."
"Mhmm. Like a trip to the gynecologist."
"Then it's a good thing dessert involves stirrups and a speculum…"
"Don?"
"Yeah?"
"Ew."
"Veronica?"
"Yeah?"
"Turn your car around and come back here."
"Why?"
"Why do you think? If you want hints, it involves my lips, yours, and probably some inappropriate touching."
"Don?"
"What?"
"Meet me halfway."
"I'm already there…"
He grabbed his keys and shoved his feet into his sneakers.
All was going to be right with the world in about seven-and-a-half minutes.
--end--
March 11, 2006
This is also the longest installment of the series to date!
Title: "The San Francisco Treat" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language, sexual implications, humor, V/Lamb.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Rob Thomas and the gang, not me.
Summary: Fifth in Between The Rock and a Not-So Hard Place. This picks up shortly after The Plath Not Taken. Things finally get a bit more serious…
He had a six pack of Heineken, a fifth of Jack -- "Aren't you worried about becoming an alcoholic, Donald?" -- a tin of gourmet white cheddar popcorn and a hot teenage blonde sprawled across his couch. All was right with the world.
Or at least it would be if the blonde in question weren't Veronica Mars. Or if it were Veronica Mars and she wanted him to do despicable things to her involving handcuffs, a nightstick, and a jar of Nutella.
Did he even *have* Nutella?
He slouched in his chair, feet up, knowing he was supposed to be watching the movie…but The Rock playing gay wasn't exactly consistent with his flicks of choice, so he settled for watching her watch the movie instead. And it was way more entertaining.
She tried to throw popcorn in the air and catch it in her mouth and kept missing. There were going to be kernels stuck between the cushions for days and he didn't care because, Hell, some were falling down her shirt, too. And she wiggled her toes constantly. They were black this week and he'd asked her if she was in mourning for something. "Your lost virginity," she'd sighed, dramatically, batting her eyelashes like a silent movie heroine.
As if. He hadn't been a virgin for fifteen years -- thanks to Laurie Quinones and the flatbed of his daddy's '82 Chevy. When Veronica was 3.
He twisted the cap off his third beer, gulping down a quarter of it in one pull. He waited till she was half-sliding off the leather in an attempt to rescue her soda from the coffee table before he murmured, "Sylvia Plath."
"What?" One hand on the carpet was what stopped her from hitting it face-first.
"Sylvia. Plath." He said it slowly, emphatically. "That's your head-in-an-oven reference right there. You know, The Bell Jar and stuff."
It took her a full minute to figure out what he was talking about. He watched her eyebrows furrow and her lip get chewed on and he had to repeat that "when Veronica was 3" mantra a few times and shift uncomfortably in his chair. Friday. Phone call. Challenge. "Oh." And she hefted herself back onto the sofa with her Fresca. "That. How long did it take you to Google? Hours? Did you stay at the station all night looking it up?"
It didn't take Dionne Warwick and her psychic friends to see that she was lacking in banter all of a sudden. No jokes in her tone. She asked the questions like she would ask, "How was your prostate exam?"
Don put down his beer, cursing that invisible line they had between them…the one he was always crossing without even realizing it. Kind of like when he'd ferried Duncan across the Mexican border.
"Jesus Christ, Veronica, you don't have to give me a blow job, you know. I'm not going to hold you to that," he snapped, defensively. Hadn't she learned to trust him just a little?
"I…I know." She went pale, stopping the DVD and shaking her head. She tried to recover her sense of humor with a laugh but it was nothing like how she'd been cracking up over Travolta just a few minutes before. "Have you ever noticed that it's much easier to say things on the phone? You don't even realize half of what you're putting out there until you've hung up."
"Why do you think every girl I've ever dated broke up with me with help from AT&T?" he asked, far more casually than he'd thought possible. He helped himself to a handful of popcorn, hoping she wouldn't notice his hand shaking. Hoping she couldn't tell that he'd locked his brain onto the image of her on her knees before him and he couldn't get it out without a surgical procedure. "I swear, the phone company needed to change their motto to 'Reach out and dump somebody.'"
"They *all* dumped you?" Her eyebrows quirked, the beginnings of her smile inching back. "All two-and-a-half of them?"
"How did you know about the quadriplegic midget?" he gasped, tossing up a piece of popcorn…and losing it down the front of his Chargers t-shirt. Damn.
This time, her real laugh was back. "You're going to Hell."
He felt her eyes on him as he pulled his shirt up just high enough to pluck popcorn out of his belly button. He felt her glance away…put the movie back on…and shift them back to the safe side of the line.
"Going?" he wondered, quietly. "Veronica, why do you think this apartment's so fucking hot?"
She didn't answer.
He didn't expect her to.
So, he went back to staring at her and remembering Laurie Quinones.
When Veronica was 3…he was still a decent guy.
**
Fifteen minutes after she left…leaving "Be Cool" behind in case he actually decided to pay attention to it some day…his phone rang. He scowled at the receiver and then at the TV, where Gabrielle was bitching out Carlos for getting cozy with that nun chick.
"Lamb," he greeted, crankily. "Talk to me."
"About what? The birds and the bees? Because if you don't know that already, I'm a little afraid for you."
"Veronica…" Suddenly the desperation of housewives was no big thing to miss. "To what do I owe this displeasure?"
"We need to talk."
The four most deadly words a woman could say to a man. His knuckles whitened around the phone. "Are you dumping me? Because I have to say, people usually actually *date* before that happens."
For a long span of seconds, all he heard was distortion, traffic noises, and he hoped she was using a hands-free headset instead of trying to hold her Sidekick and drive. The last thing he needed was for her to crash that decrepit LeBaron and die. Who else in Neptune would entertain him on every alternate Sunday?
Then, her words came in a rush. Smashed together, leaving no room for breath. "Look, the way I see it, we have two options: One, you quit objectifying me and looking at barely legal blonde porn --yes, I've hacked into your browser history -- and we just keep watching movies and gorging on junk food till we're old and grey or two, you keep objectifying me and we keep watching movies and one day we admit there's actually something going on here that might result in dinner dates and hot sex and, I don't know, children of questionable intelligence who think The Rock is America's gift to acting."
He choked. "Did you just admit that sex with me would be hot?"
"Is that the only part you heard?" She sounded angry. Furious, actually.
He bet her cheeks were flushed. He bet she looked abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous.
"I heard it all, Veronica Mars," he assured, not even remotely willing to ponder why his throat was tight and his voice sounded like sandpaper. Only willing to ask…"Would you have dinner with me Friday night? I'll cook. You can bring the sodapop."
Again, there was that excruciating near-silence. He hoped both hands were on the wheel.
And then… "I've seen your cabinets and the contents of your fridge. Fish sticks and Rice-a-Roni don't count as cooking, you know."
Had he been holding his breath? That had to account for the whoosh of air that escaped from his lungs.
"That's okay," he assured. "I'll make up for it with dessert."
"Jell-O pudding pops? Vanilla sandwich cookies? Wait…wait…six month old marshmallow fluff!"
"Wow, you really *do* have the contents of my fridge memorized. You must love me a lot."
"Mhmm. Like a trip to the gynecologist."
"Then it's a good thing dessert involves stirrups and a speculum…"
"Don?"
"Yeah?"
"Ew."
"Veronica?"
"Yeah?"
"Turn your car around and come back here."
"Why?"
"Why do you think? If you want hints, it involves my lips, yours, and probably some inappropriate touching."
"Don?"
"What?"
"Meet me halfway."
"I'm already there…"
He grabbed his keys and shoved his feet into his sneakers.
All was going to be right with the world in about seven-and-a-half minutes.
--end--
March 11, 2006