Fic: "Sleepless in Santa Clarita," VM, Veronica/Carter, R.
I watched The Hamiltons on Sci-Fi, presumably edited, but really liked it a lot. It seemed to have mixed reviews on IMDB and I can't say I disagree with some of the negative observations, but overall I thought it was a good dysfunctional family drama and a good horrific vampire movie all at the same time... and how many times can you say THAT? Tangentially, I've heard Near Dark has some great metaphors for family going on, so I want to see that...PLUS Adrian Pasdar is in it. (Hi, Bravo's 100, can't you tell us important details like that while showing Bill Paxton with a bloody mouth?)
In between my hungover-ness and the TV watching, I managed to do a little writing. It came completely out of left field. I had no intention of writing any VM season four fic.
Title: "Sleepless in Santa Clarita" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Rating/Classification: R, Veronica/Carter, futurefic, spoilers for unaired season 4 pitch, mild sexual situations.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not even one bit.
Summary: 975 words. Veronica Mars, lone wolf no more.
She listens to his even, rhythmic breaths and watches the rise and fall of his chest for a few minutes, hoping that it will lull her into sleep. No such luck. She's probably better off counting sheep. Or making grocery lists. Or perfecting her impression of Hendricks, calling everybody "Hotshot," and winking indiscriminately.
She sighs, gingerly climbing out of the warm cocoon of sheets and padding to the window in the bunny slippers Dad gave her for Christmas last year. Bunny slippers… just what every serious FBI agent needs while on the go. But they remind her of home, of Backup, and she didn't want to contemplate walking around on cheap shag carpeting in her bare feet. They don't train you at Quantico to combat bacteria and mites and suspicious stains that have been around since the 1970s with the sheer force of your will. Even she's not *that* good.
The motel room across the lot is dark, which is why they've opted to catch a few hours of shut-eye. No use surveilling when there's no one to surveil. But still she can't help but pull the drapes aside and stare out.
How many nights did she do this back in Neptune? Stakeout with a cup of stale coffee and her camera and snap the seedy underbelly of the world into focus? It's amazing that less than a decade later, she's doing the same thing. Only not alone. Veronica Mars, lone wolf no more.
Carter likes to say that she's out of her comfort zone, being forced to work as part of a team, and that unsettles her. That this is why she can't sleep, because she has to place her fate in someone else's hands. His hands. That's usually the point in his psychobabble where she puts his hands under her clothes. Naturally while attached to the rest of him, because otherwise it would just be creepy.
After the Academy, she swore off workplace romances. Less than five weeks after she began riding with Carter, they were in bed. Actually, it wasn't even a bed. It was the wall next to her front door, with her hands pinned over her head and his pants around his ankles.
"I'm not competitive, Veronica," he'd whispered, meaning, "I'm not Seth." He'd shrugged and said, "I already know I'm the best," and then kissed her to prove it. Cue fantastic sex that did nothing to disabuse her of the notion that her partner is perfect.
If she were the profiling type, she'd say that Carter's confidence in his own superiority is an artfully constructed cover for vulnerability. That he is only smug because he's already lost something vitally important to him and, therefore, thinks there is nothing left to lose.
She remembers what that was like.
"Veronica…?"
When she turns back to the bed, he's sitting up, running a hand through his hair and leaning over to glance at the display on his cell. It's the only time she sees his hair mussed-- a fact she delights in tormenting him over.
"Any movement?"
"Nope. All quiet on the western front," she assures as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. No bunny slippers for Carter. He's too much man for them. Is it vicious to hope he gets foot fungus for his bravado?
She takes a moment out of that unkind contemplation to admire him as he walks towards her. Lord, but the man is pretty. Top condition thanks to the insane three miles he insists on running nearly every morning and blessed with ridiculously blue eyes that she's only seen the likes of maybe once or twice before. And he has no shame. She learned that early on. No problems with walking around naked, none with having sex in broad daylight.
Veronica doesn't resist when he pulls her into his arms, leaning back against his chest and accepting whatever it is he's offering. He knows better than to try and peg her psychological state at 3:30 AM. At 3:30 AM, he's all about kisses to the nape of her neck and an erection nudging not so subtly at her hip. The western front may be quiet, but the southern front is a different story altogether.
Sex with Carter is always good. Even when it's bad, it's good. Whether it's five minutes in the backseat of his car or his mouth between her legs with the sun streaming in through the windows… he approaches sex with the same intensity and casual arrogance that he approaches everything else.
Sometimes he reminds her of Logan. Then again, most men tend to. Seth certainly did. In all the wrong ways. More often than not, Carter reminds her of Don Lamb… which is a funny comparison given that Carter is a freaking genius and Lamb was dumber than a box of hair. It's something about the way he looks at her. Like she can't fool him.
It's okay. She has enough self-delusion for the both of them.
"Do you need me to tire you out?" he murmurs against her shoulder. "Because I happen to know I'm up to the challenge."
Headlights flash outside, pulling into the spot in front of room 16. "Sorry, Partner," she sighs, with a regretful squeeze. "I think we've got to be wide awake."
He grabs cans of Starbucks espresso and cream from their gear --slightly more travel-ready than standard stakeout joe-- and flips on the audio feed while she gets dressed. There are minimal comments about how she was wide awake already.
As they settle in for some quality surveilling, Carter teasingly flicks the floppy ears on her left slipper.
She tries not to think about the fact that he's just what every serious FBI agent --or at least this one-- needs while on the go.
But even she's not *that* good.
--end--
October 28, 2007
In between my hungover-ness and the TV watching, I managed to do a little writing. It came completely out of left field. I had no intention of writing any VM season four fic.
Title: "Sleepless in Santa Clarita" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Veronica Mars
Rating/Classification: R, Veronica/Carter, futurefic, spoilers for unaired season 4 pitch, mild sexual situations.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Not even one bit.
Summary: 975 words. Veronica Mars, lone wolf no more.
She listens to his even, rhythmic breaths and watches the rise and fall of his chest for a few minutes, hoping that it will lull her into sleep. No such luck. She's probably better off counting sheep. Or making grocery lists. Or perfecting her impression of Hendricks, calling everybody "Hotshot," and winking indiscriminately.
She sighs, gingerly climbing out of the warm cocoon of sheets and padding to the window in the bunny slippers Dad gave her for Christmas last year. Bunny slippers… just what every serious FBI agent needs while on the go. But they remind her of home, of Backup, and she didn't want to contemplate walking around on cheap shag carpeting in her bare feet. They don't train you at Quantico to combat bacteria and mites and suspicious stains that have been around since the 1970s with the sheer force of your will. Even she's not *that* good.
The motel room across the lot is dark, which is why they've opted to catch a few hours of shut-eye. No use surveilling when there's no one to surveil. But still she can't help but pull the drapes aside and stare out.
How many nights did she do this back in Neptune? Stakeout with a cup of stale coffee and her camera and snap the seedy underbelly of the world into focus? It's amazing that less than a decade later, she's doing the same thing. Only not alone. Veronica Mars, lone wolf no more.
Carter likes to say that she's out of her comfort zone, being forced to work as part of a team, and that unsettles her. That this is why she can't sleep, because she has to place her fate in someone else's hands. His hands. That's usually the point in his psychobabble where she puts his hands under her clothes. Naturally while attached to the rest of him, because otherwise it would just be creepy.
After the Academy, she swore off workplace romances. Less than five weeks after she began riding with Carter, they were in bed. Actually, it wasn't even a bed. It was the wall next to her front door, with her hands pinned over her head and his pants around his ankles.
"I'm not competitive, Veronica," he'd whispered, meaning, "I'm not Seth." He'd shrugged and said, "I already know I'm the best," and then kissed her to prove it. Cue fantastic sex that did nothing to disabuse her of the notion that her partner is perfect.
If she were the profiling type, she'd say that Carter's confidence in his own superiority is an artfully constructed cover for vulnerability. That he is only smug because he's already lost something vitally important to him and, therefore, thinks there is nothing left to lose.
She remembers what that was like.
"Veronica…?"
When she turns back to the bed, he's sitting up, running a hand through his hair and leaning over to glance at the display on his cell. It's the only time she sees his hair mussed-- a fact she delights in tormenting him over.
"Any movement?"
"Nope. All quiet on the western front," she assures as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. No bunny slippers for Carter. He's too much man for them. Is it vicious to hope he gets foot fungus for his bravado?
She takes a moment out of that unkind contemplation to admire him as he walks towards her. Lord, but the man is pretty. Top condition thanks to the insane three miles he insists on running nearly every morning and blessed with ridiculously blue eyes that she's only seen the likes of maybe once or twice before. And he has no shame. She learned that early on. No problems with walking around naked, none with having sex in broad daylight.
Veronica doesn't resist when he pulls her into his arms, leaning back against his chest and accepting whatever it is he's offering. He knows better than to try and peg her psychological state at 3:30 AM. At 3:30 AM, he's all about kisses to the nape of her neck and an erection nudging not so subtly at her hip. The western front may be quiet, but the southern front is a different story altogether.
Sex with Carter is always good. Even when it's bad, it's good. Whether it's five minutes in the backseat of his car or his mouth between her legs with the sun streaming in through the windows… he approaches sex with the same intensity and casual arrogance that he approaches everything else.
Sometimes he reminds her of Logan. Then again, most men tend to. Seth certainly did. In all the wrong ways. More often than not, Carter reminds her of Don Lamb… which is a funny comparison given that Carter is a freaking genius and Lamb was dumber than a box of hair. It's something about the way he looks at her. Like she can't fool him.
It's okay. She has enough self-delusion for the both of them.
"Do you need me to tire you out?" he murmurs against her shoulder. "Because I happen to know I'm up to the challenge."
Headlights flash outside, pulling into the spot in front of room 16. "Sorry, Partner," she sighs, with a regretful squeeze. "I think we've got to be wide awake."
He grabs cans of Starbucks espresso and cream from their gear --slightly more travel-ready than standard stakeout joe-- and flips on the audio feed while she gets dressed. There are minimal comments about how she was wide awake already.
As they settle in for some quality surveilling, Carter teasingly flicks the floppy ears on her left slipper.
She tries not to think about the fact that he's just what every serious FBI agent --or at least this one-- needs while on the go.
But even she's not *that* good.
--end--
October 28, 2007