Title: "Easy Bake"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: adult language, Veronica/Lamb, humor, fluff, ficlet.
Disclaimer: I still don't own the characters and am still poor. Don't sue!
Summary: A sequel to "Pop Secret". This...this was definitely a better gift.
The smell of chocolate hit him in the face the minute he stepped over the threshold, still trying to force his key out of the lock. Warm, rich, melting, chocolate. Totally mouth-watering.
Christ, he thought, balancing the grocery bag on one knee as he left the keys hanging below the knob and shouldered inside. You'd think Betty Crocker would at least leave the fucking door open after making herself at home.
He dropped the bag of Cheetos, beer, and Hungry Man dinners on the edge of the coffee table, taking care not to land on the "Scorpion King" DVD case, and went back for the keys. Obviously, you couldn't be too careful these days. Then, he was back hauling his shit into the kitchen.
Mixing bowls, flour, and god knew what else littered the countertops. And Veronica Mars was bent over in front of the stove, wearing nothing but a Kiss The Cook apron he'd sworn he stuffed in a back cabinet. He got it in the office Christmas exchange two years ago. And this...this was definitely a better gift.
He was, after all, a guy. With needs. And a browser history full of porn sites that may or may not have featured underage blondes.
He pinched himself, nearly dropping the Ralph's bag. "You're early," he scowled, pretending he wasn't swallowing his tongue. Her shoulders were tanned and slightly freckled. The apron was made for a man, so it gaped all the way down to the base of her spine like a hospital gown. Sweet Jesus. He hoped Inga was his Secret Santa again this year.
"Our oven is on the fritz again," Veronica murmured, straightening. "And I felt the need for a torte."
"A torte?" He gained just enough sanity to ask...and to register, with disappointment, that she was actually still wearing jeans. "You felt the need for a TORTE? What about a shirt?"
Veronica wiped her hands down her front, turning to look at him like she just noticed that, oh, she was in somebody else's apartment and, oh, he was home! How very Goldilocks. "I got powdered sugar all over it," she informed, crisply. "I threw it in your washing machine."
Sure enough, now that she mentioned it, he could just barely hear the thump-thump sound of the washer over the blood rushing against his eardrums.
"I didn't realize you were so shy, Donald," she teased, and he knew that this was payback for the Pants Incident a month ago. Big time payback. No, scratch that, A-cup payback. Not so big. But still effective.
"Have I told you lately that I hate you? Move," he indicated, with a shift of his shoulder.
She obligingly let him inch past her in the galley-style space so he could shove the microwave stuff in the freezer. "Does Rod Stewart know you're stealing his best lines?" she wondered, putting a bag of flour in the cupboard over the sink...which made the apron gape open again.
"Does Keith know you're dressed like that?" A lame comeback. It wasn't fair that she had the advantage on his home court.
"Sure. I called him for approval and he suggested I accessorize with a leopard-print thong," she shot off without missing a beat, adding, cheerfully, "Lucky for me, I found one in your sock drawer."
He tried, unsuccessfully, to turn a helpless whimper into a cough. With that marked failure behind him, he opted for beer. He untwisted the cap of a bottle of Heineken, leaning back against the counter as Veronica puttered around cleaning up spilled ingredients and the baking torte smell got even stronger. This, he thought, had to be what the ninth circle of Hell was like.
"Why do you keep doing this, Veronica?" he wondered, making a face at the taste of warm beer. "Why do you keep coming here?" Not that he was complaining. Like the song went, he was growing accustomed to her...face. Her *face*. "Just to torture me?"
"Yes."
He wasn't prepared for an actual answer.
And by the way she bit her bottom lip and stared at him, eyes widening like he'd shined a light in them, he could tell she hadn't been either.
She turned and walked out of the kitchen and he followed. Into his bedroom. Apparently, she *had* searched his drawers because she knew exactly where to look for a nice, bulky, USC sweatshirt. She pulled it over her head, untying the apron beneath it and letting it drop like she was changing for gym class.
He loitered in the doorway, blocking her exit, and kicking himself for thinking that she looked so young and beautiful swallowed up in his shirt. That she looked...at home...next to his King-sized bed with its rumpled sheets. "So, let me have it," he said, softly. "Tell me what this is about, Veronica Mars."
She flinched. "The oven really is on the fritz." Her turn for a lame comeback. She knew it. She slammed the third drawer on the bureau shut. "Lilly used to call me that...'Veronica Mars.' She had this way of saying it...like she thought I was so naive and needed her worldly guidance." She looked at him, steadily. "For a long time, she was right."
"You don't need guidance from me," he acknowledged, mouth going dry for reasons that had nothing to do with how she looked or how much he wanted her. "So, what is it that you're here for exactly?"
"Retribution, Don." He let her brush past him. The words echoed as she headed into the living room to start their communion with The Rock. "I'm here to make you pay."
He lingered in the hallway for a long minute, listening to the sudden blaring of previews. His hand throbbed. Other parts of him throbbed. He was all over the throbbing. The closest he could get to guilt. Just like the closest he could get to her was these afternoons...and every night he imagined her naked.
He was paying alright.
"But do I get a piece of torte?" he asked, coming in and falling into his chair. "Or are you going to withhold? Is that part of the punishment?"
"Of course not." She sprawled on the couch, wiggling her toes -- silver -- and the serious answers were done for the day. Thank God. "That would just be *cruel*."
"And unusual."
"Mhmm."
"Veronica?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you really wearing a thong?"
She arched an eyebrow. Smiled. "Lamb?"
"Yeah?"
"Suffer."
--end--
January 20, 2006.