Title: "No Bundts About It"
Author: monimala
Fandom: VMars
Rating/Classification: adult language, sexual situations, humor, V/Lamb.
Disclaimer: I still don't own the characters and am still not profiting from their use.
Summary: Veronica in general bedeviled him. Sixth in Between The Rock and a Not-So Hard Place.
He wasn't sure if the beach was halfway to anywhere, but that was where he found her waiting for him…standing at the water's edge, drawing circles in the wet sand with the toes that bedeviled him like toes had no right to.
Sometime in the last eight months, he'd concluded that Veronica in general bedeviled him. And beguiled him. And a dozen other words he'd learned from the Word a Day web site he'd started visiting so he could quit feeling so fucking dumb every time she opened her mouth.
He'd gotten used to seeing her indoors. In his apartment, leaving butt prints on his leather couch and eating half her weight in junk food. It was weird to see her out here…to realize that she existed outside four walls or a phone line. To realize that *they* existed outside.
And it was even weirder that he was standing here philosophizing about it.
She looked up, squinting at him in the dark, hands bunched up in the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt. Wait, make that *his* hooded sweatshirt. She'd traded breaking and entering for petty theft. The crafty minx. "You're here."
"Uh huh." He'd rehearsed far studlier lines in the car. He'd imagined sweeping her into his arms like some jerk in a movie and topping "you complete me" with something so brilliant that it defied all reason and logic. Ultimately, all he had was "uh huh." That was seductive genius all right.
She fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot. "Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe we should forget I called and just…I'll see you in two weeks…and hopefully it won't be awkward and, if it is, I'm good at denial, just ask Logan--"
"Veronica?"
"Yes?"
He was still a little buzzed. That had to account for how he stumbled in the sand…how he fell into her and didn't even hit her lips on the first try. He anchored his hands in her hair, climbing back up from her jaw, kissing her mouth like he was just learning how and she made a whimpering noise, stretching up on her toes with no complaints. She gasped, "Donald," in that annoyingly teasing way of hers and her mouth was warm and wet. What he'd lacked in initial finesse didn't matter when she was kissing him back until he couldn't do anything but devour her like the gourmet popcorn she'd gotten him addicted to.
"You forgot there's a third option, you know," he gasped against her cheek, "Where I keep objectifying you and then you zap me with your taser, tell me I'm an 'asshole,' and I never see you again."
"That wasn't an option and you know it." She linked her arms around his neck, nuzzling his face, pressing punctuating kisses here and there. "We'd see each other all over town. Was I supposed to run into you at the Hut and pretend I haven't seen you without pants on? Besides, Dwayne needs our business."
He furrowed his brows. "Which reminds me, if you want to be technical, The Rock isn't America's gift to acting. He's Samoa's."
"Samoa's an American territory, Don. Still counts," she pointed out.
"I thought he was from Western Samoa, not American Samoa."
"How do you know these things? Wait...no, I don't want to know."
"Good, because I'd rather keep kissing you than debate it."
"Who's debating? Kiss on, MacDuff."
He caught her mouth with his again and this time they both stumbled…tumbling hard into the sand. He was going to be picking particles out of his hair, his clothes, his skin, for weeks -- it seemed to be a day for that -- but he didn't care. He had Veronica Mars straddling him and it wasn't just a fantasy also featuring Jenna Jameson, Angelina Jolie, and a bag full of sex toys.
He unzipped his hoodie, pushing it off her. All she wore beneath it was a tank top and he pushed the straps aside with two fingers. Her skin was softer than he'd imagined it would be. Smoother. No chip on her shoulder. When he pointed that out, she actually giggled. Jesus Christ, she was sexy and impossible and…
"This is going to sound stupid…"
"And how is that different from things you usually say?"
"Veronica." He grabbed her hand, stalled its journey south. "I'm serious."
"What?" She propped her chin on his chest, giving him her full attention. Her lips were shiny and swollen and he knew that was all because of him. He was crazy about her mouth. He could make out with her indefinitely. All right, maybe not indefinitely, because once the sun rose and the joggers and the dog walkers showed up, things could get awkward.
"I think you might just be the best friend I have."
It hit him a week or two ago. He was filling his coffee mug with the department's regulation sludge and avoiding the bundt cake Inga had put on top of the nearby file cabinet along with plastic forks and napkins. He'd had a sudden, near-painful, craving for chocolate torte ala Mars. He'd wanted to call her and annoy her into baking for him again. And he'd wanted to ask about her day and tell her stupid stories about Sacks and the junkie they'd busted who confessed he was mainlining children's Tylenol.
Naturally, he hadn't…because he was too busy being incredibly freaked out by how *normal* their relationship had gotten. Actually, the fact that they had a "relationship" at all was the freaky part. He needed to send a "thank you" card to NetFlix. Or The Rock. Who'd have thought that "Walking Tall" could turn enemies into friends…into *this*.
"That's a shame, Donald," she told him, softly, and her tone made his stomach lurch, made the paranoia set in. Here it was, the ultimate "fuck you," where she told him this had all been a joke …payback for that one godawful morning that he couldn't take back. This whole thing had been a patented Veronica Mars scam and she'd just been waiting for him to bare his soul so she could dance over it.
Jesusfuck, when had he gotten so damn vulnerable?
Probably the first time she let herself into his apartment.
She'd probably broken into his heart.
Christ, he had to quit watching "Desperate Housewives." He was turning into Susan.
"That's a shame," Veronica repeated, her palm cool against his cheek, "because I think we're more than friends."
He swallowed, thickly, and whatever he might've said in response got lost in her mouth. She shorted out his already impaired brain functions and he didn't much care.
"Keith's going to kill me, you know."
"Mhmm. Painfully. And Backup will be heartbroken."
"As long as he's not a doggie scorned."
"Sorry, Donald. He's the type to hold a grudge."
"Well, shit. I guess I'm screwed."
Her lips curved into a smile he was beginning to really, really like.
"Not yet, you're not."
She slid down his body, working the button fly of his jeans.
"What are you doing?"
"I owe you one, remember?"
"Veronica, I said you didn't have to…"
"I know."
And she lowered her head and went to work.
"Holy…Jesus…motherfuck…"
A few minutes later, after they broke several public indecency laws, he was boneless and happily limp and she was sprawled across him, looking even more smug and superior than she normally did.
"Where in the world did you learn how to do that? And please don't say Duncan Kane because I've had enough of that kid to last a lifetime."
"Oh, Donald…do you really think you're the only one who Googles?"
"Kinky, Mars. Kinky."
"You haven't even begun to see how true that is…"
"Yay!"
"Did you just say 'yay'?"
"Would you rather I say 'oeuvre'?"
"I'd rather you not talk at all. Wouldn't that be a novel concept?"
"So, uh…Veronica?"
"Yeah?"
"How do you feel about Jenna Jameson?"
--end--
March 13, 2006.