Title: "Pop Secret"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: adult language, V/Lamb, gen, fluff, ficlet.
Disclaimer: Rob Thomas socks my rocks. Er...rocks my socks.
Summary: "Do the boys at the station know or is this a secret love?"
He fanned at the smoke detector as it blared, hoping in vain that the ineffectual breeze from the dog-eared copy of Maxim would actually accomplish something and shut off the racket. If there was ever a Burning Popcorn event in the Olympics, he'd win the gold. No contest. He was an expert. He could blacken an entire box of Orville Redenbacher's like nobody's business.
Not that he was actually putting the box in the microwave.
That was stupidity.
Don's "Cajun" take on popcorn took sheer, raw, talent.
Which he clearly had in spades.
He choked on the combined smells of smoke and stale movie theater butter and finally just decided to flee out of the cramped kitchen and into his living room.
Where Veronica Mars was stretched out on his leather couch.
Now, he was your average red-blooded male and, yeah, sure, he had any number of fantasies involving barely legal blondes and black leather...but they unequivocally, absolutely, did not star Veronica Mars. Or, at least, he wasn't going to admit they did.
"Didn't I tell you to stop breaking in?" he wondered, as she wrinkled her nose at the stench wafting through the apartment.
"Actually, no...you've never really phrased it quite like that." She kicked off one of her shoes and it landed about two feet from his shiny new flat screen TV. Any closer and he would've had to kill her and bury the body out back. "More like variations on the theme of 'get out,' 'get the Hell out,' and 'get off my couch.'"
"All of which still apply." He grimaced at her, dropping into the matching chair. "I could arrest you, you know."
She snorted, kicking off her other tennis shoe. She wasn't wearing socks, so now it wasn't just a barely legal blonde on his couch, it was a barely legal blonde with bare feet...and sea-green toenails. "You could...but you've left the door unlocked every other Sunday night for the last month. It kind of negates the 'B' part of a B&E."
"I got sick of replacing the deadbolts," he lied, reaching for the universal remote on the coffee table...and noting the tin of white cheddar kettle corn right next to it.
God. Was he really that predictable?
And since when had she started bringing her own snacks?
Next thing you know, she was going to start coming over with take-out Chinese.
"So. What are we watching?" she asked, cheerfully, sliding her arm behind her head, making herself good and comfortable.
He scowled at her, switching on the DVD player. Sunday afternoons, he watched football. As much as humanly possible. Then, around 7, he always popped in a movie -- something that averaged two hours so he could watch Desperate Housewives afterward. Yeah, he watched it. So sue him. Everybody else in goddamn America did, too. And some time in the last six months, Veronica had started horning in on his quality TV time.
He couldn't explain it. Fuck, it defied explanation.
They weren't friends. He didn't like her -- except in those fantasies he didn't admit to having, where she did beautiful things with her tongue and brought him a beer afterward -- and she sure as Hell didn't like him. They didn't exchange Christmas cards. They didn't say "hi" if and when they ran into each other by the frozen food at Ralph's. When she breezed past Inga and showed up at the office, they exchanged a measured amount of witty banter sprinkled with mutual loathing.
And every other Sunday, he burned popcorn and she showed up.
The last time, her toenails had been candy pink.
He was beginning to think she painted them just to torture him. That she did a whole Hell of a lot of things just to torture him. Add bringing her own popcorn to that list.
"Well?" She gestured to the screen with a handful of un-burned white cheddar-y goodness.
The smoke detector had finally shut itself off and the noxious smell of the Orville stuff was either starting to fade or he was getting used to it. Probably the latter.
He was getting used to Veronica, too.
"Walking Tall," he muttered even as she laughed hysterically.
"I cannot believe you're *still* on this kick with The Rock. Do the boys at the station know or is this a secret love?"
"Shut up." Yeah, he liked The Rock. He had a whole line-up of the guy's cheesy, pulp, garbage on his NetFlix queue. "If you don't like it, you can leave."
"And miss this stellar piece of cinematic genius? Not a chance!" she scoffed, slouching against the cushions.
He hauled his feet up on the coffee table and adjusted himself. Hey, she wasn't the only one who could get comfy. He was even wearing his oldest shirt -- a faded Trojans tee that had been through the wash so much that the lettering was gone and it fit like a second skin. And he was wearing tube socks. The kind with the thick stripes across the top. No sense in dressing up for company, right?
"I hate you." He sighed, giving up and hitting 'Play.'
Not that he was actually glad to have her here.
Not that he was actually glad to listen to her breathing, crunching popcorn, and running snarky commentary. Or glad to find out what color her toes were this week.
That was stupidity.
And Don's capacity for denial took sheer, raw, talent, too.
"Uh, Lamb...?"
"Yes, Veronica?"
"Were you planning to put on any pants?"
"Nope."
She wasn't the only one who could make with the torture.
No contest. He was an expert.
He could redden Veronica Mars' cheeks like nobody's business.
--end--
January 9, 2006.