Title: "Chao, Bella"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VM
Rating/Classification: gen, humor, V/Lamb, ficlet.
Disclaimer: I love you, Rob Thomas, and not just because you fronted Matchbox 20.
Summary: Never let 'em see you sweat, cry, or otherwise excrete. This is some post-"Donut Run" verbal fencing. So, don't read if you haven't seen it.
The door was unlocked, hanging slightly open as she stepped inside. It should've been her first clue. The obvious one. But, hey, she'd had a rough week and clues were kind of mentally taxing, so she kicked her instincts into full-alert. Including her sense of smell. Was that...take-out? Eau de soy sauce?
Great. Enter Clue. Sheriff Yellowbelly in the living room with a lock pick.
Her shoulders slumped and she released her death grip on her pepper spray. Sure enough, her uninvited guest was camped out on the couch, complete with tube socks. And track pants. Thank God.
"Dad is going to kick your ass if he finds you here," she warned. "Especially if you drop mu shu pork between the cushions."
"Sure. Uh huh." Lamb shrugged, unconcerned, as he paged through the cable guide. "Peeping Keith's in Tucson until tomorrow, Sport. You mentioned it a couple of weeks ago."
Half-open boxes of Chinese from Mr. Chao's were scattered across the coffee table, along with a familiar stack of DVDs. She stifled a groan. Have Dwayne, will travel? This was ridiculous. She needed to hack his NetFlix account and request something of the Matt McConaughey variety, stat!
Lamb settled on some sort of extreme motorbike thing and set the remote down, looking at her with an expression of hurt. Okay, it would be hurt if he were even the least bit sincere. "I can't believe you sent me on a wild goose chase through Mexico," he sighed, dramatically, shaking his head. "I thought we had something between us, Veronica. I thought we shared a connection."
"Chlamydia is not a 'something,' Donald. And I have no idea what you're talking about," she assured, this time totally faking the lack of a clue.
Backup, the traitor, was actually sitting at his feet, panting, looking doggily blissful as Lamb vigorously scratched the ruff of his neck with one hand. Veronica quickly shoved way the mental image of that expression translated to human form. As if she'd ever let Lamb vigorously scratch anything of hers. Ick.
"Why are you here?" she demanded, irritably, dropping her backpack on the floor.
He stretched and yawned. Apparently, he'd gotten good and comfortable on enemy turf. Backup was *so* fired from guard dog duty. "I figured turnabout is fair play."
"Since when do you believe in fair play?" she scoffed.
"Since I discovered women really *do* have Tuesday underwear. Jesus, Veronica, who would've figured you had panties with labels on the crotch? What does a guy have to do to get to TGIF?"
"Bathing would be a start." She flopped down in her dad's chair, resigned to her fate of an evening with B-movies and an S.O.B.
"Hey, not only do I bathe but I *pamper* myself. Spa days are worked into my departmental budget."
She snorted, swiping a carton of pepper steak and a pair of chopsticks. "I'm sure Sacks would love to know you give yourself routine pedicures."
"Mhmmm. Who would've thought we had a passion for Vixen Violet in common?" He wiggled his toes inside his socks and she shuddered.
"I could still mace you, you know," she reminded from around a mouthful of green pepper.
"Aph.ro.di.si.ac," he quipped...having the afterthought to at least *wince* once it was out there floating in the soy-scented ether.
"Oh, wow. Sensitive much?" She tossed a piece of steak at him, disgusted.
Backup, the traitor -- she was thinking of legally changing his name to it -- was quick to rescue the meat off Lamb's chest, gobbling it up with typical male glee. Okay, slightly gay male glee. She didn't know many guys who would enjoy licking another guy's chest.
Although, she wondered about Beaver sometimes.
She cursed as she dripped sauce on her sweater and Lamb dripped sarcasm on her. "I'm sorry. I forgot you were still suffering from the devastating break-up with your One True Love."
"I may never recover." She blinked away the genuine and sudden tears. Never let 'em see you sweat, cry, or otherwise excrete. "I'm thinking of pulling a Miss Havisham and sitting around in my Homecoming dress until I mold over."
He shifted on the couch, looking mystified. She could almost see the thought bouncing between his two brain cells like a pinball game. And then he gave up. "I'm not even going to pretend I know who Miss Havisham is."
"At least you know the limitations of your fourth grade education, Donald," she praised, primly.
He scowled, reaching over and pulling an egg roll out of a wax paper sleeve and promptly eating half of it in one bite. "I hate when you call me 'Donald,'" he said, punctuating with carrot pieces and shredded cabbage.
"I hadn't noticed, Donald." She rescued another egg roll from a fate worse than death, stashing it amidst her dwindling steak.
"I saw that."
"You genius, nothing gets by you," she shot back without batting an eyelash. "Oh. Wait...except when it hides in your trunk." She had to choke down a laugh and some beef for camouflage.
"I thought you didn't know anything about that?" he countered, hijacking an entire order of fried wontons. "Is that an admission of complicity, Veronica Mars?"
"No such luck, Lamb. Word gets around."
"And so do you."
"Oh, Donald. You're just jealous you'll never see my Tuesday underwear *modeled*."
"Untrue. Did you know your bathroom mirror totally makes my ass look big?"
"Congratulations, I'm now scarred for life. I may die."
"Does that mean I can have that extra egg roll?"
"Hell, no. My anti-cruelty stance only extends to baked goods."
"And your taste in panties."
"You *tasted* them?"
"You mean they weren't edible?"
"Lamb?"
"Yes, Veronica?"
"I take it back. Chlamydia isn't the only thing we have between us."
"Oh?"
"I had sex with Duncan on that couch. Twice. And it hasn't been cleaned yet."
"I hate you."
"I know, Donald. Believe me, I know."
--end--
January 26, 2006.